poem

consistency is brilliant

a kid can learn from that
the thing is

many adults

are full of shit

fake-ism
brought on from childhood
by adults who were

full
of
shit

And here we are

consistency is brilliant

-M. Taggart

My New Scar – Post Opp Thoughts

Arm is healing good. Taking a shower is a bit funny. Megan tapes a trash bag around my arm at the top of my shoulder. I do my best to stay in the same clothes for two days. Not ideal, but it is what it is. My follow up appointment is next week. I hope to see how long my new surgery scar is. I like scars. When my tendon ripped completely from the bone, it felt like a small Charley horse. I realized nearly immediately that I had just torn my bicep and that the tendon was tangling around somewhere. I felt very little pain. Although, I knew that I’d need surgery when I felt my left bicep, and it was up toward my shoulder leaving a gap where it normally was. The next day was Super Bowl Sunday. I shoveled the end of the driveway, drank beer and watched the game. Megan wasn’t impressed. The following morning I went to the doctors hung over, but happy.

Anyway, I still feel very little pain. Even after the nerve block wore off. And to Hell with the oxycodone they prescribed me. Don’t want it. Don’t need it. It was like this for me after my motorcycle accident. Had surgery for that one too. Fun times. Learned a lot. Wouldn’t change at thing.

Here’s to healing. Can’t wait to hit the weights!

Matt

Poem

The book was open
and the words were there,
but I couldn’t read them;
the words wouldn’t
stay still in my mind and
when they did it was too late.

-M. Taggart

Poem

The trees are a bit different today.
Only slightly, but it’s there.
One less shred of bark.
A whisper of height more.
In the corner of our mind
we store the newness of change.
But what for? Are we waiting
for our reflection to speak.
And who’s newness is this.

-M. Taggart

can’t reach my head #poem

used heavy cream
in my coffee this morning
wasn’t very good
a lot like my arm right now
not very good
I’m an easy going broken person
so I grabbed another cup of coffee
this time I used milk
much better
and soon enough
the arm will be too
at least I can feel my tendon
sliding back and forth now

-M. Taggart

post surgery

I’m alive!

I came out of that surgery like a sling shot! Wide awake and wanting all the crackers they could bring me. “Would you like water or ginger ale?”

“Both.” I sat up and was ready to run. I could have easily driven home. Going under isn’t always fun. Thoughts creep in. Are these the last faces I’ll see? I don’t want to leave my family over an arm. Alone. Covid regulations.

They gave me a block in my neck which has paralyzed my left arm. I feel like Wesley in The Princess Bride. I can wiggle my fingers.

This is fun though! I enjoy new scars and love new mornings.

Matt

poem

There are children’s footprints
in the snow just outside my window.
Only a few years ago I paced the floors
of my studio apartment while talking to
myself. Now though, there’s a five year old
under my desk as I type. He’s thumbing
through Charles Bukowski’s The Last Night
Of The Earth Poems while asking me
questions about wolves. I still talk to
myself. But the emptiness is gone.

-M. Taggart

Poem

This morning we waited in line
to drop Gavin off at school.
A light flurry had begun.
The truck was running.
We were warm. I imagined
myself sitting at my desk
wondering what to write.
There were roughly 20
additional vehicles waiting
for the bell to ring.
Two teachers stood outside
with their masks on.
In each vehicle there were
at least two people. Often times
more. That’s a minimum of forty two minds.
My musings drifted from the weather,
to writing, to hoping Gavin will have
a good and safe day. How many
thoughts were ranging from lunch items
to winter weather clothing? Or having feelings
of anxiety for fear of failure, or being bullied.
And now that I am, in fact, sitting at my desk
writing and watching the flurries pack themselves
into a quick moving snowstorm I wonder
just how compounded everyone’s thoughts have
become and exactly how many have there been?
Hundreds of Thousands? Millions? It’s just one
morning. What an unstoppable force.

-M. Taggart

Poem

A man
once told me
there’s nothing
when we die

That’s funny
nothing

I find nothing sitting next to me
often

And I found nothing next to his ears
and eyes
and mouth

His mind was lost
trying to lead me

God apparently left few traces
for few to follow

Spread throughout
every morning sun
and sunset

There’s nothing

-M. Taggart

Dump Run. #ShortStory

Saw the old man at the dump today.
I like that he’s old.
He asked for my Christmas tree,
for his goats.
‘Put it next to my rig,’ he said.
He owns a 90’s minivan.
I put that tree right next to his rig,
drove down and around the bend
to where two more old guys work.
One runs the shack,
the other the compressor.
‘How are you, buddy?’ Mo asked.
He’s had a stroke and
pushes his words out.
I was feeling depressed today.
I still am, but it’s snowing
and I went to the dump.

-M. Taggart