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Words for Songs Never Written By William Taylor Jr. Centennial Press, 2007 190 Pages, $13.95 If reincarnation even becomes a phenomenon that can be scientifically tracked like family roots, one of the first grant proposals should be to definitely figure out if William Taylor Jr. is the direct manifestation of Charles Baudelaire or maybe. But a better more modern comparison might be to Louis Aragon because there has been no better flannery in Western letters ‘since Paris Peasant, period: They came to my door and served me a notice which stated in the name of progress they were authorized to tear me down and erect something more modern and useful in my place. It’s refreshing to see one of the true talents of the underground with a larger retrospective out and Centennial Press should definitely be given some credit for putting such a nice looking collection in their storefront. With so many poems in place, Taylor is able to map out the brick and stench of San Francisco’s Tenderknob district, all in a more detached and cool manner than even William T. Vollman’s The Royal Family (well okay, that was completely anti-detached.) It’s not that Taylor isn’t engaged in the dynamics of the down and out in the red light district, he’s just very candid about how much and what he wants you to know, which has the cumulative effect of becoming utterly compelling subjective sociology…pretty much the mission statement of the traditional aimless city wanderer: “… Next I had to go to the jail for pictures and fingerprints. I think they got mad because when they took the picture I smiled a bit. When they finally let me out of there it was a sunny day and only 10 AM and I didn’t feel too bad. For the first time that day I thought there might be something wrong with me, because I didn’t feel too bad, because I smiled when they took my picture, because I found it all to be just a minor irritant like having a cold or a mosquito in the house. I pictured myself sometime in the future perhaps being sentenced to death one day for some minor infraction or other. I pictured myself smiling and nodding and saying yes sir and no ma’am, signing all the necessary things, waiting for it all to be over and done so I could feel good again. Of course, the unspoken destination of all flaneurs generally falls into the three categories of a bar, a strange bed or home…preferably all with the absolute wrong piece of ass. Taylor’s book reeks of post-coital zen revelry, where not much happens behind a smoky backdrop except a freeing and transcendent lack of guilt but the weight of a barge-load of regrets that somehow make it all worth it…true modern Romance: No is the most important word you will ever learn use it well and often. Death means nothing- only the fear of it. Create your own definitions and change them whenever necessary. Do not subscribe to the wisdom of crowds; your truth is not their truth, your joy is not their joy. If you are clever enough and have the courage you can turn a lifetime of damage into something useful. Make it shine like a pure black light. There is a pleasure in self-destruction only fools will deny. If you let someone tell you how to write poetry you may as well let them tell you how to eat shit and fuck. Look for beauty in strange places and put your faith in simple things. Let your loves and your hatreds be as pure as an animal’s. Practice the thin line between hope and despair. and give in to neither. Write this down so you will not forget.” You won’t find violence in these poems the way you might find it in say, Todd Moore on one side or Karl Koweski on the other, but make no mistake…these are poems of brutality and psychic violence, and they hurt. The cover of the book looks as if it’s stained with wine, and by the time the reader finishes Taylor’s book, they realize it may be that other kind of wine that Jesus got all confused with.
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