Our own thoughts came around again. Funny how that happens. A floor holding an image of a mirror came back. Someone wanted something. Watch as the floor says nothing, having seen twice what was once, and then watch as the voice asks for more.
Lay us near the side of our brook. We’ll listen and observe a thing burn inside, like we did. Turn again in the mud, smell the ferns, wash the ‘self’, and watch as soul sinks in. Man in a white coat wants to ask how, doesn’t matter much. He’ll be here, or not, again. Seems to us a brook is a fine place to be. It’s always about something. So we see, and we do what there is to do about the seeing until, finality.
I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.
I’ll be traveling this weekend for my book signing on Saturday! I’m excited! It’s looking like we’re going to flood the brewery where the event is taking place. Wish me luck! Cheers everyone!
It’s not that we hear things, it’s that things hear us. Toss a thought outside the mold, little red lines aligned for footsteps are followed by vocals. We’re as certain of this as we are as certain about pinholes filling light into darkness. Deep in the darkness, sitting in a corner, they prepare deceptive smiles and gestures. Here, they practice with nothing to see. “I want,” they whisper.
No, I’m fine, just don’t be like how I was today. The boy looked in the pool of water he’d been stepping in. He lifted his boot from the water and watched the rings form and push outwards, “No! Outward!” His father slammed the door. The boy smashed hit boot into the ringlets with no face. A space fell between them all.
Sometimes I wonder where the line falls. And who’ll jump on which side. Then again, I don’t fucking care. It’ll fall, or not, if I watch, or not, and we’ll all jump into the same space in time where we walk and walk and walk the same routine and hopefully not complain about ourselves and others to the point of evacuation of self..and there we are, waking up in the morning with another sunrise to view and we look at our better halves, and children, and co-workers, and friends; where the line falls really means nothing much. It’s a gift to be here.
Share it, but, Don’t steal it. I’ve written 265 of them. I plan on writing a thousand more.
I worked on a letter today. Worked on its emotion. Like a child wearing pjs during Christmas roaring at themselves in the mirror. Found a funny thing in a thought, about a truck, about a tire, about a mud hole, and about a piece of nothing. Found you there wondering about everything else in a voice unheard unless spoken.
Self, I’ll be me. Knife looked fine ignoring. Some lights aren’t as bright as others. And some stars burn less hot purposefully, not needing the stage. Isn’t the crisp air just that. While so many balls of eyes watch the non-adjusted. Droplets of water, with their delicate prisms, have a more clear view.
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart
In town is a bench viewing a man chewing his brain,
with little resources to find his thoughts; the bench cared nothing
for the perfectly structured oak tree whimpering in the chilly wind,
instead the bench wished to be ripped from its foundation and
connected to the man with the unruly thoughts. There at least
might live something, even if not holy in nature, possibly there
was hope. The man teetered, then steadied himself by grasping
the oak tree, “Aren’t you the friend I need,” the man said while
grinding his teeth and gazing upward and through the leftover