As a child we wanted rocks. They told us to be. We wanted to know more, but the rocks only spoke one line. We pilled rocks into our pockets. We felt them against our legs as we walked. When we ran, they didn’t mind. Every day we asked a rock, any rock, what it meant to be. We watched our shadow at noon. The sun pushed. The oil from the rocks stuck to our feet.
If ever I could think of a stick without it turning into a walking stick, I think I’d certainly become most lonely. See, if the stick walked far enough into the woods it’d surely find other sticks and some of them would also walk, then, they’d turn toward one another and share what secrets they’d seen, learned, and even tasted. For’ even a stick needs to eat. And when you think about it, a stick is sometimes used as a spoon for stirring, and there it is. If a stick can eat and talk and walk, what use would one of me be. Do you see?
How long does one hang before each drop of good is drawn? Let us disinvite. Can we trust hope. A small ice cube slides at the bottom of your glass. It slid because you tilted. Can you ever tilt the same? It’s no matter. The ice has melted more and it can never be repeated. And isn’t that greatness.
Drink the wine little boy. Drink it. Look at the lines, little boy. The box fills you well. Have you run along the walls? Have you opened the front door? A man walks toward you. Climb the curtain. He wants a question from you. The man. With the purple. We can’t tell about the purple because it’ll give it all away. A boy finds a marble. The marble is clear with a stripe. The boy asks the marble, ‘What color is this stripe. I can’t see colors.’ The marble replies, ‘Watch me roll. Watch me spit into your mouth the color I choose while you scream for help. You’ll do nothing.’
copyright 2017 -M. Taggart
We would like to read now. The sun has set. We can no longer sit on our porch. There is no inside to be with. Our house isn’t filled for us. Let’s take a pull of something nice and see what’s to see.
Watch as I take the trash out. My slippers are beaten and beautiful. I came from a shack much like a house. I smile. The heads wobble and click as I walk; my appearance. It isn’t much. My gums mash side to side and my eyes water. But I walk to the dumpster anyway.
We sit, clashing smiles, seeing each other, hoping for blood. Again. It’s not enough to read our history. Word of mouth is a joke we understand, it’ll only play out nicely when we kill one another. Don’t you agree. The boy was confused by the rock. It was a menacing rock. He’d been deep in the woods and fallen asleep next to it. ‘Why do you speak to me, rock.’ the rock did not reply.
Everything we remember, we hid from. Could this have actually happened? Was this us? We pretend that it isn’t and continue on, limitless. A broken branch. A leaf, brittle from lack of water, separated and beaten until crushed. Pieces and pieces of itself sprinkled about the ground; some being lifted by wind and carried to new places. Each though, to grow again. To once more know itself, with hope for the better.
We know a man who is fucked constantly. He doesn’t understand. We watch him. He bends his head forward and receives his statements as though he lives above. He doesn’t. It’d be nice for him to know he’s just a man, being fucked.
Do the stairs crack well? Do they listen? Do they see? The floor lifts and eyes are there. Again. The steam rises. Do we yet understand? The steam rises and the child hurts. Press with your eyes upon the floor and watch as the child sinks to the bottom of the shower, searching for them. When the child understand nothing of self.