North Woods

I’m giving myself a mulligan.

We rode in my GMC. It’s a truck. We smoked cigars. A lot of them. Some of them were small and some were big. Like the mountains we were driving in. It’s easy to become lost in the North Woods. There are hundreds of miles of wilderness. No lights. You can drive and drive and see nothing but forest and Moose. I capitalized that for fun. Sometimes we would stop and have a beer. We’d get out of the truck and someone might say, “It is time for a beer?” None of us would look at the time.

I love those old roads. The dust. The freedom. I smash my mind thinking I know what real freedom is and how it’ll ruin this writing now but I’ll write it anyway. Freedom is being debt free. That means all debt. And to shed mental debt is the most difficult kind. So, when I drive the old roads, and pull over for the massive logging trucks, and we whistle to the old Golden Road, I am as free as I’m going to be in that moment.

Cheers. I like this one much more.

North Woods
I snapped this fucker. I like it. 

 

 

Advertisements

My Closet – Poem

A Poem
Written by -M. Taggart
1/21/18
For years I opened my closet door to see nothing
but my own jackets, sweatshirts, boots, shoes, crap.
Eventually my closet and I didn’t get along.
Why bother opening a thing that gives back
only the same memory with no hope of progression.
My boots became more worn. My jackets changed
positions and eventually those too become useless to me.
Five years into being a hard core bachelor
-nothing could control me. Not a thing,
except for my fucking closet.
I specifically remember opening my brother’s closet
during a family event. It was the twins birthday.
I was among the last to leave. I had ruffled their hair,
told them I loved them- they ran off into another room
and I opened their closet door to find my jacket.
This was my brother’s home and my brother’s life.
In his closet hung children’s jackets. Some of which
had little ears. And on the back of the closet door
hung shoe and boot holders and in the holders were
little shoes and little boots. I wanted to cry. I wanted
to do more than cry but instead I closed the door and
walked out of my brother’s house and got into my truck.
I shut the door, turned the radio on, and drove. I drove
through farmland and shut the damn music off because I
never listen to music and it was nothing more than a mask
for having looked into another closet that was not a closet
at all, but a life. A home. A real home. I had my four walls
and my closet that I didn’t get along with waiting for me.
-Now though..I sit here thinking of that asshole closet of mine
and about how somehow, someway, it’s still there. And now
It’s the one who is alone because I am no longer alone and haven’t
been for a long, long while. Even before I met Megan. Something
happened. Something that propelled my being into what I was
meant to be, to live, to see. And now when I open my closet, it isn’t
my old boots. It’s life. It’s beautiful life. Megan’s fluffy jacket’s that
I couldn’t possibly understand how to wear, it’s her boots that I couldn’t
possibly walk in, it’s her smile hiding in the hood of her jacket, I open
my closet now and I see my son’s winter jacket puffing out at me, begging
me to put it on him. I see tiny little ears. I see little boots. And little shoes.
This is my closet, and this is my most favorite closet that I have ever had.

-M. Taggart

poem – why, are you.

Bukowski just called, told me he didn’t
want to talk and hung up.
Hemingway is in the barroom drinking
whiskey from a half gone bottle, cleaning
a rifle. Not caring who just called.
Vonnegut is on the porch smoking
cigarettes while looking at a dead
raccoon in the road and repeating, “so it goes.”
Steinbeck is petting Charlie in the living
room. Calm. Collected. Ready to go.
Emily is standing silently at the top of the stairs.
Frost is outside beckoning for everyone
to join him. It’s beginning to snow.
I’m sitting alone with my family wondering
who these people think they are.

-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
Thanks for reading

This Christmas

A smile can hide all the hurt in the world-
A caring question from the right person

Will set them free

-M. Taggart

Please. This Christmas, if you become aware that someone is struggling, ask them a question such as, ‘Do you need me to listen?’ And then..just listen. Say nothing. It isn’t your hurt. It’s theirs. Or ask them if you can sit with them. Don’t drag them further down by pointing out they have an attitude when it’s the happiest day of the year. Because that part is a lie and they will only use the truth to further distance themselves.

Cheers.

Matt

poem – walk here

It kicks in but won’t stay-
tick – tick – tick-
A kid playing with the rusted door of an old cemetery
darkening woods playing games with the kid’s mind
as night slides in
walk here
you should
you really should

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017