The Old Boxing Game

In my opinion Conor has a fighters chance against Mayweather. If it were to be a true street fight, I’d put money on Conor. But, in the ring, it’s not his world. I give the man credit for making the fight happen. In a time when elite thinkers like to tout the statement given to them by their sophomore high English teacher, ‘Everything’s been done.’ I don’t agree. In fact, I would debate the teachers and adults who tell people this are lacking in the area of creation themselves. Here Conor is, pushing and talking viciously, and leveraging. One, A great fighter of the octagon in his prime, and the other a great fighter of the ring in his prime. Boxing was once a purity of emotions to watch. Boxing was art. Something happened to boxing. A structure of corruption telling talent how to be. And they did be what they were told to be. From time to time a talent would emerge, then fade. In my opinion what boxing needs, along with much of America, is a maverick of thought, experience, and ability to execute brilliance through new creation. Even if it’s in a fighting ring. And that’s the one thing Conor has. The ability to create.

-M. Taggart

Buk – A small sample of his writing

wandering in the cage

‘on writers: I found out that most of them
swam together.
there were schools, establishments,
groups gathered and fought each
there was literary politics.’

-Charles Bukowski, The Last Night Of The Earth Poems

This is a small withdrawal from the complete poem. This tiny bit speaks to me very clearly. I am self taught. And, now that I am finally submitting properly to publications, I am finding his words are incredibly accurate. And I am so damn thankful to be self taught. I belong to no club. No writing politics or policies take any portion of my writing mind-set. Maybe this will also help you.


A Poem – Enjoy

When we watch greatness
is it not what you wanted to see?

The ball sailing exactly the way it ought to
A breast milking a baby

Music planting seeds of life
Rain smacking the cement
Mud running with water

A women glances
Her eyelashes
Her cheeks

We listen as the wind
tells us to run
to run as though it’s
a new night-time

We can never remember
to forget again-
this greatness

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017

Odd Walking Thoughts

We remember you speaking. The yard wasn’t green. The Sun wasn’t yet too large. We wanted to imply nicely that your words weren’t much. We’d seen your last step. So our look, is a look, and a word isn’t said. Now, let us tell you, the sun did go down. We found ourselves a book. In the book were the words you’d been looking for.

-M. Taggart

copyright 2017

Emily Dickinson – A Great American Poet

It’s always nice to revisit Emily Dickinson’s work.

The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-

-Emily Dickinson. To read Emily’s full poem read the original post.

And as always, Cheers!


The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him

Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.

Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson.  414 (1075) page 241.

Gavin, smile at that Narrow Wind.  You’ll see him often and it should never ruin your mind.   And though clouds truly can be mean let the debates take place and observe- Nature is not against you.

And if you’re able to catch the snow flake, do.  Smile and let the rest wonder.

It's a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture. It’s a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture.

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The Buk

Charles Bukowiski-

hell is a closed door-

even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
truly stupid
and I just went on and wrote more and
I even considered rejects as
action; the worst  was the empty

if I had a weakness or a dream
it was
that I only wanted to see one of these
who rejected me,
to see his or her face, the way they
dressed, the way they walked across a
room, the sound of their voice, the look
in their eye…
just one look at one of

you see, when all you look at is
a piece of printed paper
telling you that you
aren’t very good,
then there is a tendency
to think that they editors
are more god-like than
they are.

hell is a closed door
when you’re starving for your god-
damned art
but sometimes you feel at least like having a

young or old, good or bad,
I don’t think anything dies as slow and
as hard as a

-The Last Night of The Earth Poems. Charles Bukowski.

I’ve just now read this poem for the first time. Which is fitting. I received a rejection email yesterday. I was told they needed to pass because my poems were *****, however they also wished me luck concerning my revision process and continued writing.

I considered the feedback from the editor to be incredibly helpful. I am determined.