The Old Boxing Game

In my opinion Conor has a fighters chance against Mayweather. If it were to be a true street fight, I’d put money on Conor. But, in the ring, it’s not his world. I give the man credit for making the fight happen. In a time when elite thinkers like to tout the statement given to them by their sophomore high English teacher, ‘Everything’s been done.’ I don’t agree. In fact, I would debate the teachers and adults who tell people this are lacking in the area of creation themselves. Here Conor is, pushing and talking viciously, and leveraging. One, A great fighter of the octagon in his prime, and the other a great fighter of the ring in his prime. Boxing was once a purity of emotions to watch. Boxing was art. Something happened to boxing. A structure of corruption telling talent how to be. And they did be what they were told to be. From time to time a talent would emerge, then fade. In my opinion what boxing needs, along with much of America, is a maverick of thought, experience, and ability to execute brilliance through new creation. Even if it’s in a fighting ring. And that’s the one thing Conor has. The ability to create.

-M. Taggart

Hemingway. A small piece.

‘Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting.’ -Hemingway, ‘The Snow Of Kilimanjaro’

A brilliant short story written by my favorite author. Notice his use of words and non commas when many would argue a comma was needed. I would debate that the commas not used were by design and the flow of the sentence as Hemingway saw it in his mind is much more important than where a comma ought to have been placed. The first line is a good example of what I’m typing about. Imagine a comma after ‘Now’ the entire sentence would stall. In my opinion he wanted the reader to keep pace, or to speed up.

And further, what Hemingway is writing about is truth. All of us writing currently, or whom have stopped writing, know exactly what Hemingway is talking about. For Hemingway to sum it up in one fucking sentence is why I honor the man. There is only one Hemingway and there can never be another.

I appreciate any and all of you who have continued to read my work.

Read on. It’s good for the brain.

A Poem

Oh- certainly we saw you
hunched shoulders, laboring, tears streaming

We raged through the streets
demanding your sacrifice

So much so that you became lost
It’s been too long now

And somewhere
your metamorphosis of thought,
beautifully etched into the frame of a wooden windowsill
is waiting to be read

Alone
your tears stained History-
what have we done

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017. If you like it, share it.

Odd Walking Thoughts

We took a broken thought and turned it to gold. Why. The boy, with his head held under a towel telling. His head held by another. If one fixes another breaks. We shouldn’t be writing this, we’re looking now. Keep going. No. The towel sickens and breaths. We hold you down. Don’t you see.

-M. Taggart
Copyright 2017

A Poem – The Fog Was Thick

I wanted to write today. About a picture of a dock engulfed in fog.
The fog was thick.

How’s that. fuckers.
My drink is nice. It’s a mixture of ice and booze.
The booze being Gin. Which isn’t my first choice.
it’s what I had

The dock photo isn’t a great photo
it’s OK
I want to give it away

Outside my window there are trees
Beyond those trees, a rich man lives
he built a house for his son

Today there was a violent fight
between a young man and young woman

i think she won

now though the fan is cooling the air
and I’m enjoying my drink

 

**

Please, use this photo. However you’d like. I took it. ┬áIt’s OK, but not great.

Fathers Day

Odd Walking Thoughts

At the bottom of the clock Lurked the mouth who spoke too much. the boy watched unwillingly, while the angle of time twitched for more. And there he stood. alone. Waiting for the top of the clock. -The brook wasn’t too deep. Not really. when he stepped in it was nice and cool around his ankles.

-M. Taggart

A Poem

When men were men-
their fists were large.
Mouths stood shut-
Memories of family meant something,
a ring meant something.

-M. Taggart

I wrote this originally as follows on FB:

‘When men were men their fists were large. Mouths stood shut. Memories of family meant something. And a ring meant something.’

Megan liked it. I asked her why. I enjoyed her answer. So, now I share it here. Cheers.