poem-

It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.

-M. Taggart

 

book view

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Be careful with the little ones

I was two when my parents divorced.
My first memory is of my father
carrying my mother, slung over his shoulder,
down the hallway to their bedroom.

After he left the house, I walked from
the living room to their bedroom.
“Mommy, are you ok?”

She was crying.

After the divorce there was an emptiness.
I still feel it.
It took years before my father gained the
right to visit with my brother and I.
Once a week.
Sunday,
11-5

Eventually another man was there.
That’s when the real torture began.

-M. Taggart

Stutter Step

I’m cleaning the house.
We have a visitor arriving tomorrow.

It seems every time I start, I stop,
as though I’m going through a metamorphosis
and I’m suppose to know to step back and watch.
Instead I’m forcing my way through the steps
of productivity for the sake of finishing, something.

Earlier at the dump I told the men that my kid
was going to be jealous that I was there without him.
One of them told me how much he liked Gavin and
that he’s a real nice kid.

The man has a stutter. Gavin doesn’t care. He waits
for the man to deliver his words, thinks about an answer,
and does. Then Gavin generally shows him whatever toy
it is that he brought along for the dump run.
It’s nice being at the dump.

Maybe I’m done. Maybe the dump run was enough.
I’ll just lie on the floor and watch the empty ceiling until
something happens.

Or maybe I’ll have an early beer and clean the toilets,
scrub the sink, put on some music, and finish this house
while ignoring contentedness trying to confuse itself as failure.

I think the sun’s coming out

-M. Taggart

matrix

We’re on to something here.

Aren’t we?

The hitch, the ever present self
puzzling over deliveries of deja vu
Placing clarity over never

It’s as if we’ve nearly got it

Yea.

Maybe some do,
And maybe my coffee is burnt.

 

-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts

The boy scrubbed a rock near the brook. He listened as the squirrels sprung from trees onto brittle leaves which lay lifeless until a quick breeze, or a energetic squirrel, shuffles them. He noticed how the racket made from the busy squirrels might sound like a large animal and how it was hard to know the difference unless you spent much time in the woods, or if you saw with your eyes what you were hearing. The rock looked smooth and glossy while it was wet, but as soon as it dried it looked rough. Again he dipped his shirt sleeve into the brook and began scrubbing. -How much more clean do you need it to be? Asked the mind of a thought.

-M. Taggart