It’s just a dream

I had a very disturbing dream last night. I was unable to fall back to sleep. Instead I looked at the bedroom door, wondered what might be on the other side, and for the first time that I can remember I thought of Hell as an actual fact.

To the best of my daytime memory it went like this:

I was jogging in the inside of the circumference of a tennis court. The tennis court had a gate made of wood built around the entirety of it. The wood planks stopped roughly two feet from the ground. I noticed two homeless men sleeping under the two foot gap. They both wore blue jeans. Their faces were haggard. The men appeared to be sleeping off a large affliction of some kind.

I jogged to the exit of the tennis court where a third homeless man awoke as I came near. His eyes had dark circles under them. He meant to speak to me, but I jogged passed him and down the hill to the building below. I entered the building. The building resembled an old YMCA and was empty. I stood near the entrance desk. The form of a man I knew appeared, squatting, with his back against the wall on the other side of the desk.

“Hello, Matt.”

He looked healthy. He looked good.

I don’t remember everything he said. I wish I did. I asked him about the three homeless men. He told me they are stuck in a cycle and that they will be stuck. The three men were him, but not him. This was a healthy him.

The dream fluttered and I found myself outside of the YMCA look-a-like building with the man’s son. My best friend.

“I just saw your father.”

“What?”

“I saw your father’s ghost.”

His smiled. “Show me where.”

I took him into the building and showed him exactly where his father had been squatting against the wall. The dream developed into the oddity of being that it is, his father reappeared with a bit of a halo. Now though, he was standing, and his eyes shown a deep imprinted knowing.

“There he is.” I nodded my head toward his father’s ghost.

“Where? I don’t see him?”

“He’s standing right there looking at you.”

Scott was speaking, I can’t recall what he was saying.

“Why can’t I see him?”

Scott replied to both of us, “Because he’s still dead.” Only I heard.

“What did you say, Scott?” He replied. I can’t remember what he said. I wanted to know how I was dead. Scott then shook my hand and said something similar to, “I’m going now.” He then turned toward the wall and opened an unseen door. As though it was a portion of time, or fabric of time, itself.

I thought I might see the entrance to heaven. Scott stepped inside the most pitch black tunnel heading steeply downward that I’ve ever seen, dream or otherwise. He was gone.

 

-M. Taggart

 

 

 

death as it stands

Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song

Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask

Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.

for others to dismantle.

Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it

My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.

 

  • M. Taggart

poem – to hell with rules

when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
wait
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
**
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017

more poems
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/poem/

more odd writing
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/2017/09/28/odd-walking-thoughts-dont-keep-up/

enjoy.

The Longest Stairway – Odd Walking Thoughts

It was the longest stairway. Its length ran from the sky to lower than the ground. Constructed of granite; its origin is unkown. We descended, lower than the clouds. Here we found the steps now hung ragged; we were alone. We could no longer be lead lower than the ground. We asked the wind, ‘How do we reach our place?’ The wind howled and crumbled more of our footing.

A Filthy Dance

His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.

No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance.

-This is an excerpt from my book. To learn more please visit:

https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

Maine

The average temperature during the day was 20 degrees. The air was bitter cold. The wind blew constantly from the north. Our faces turned red with wind burn by mid-morning. We all wore layers to keep as warm as possible. I grew a beard for the trip.

The orange hunting jacket was given to me. I could have purchased one for the hunt, but I didn’t because it warmed George to hand his old hunting jacket over to me. I happily accepted. I could have purchased a rifle for the trip. I didn’t. George had a rifle waiting for me. He preferred I use the old gun. He’d owned it years ago, sold it, and bought it back just before the trip. Some people truly do enjoy to give. I’ve not often been in the state of mind to be able to accept.

We drove Maine back roads to camp. We visited an old Saloon style pub that was built in 1895. The porch was beaten and perfect. Hard woods floors and a tired pine bar held mugs of beer for when we were ready. The bartender was heavy and smiled often. I thought to myself that happiness is found when we are content with ourselves and our surroundings. This bartender was doing a good job of being perfectly her. I hoped to myself that she’d never felt disappointment from outside judgment. Of course, that’s much to ask or hope for.

My beard is black with gray streaks. I like the streaks. I don’t wish to be outwardly perfect or find hair products to grow what I lost over the years. I take the streaks and the laugh wrinkles around my eyes as fitting.

We drove by a sign. It mentioned God and Hell and green.

Dark comes quickly that far north. Rick lit a camp fire each afternoon. It snowed nearly every time we stood next to the fire. Stories all around, filling the air, lost and weaving from one to the next. There wasn’t electricity to twitch our nerves. The sounds of the crunching snow underfoot spoke enough to keep me busy.

One night it became very clear. The temperate dropped to 12 and then lower. I walked with a few of the men to the edge of the lake and witnessed the sight of the stars. They were gathered in unpolluted formations.

I’m unsure if I mentioned this. To be sure- We drove by a sign. It mentioned God and Hell and green.