I turned the page so slowly
I needed to see if I could do it again
alike, is the masses
I failed
and so again I repeat;
and the other two of me came over
to try

-M. Taggart

for the love of books

I love to read.

Yesterday I purchased two used books from a very used bookstore
Hemingway and Steinbeck

I lazily tossed both on top of a shelf in my office
Maybe I’ll read them at the same time

One cubby hole down sits Bukowski
which happens to be next to a few books that I’m published in

and on the floor, near my right foot, The Unabridged
Edgar Allan Poe. That’s literally the name of the book

In back of my chair is a box that I have yet to completely unpack
In the box are a number of books, books, books.

On my desk sits Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson
It’s impossible for my person to become bored

oh, and I just found Papa, A Personal Memoir written by
Gregory H. Hemingway, M.D. in back of the monitor

I could clean my office but the life would be sucked out of the
otherwise very empty room

I don’t think I’ll do that. Hell, I haven’t even mentioned what’s in the dry sink.

Personal space is a beautiful thing, if we let it be.

-M. Taggart


Poem – tell me about reality

Nothing like reading a book and watching words bend.
You know it isn’t real,
but they bend anyway.

Kind of like when you’re nearly asleep
and feel something touch you.
No one’s there, but
you felt what you felt.

Happened to me the other night.
I wasn’t asleep.
Something sat down next to my feet
at the end of the bed

I didn’t bother to move
I acknowledged mentally
what had happened
and now it’s a memory

Just like now,
Gavin is in the other room
He’s supposed to be taking a nap
instead he’s playing with a dinosaur
and telling stories
His voice raises and lowers
and now this is also
a memory

-M. Taggart