Understood

I count thoughts

one of them died in my arms

and I talked with it anyway

 

-M. Taggart

 

Basement Writing

I think great writing is written in basements
while drinking beer alone
Or while rocking a baby and using your one thumb available
I think great writing does last the test of time
And to find what’s not been found
Is fear

-M. Taggart

Sent from my iPhone

How’s Your Wife

A few months back I was having a beer at the pub
The bartender always spoke highly of her husband
It’s nice to hear
I was reading short stories written by Hemingway
people asked what I was reading
I answered, “Hemingway”
She asked me, “What is it this time”
I said, “Hem”
She rattled off a number of stories written by a number of authors
I told her how good it was to hear how she loved her husband

A few weeks back I stopped at the brew store to buy good beer
A man was standing near the cash register talking
He’d already paid for his beer
he talked a lot
“When I go to a concert the girls love me. Last year this girl asked
if I wanted in on her and her friend.”
I asked, “How’s your wife?”
He told me a few more interesting things about the concert
and how amazing he was with women
“You know what I mean?” he asked..
I replied, “I actually like my wife.”

A few days ago I was having a beer at the pub
I was reading Bukowski
A few people asked what I was reading
I said, “Buk”
The bartender said, “I love his writing.”
I asked how she was and how her husband was

Today I stopped at the brew store for good beer
A man stood next to the cash register not talking
He shook hands with the owner of the brew store
“I’m sorry” the owner said
then the man hugged him
alone and alone and alone

I didn’t ask how his wife was

-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts

All the legends of writing that I care about. Fuck em.
I still love them. Ben Franklin ran away from his wife and stood in front of windows feeling for wind. How many quotes should I read.
Hem, my favorite.
Buk, you old fucker, finally being known, talking about creating, always creating no matter what, baby.
Fuck you.
Em..oh Em. You stood at the top of your stairs. You wrote your heart out.
You did’t pay for shit. You disregarded everything but yourself and had nothing more to do than think yourself into words.
I’ve been to your home. I lived near you. I see how they think.

Faulkner. Steinbeck. Let’s reach back and pull a bone,. None of you bastards talk about raising a child. None of you. As much as I think you are all brilliant. You are weak.

Take the trash out. The one filled with shit diapers.
Smelling while you walk. Hoping you can make it to the dumpster before they wake up.
Wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t fall asleep. Fever. Screaming while you hold your cell phone in front of you thumbing your way to, create baby, create. Fuck you Buk. I know I could kick your ass. Walk on all the glass you want. You’ve become the same annoyance you complained Hem was.

The every day happening of an infant turning into a young child, cared for by a man is dispersed into feminist hatred.

We father’s who take care of our children will be forgotten. None of you are willing to write about us.

 

 

 

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

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,
theories.
groups gathered and fought each
other.
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.

Matt

Bukowski

‘Where is the vital place in a living blanket?’ -Charles Bukowski

My kind of writing. Enjoy your blanket.