There’s a reason whiskey exists and why the songs that we love stick. Stopped for a turtle once. It was in the middle of the road. Near railroad tracks. I got out, walked toward it and noticed a few things. Walking toward it was a bad idea. Didn’t like me at all, though I was trying to save its life. Turtle didn’t care. I drove away smelling the summer air knowing I’d never forget.
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.
A child screams but no one does a thing besides scream back to grow up. Patience is a virtue unless you’re an adult who wishes it upon a child to be just, like, them,. eventually the child becomes a young person remembering having screamed with hurt. But this child won’t be the same. This child will be the one adult to not ignore the screaming. And the hills walk on without looking down, so they say.
Thank you tomorrow. I’ve seen you today. Scraping noise with knuckles when things were what they weren’t. Don’t again Ask that we don’t say and speak what we do. Otherwise everything becomes all mixed up. So let’s just let’s say that we’ve, the both of us, come from the same time and will again. And again. And until then. We’ll watch all of the leaves fall.
We walk into the shadow of death to pull one wounded child from its depths, to find another daft man standing in the corner. Leaves are shuffling outside my window. A man with a golden heart is gone. Another stands in a room looking. Don’t block me. I am here and at least I have my fingers. The man in the room standing, looking daft, asks for silence because silences never questions. Never says a damn word. The girl with the golden brow would have cared for a word. And the boy with the covers pulled tight would have cared for the same.
If ever I could think of a stick without it turning into a walking stick, I think I’d certainly become most lonely. See, if the stick walked far enough into the woods it’d surely find other sticks and some of them would also walk, then, they’d turn toward one another and share what secrets they’d seen, learned, and even tasted. For’ even a stick needs to eat. And when you think about it, a stick is sometimes used as a spoon for stirring, and there it is. If a stick can eat and talk and walk, what use would one of me be. Do you see?
What do you all think about your mom? I love mine. That’s an easy one. How about tits being sucked while the infant is at fault in public? Or- what of your own home and who uses the bathroom no longer because they checked out? Checked out of your baggage, your thoughts, and process of being? How about your outstretched arms looking, and the forgotten shoulder? Do people ask for your opinion? Is the essence of being to watch another walk?
-M. Taggart copyright 2017
(This was part of a longer piece. I am unable to share the rest.)