I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.
I’ll be traveling this weekend for my book signing on Saturday! I’m excited! It’s looking like we’re going to flood the brewery where the event is taking place. Wish me luck! Cheers everyone!
It’s not that we hear things, it’s that things hear us. Toss a thought outside the mold, little red lines aligned for footsteps are followed by vocals. We’re as certain of this as we are as certain about pinholes filling light into darkness. Deep in the darkness, sitting in a corner, they prepare deceptive smiles and gestures. Here, they practice with nothing to see. “I want,” they whisper.
No, I’m fine, just don’t be like how I was today. The boy looked in the pool of water he’d been stepping in. He lifted his boot from the water and watched the rings form and push outwards, “No! Outward!” His father slammed the door. The boy smashed hit boot into the ringlets with no face. A space fell between them all.
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart
How’s the room look today?
did you wash its thoughts
Are we speaking in systems about mouths rinsing and repeating how to be? Isn’t it nice to hear about how you are. Isn’t it nice to reach a fit of madness to push and pass and become another version of that moment until fingers type systematically about a word we ought to know but don’t, yet pretend we fucking do; as they push forward further than anything we had seen since the beginning of the typing with a delivering eye. Good. Let’s walk another round of this.
A disabled tomorrow shook our heads. “Look at me!” Screaming while fading so willingly against us to soak everything we are within a glass containing self to sip viciously until complete; every day walking in the cornfields listening to wind scrape our minds and touch our boots we claim we never knew and we never knew.
Watch as I take the trash out. My slippers are beaten and beautiful. I came from a shack much like a house. I smile. The heads wobble and click as I walk; my appearance, it isn’t much. My gums mash side to side and my eyes water. But I walk to the dumpster anyway.
More of -M. Taggart’s Odd Walking Thoughts:
Emily Dickinson wrote a line that is currently stuck at the front of my thoughts. It’s as if the thought is a shape and it’ll not come out unless otherwise known to not have been; or to be? Either way it’s a shape. Possible ever changing. All about a thought and how words and thought don’t need to coexist every day. Don’t we though? Live on, please, and look outside your window, once again handing poems down to the children; having never been inside? I lived near your house, Emily. I don’t know that I didn’t feel your presence, but I do know that’s it’s possible. And my thoughts, with their words, thank you.
I understand how religion cuts
tell a boy to eat a crumb
he may not want to
Stomp his hand until he eats
Tell a teenage girl to Not
go out, slap her, point your
pathetic fat finger in her face.
Tell a man how to walk
like the rest of the sheep.
We listen to crumbs fall and care about where they land
more than we care about the voices that caress us at night. Put a hat on a man facing a jury he’s aligned with. Stitch his mouth. The hat has spoken and the willing jury stands in approval. A funny thing happens with truth. We haven’t found the end of it yet.
Fuck your crumbs and let’s listen to non-speech with a hat until the fucking hat starts talking while your crumbs fall out of your pockets looking for work. Isn’t this a nice thing. Isn’t this such a nice fucking thing. A man once rode a ride into death on a cross.
I do wonder what he thought about a crumb. I’d like to save that man.
I play tricks with leaves outside my window. I trick them into being what I want them to be and when they’ve finally made me realize they’ll only be what they are I see them turn over for the wind- While I climb into myself looking for the same things I’ve always looked for. At times I find what I’m looking for and promise to remember, but I forget and need to start all over again with new leaves, on new days with sun pouring, or rain landing outside on the dirt below- I can stand here by myself, or I can fly outside with all of them, as long as I at least look out the window and trick myself into something I can be.