Stay With Us

some things stay crooked in a thought

Right now
I’m hoping someone is still alive

Call has been made
while i listen to my young son sing downstairs
While i have a beer
While i’m just fine

Can you sit with me, thought?

please, stay a minute.


-M. Taggart



Word Chemistry

Sometimes I read a book and I’m looking for something.
I ask myself what it might be. Words.
Odd. We all have the same ones to pick from.
In this language anyway.
I tell myself not to do this, but rather to enjoy the writing.
Instead I secretly keep looking.
Scouting how some of the greats used their words.
What blend of complexity, or straightforwardness,
did they use. And where did they end
the sentence, or did they continue while fetching
another thought to dice into the world of wonderment.

-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts – No One.

How’s the room look today?
did you wash its thoughts
Are we speaking in systems about mouths rinsing and repeating how to be? Isn’t it nice to hear about how you are. Isn’t it nice to reach a fit of madness to push and pass and become another version of that moment until fingers type systematically about a word we ought to know but don’t, yet pretend we fucking do; as they push forward further than anything we had seen since the beginning of the typing with a delivering eye. Good. Let’s walk another round of this.

-M. Taggart

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.

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


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


Maybe some do,
And maybe my coffee is burnt.


-M. Taggart