I pull at my skin. I can because it’s mine. I see your pictures and I wonder why they look perfect. It’s not that we’re perfect. It’s more like we’re here. Perfect is some place never. Did you ever wonder why whiskey found it’s way to the jar? We take a strong pull and place it on the table.
I think our lovely little island called capitalism is good, not great. We ate many handfuls of greatness. Steinbeck warned us with this, written in 1939, ‘We can’t depend on it. The bank- the monster has to have profits all the time. It can’t wait. It’ll die. No, taxes go on. When the monster stops growing, it dies. It can’t stay one size.’
Hmm it can’t wait. Sounds a lot like the east coast. I grew up on the east coast. Always in a hurry. Always a push. Always one person handling business as though it’s more important than the one next to them. It’s a matrix and they’ve failed the test. This push is bullshit. It’s not real. It never was.
This book I’m referring to is The Grapes of Wrath.
You ran from. Something followed. I wasn’t sure which it was. I looked and saw you. I asked, Why are we here? You said because I lied. I asked why you lied. You told me to save. I wasn’t sure what save meant and spilled. -M. Taggart
A prayer Accepted
Blurred lines met-
Here we are
Beat for us
Copyright 2015 M. Taggart
Do we not remember? A girl held a flower.
She had just picked it. It was yellow, blue, and red.
A boy asked, ‘Why did you pluck the flower?’
The girl replied, ‘Because it spoke to me.’
The boy stated, ‘It’s not possible for a flower to speak.’
She told him, ‘It is when you listen.’