Taylor Brady
	Bio   Road Movie Soundtrack, With Insertions Call it out of line. Back that unit down and out of range. Pure domain opens up pure domination. "Am I trying to hurt you, captain?" The stick held in the belly, point blank urge self-managing. That, plus hours of all the saddest songs.        Fire. Hungry women.        Lovely children. More        than any other town                                      more elbows turning in                                      the air around her tuning                                      in tangible static all                                      about him inspires you                                      the audience with wild                                      traffic what's that sound                                      that's or what's escape as                                      it whirls away or as it                                      surges back into your view                  past the convicts one can't                  allow to get involved with one                                 more sordid prison's reason or sense                                 or force of some conviction. One's                                 own conviction. One's double sense                                 of balance. These are no "results."                                 Youth detention facility shoots by                                 behind fifteen-foot cyclone fence.                                 Free movement of late-model cars. All angles                                 of incidence without incident. Blank or void                                 "resultant" of those bug-sized forces. "How did we do yesterday?" he asked. "We made the miracle of touch typing," and his lower lip trembled, tongued surplus,                                                squirting you                                                back at you.                                                I'm going                                                to die anyway. I don't care if someone's following me. But the magazine man does seem to bring around a new subscription every time we move. Well, then I started running snapshots from a Photographic History of Song in a special four-part series. He was sickeningly disappointed. Sick and hot with migraine, feeling inverse sympathy for all those headless creatures. He never wrote a fragment. Extracts actually grow inside the reader's brain, like cockroach eggs.                 He is in your ear. Your car.                 His language. "Cast iron." Describe medieval music abstracted from the festival, the festival today abstracted from the downtown square: free blues in the bank plaza. Didn't we pass this town before? Sound installed with ringing blows inside             the quintessential early metal building             money dancing to refresh itself             calculation running hard before design                                                  --pleasurably, without shyness                                                  --loud, the second time round                                                  --the game goes back to snares                                                  --once more, with feeling You wake in cramped quarters. A billboard flashes past: "You have a son-in-law in the Department of Accidents." Like a friend in Jesus, or Pennsylvania. Bumper sticker the negation of a license plate. Polemics in the passing lane with short-haul freight: sewer sludge, cable spools, tons of brick, under tongues of men and women, still themselves among the bubbles, in a pool of pork-rind-flavored spit, mortaring a discourse into auto-presence. Pull off up ahead. Who wants another bag of these?