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.
From one home, to another. Light ears and Dark ears. Both fought. I’m supposed to what? Here we are- children. We’re looking at a fence, waiting for a cat. One has half an ear. A frog died in the make-shift swimming pool. That was nearly our first home. It’s hard to remember which home was our home. Yet, we both, are expected to produce exceptional happenings. Who’s to hold our fort? It doesn’t matter. I once fell from a tree. We’d built a fort with hammers and nails. I lay, asleep, and there he was, catching me while rocks waited below. Here, I’ll be, for him. Brothers.
This book helped me to pack and move. If ever there was a modern story worth reading, it’s this. In bookstores I find much fluff. This is especially true with modern writers. Fluff. Happening happenstance concerning nothing of value. In this most impressive story, the author puts the writers of fluff, to shame. Jeanette writes without compromise. She is strong. Her writing is strong. Read this book.
I think Hemingway would be proud.
Let’s talk about stealing. No, let’s. We’ll do this together and then- If you want to call stealing the memory of a moment, then you can be one and the same as. As what? A shower is hot. The steam rises. I try and not look. You are pressing and against the wall showing. The steam can’t hide all. I watch the drain. Swirls find me finally.