Don’t be ashamed. Let’s be Decent- make father be decent. What’s decent? Hair cut just right? Clean shaven? Maybe it’s mom. She might need to smile more. Or pose. Yes, let mom pose. For who? Jim, the neighbor? Or, maybe for Jenn, the Mayor? It’s nothing really. Yet here we are thinking about how to not be ashamed. If maybe Dad get’s a new car that’ll do it. But…then again, he’d need a new job. And because the job he has is barely enough, it might not happen. So, how about mom? She’s doing good. She doesn’t get home till late because of her hours, but maybe that’ll do us. There’s a new car in the future and that’ll do. It’s good. Really. If mom only works a bit more, and dad works consistent, then maybe I won’t be ashamed and I’ll feel decent.
It’s a shame that I chew my ice being afraid that you can hear it. -M. Taggart
The Whiskey Poured-
Glass Half Full-
The Cubes Swirling-
Smoke Rises-Helping to Focus-
Flashes of Hate-
Trust-Doors Locked and Opened-
I sit, here, at my desk. Cast iron. My cigar is neatly hung on the side of a cast iron ash tray. The smoke is billowing upwards. I watch the smoke climb. Within a thin line, I clearly see images of the past. Which one to write next? None. All. Fiction. Through the grayish vapor stands my bookcase. There’s a picture of myself and my brothers. I see Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickinson and others. They also sat at desks and filtered their thoughts. -M. Taggart
The other is here. I pain myself to learn more. He’s rolling his foot on the wooden rail, patiently waiting. I hear the strumming against the wood. I know this is for me. It’s not correct. If needed, anger will rise and the foot will stop. Sometimes the foot shakes on the bed. This is fine unless I’m not alone. Some wish to know why the foot shakes.
How can you sooth when your voice is cemented. Your laughter hurts. Not because we’re upset that you’re laughing- because we can hear it pains you. We’re Standing in a room. The room has wooden floors. You ask me to look closely. I do. I ask, why should I look closely. Still, I wait for your reply.
This societal impatience has created much anger.
You can’t rewrite Hemingway.