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.
-M. Taggart
The boy scrubbed a rock near the brook. He listened as the squirrels sprung from trees onto brittle leaves which lay lifeless until a quick breeze, or a energetic squirrel, shuffles them. He noticed how the racket made from the busy squirrels might sound like a large animal and how it was hard to know the difference unless you spent much time in the woods, or if you saw with your eyes what you were hearing. The rock looked smooth and glossy while it was wet, but as soon as it dried it looked rough. Again he dipped his shirt sleeve into the brook and began scrubbing. -How much more clean do you need it to be? Asked the mind of a thought.
-M. Taggart
No one has the right to tell another how to feel.
No one has the right to tell you how to be.
Say this.
Don’t be that.
Walk into a corn field and tell the stalk how tall to grow. Watch as the crows mock the words. We weren’t put here to be slaves to any mind other than our own. And anyone who’s approaching you as otherwise is a falsehood. Tell them that. And watch their limitations explode as you walk through their fragmented mental dust.
-M. Taggart
We saw it during a snow storm. The face smiled at us and whistled a friendly thing. We hadn’t known many things friendly. We were alone again. Standing in the storm with the rest of the normal we knew. Only, there was something in that face which told of another way. So, we searched on, carrying Hope as our witness until fruition of proof shapes itself no longer around metallic rage.
-M. Taggart
Solemnly the boy walked alone wanting to know how memories could sing. He passed himself, his grave, his smile, his teeth grinding. Is it not nice following what we once never knew. A tree shivered off itself to become more, having seen the boy. ‘Wish to know about memories?’ asked the tree. ‘I do.’ replied the boy. ‘Come here. I’ve just ruined myself for you.’ the boy walked on.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
What’s your favorite word? I don’t have a favorite word. Everyone has a favorite word. I’m not an everyone. The boy retraced his mind. Who’s everyone. The grayness closed in. There was no sun. There never was.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
Nice is an overachievers nightmare. Pleading to be loved and never understood. Along with the rest of the world, it can wait for a turn. -The old man shoved his way out the door. The milk was heavy in his left hand. It was once never heavy. His keys were tucked deeply in his front pocket. He’d picked the wrong hand to carry the milk and now needed to place the milk onto the parking lot pavement to retrieve his keys.
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart
If we don’t think like you this makes us a degenerate, or slave. What’s next. I’m imagining your campaign. It’s already ugly. Grow the apple farthest from this tree and please let’s not forget where it came from. A young girl hung her head in shame. She walked along the beach alone. Hurt. She happened upon the frog. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘I’m doing everything in my moment to be exactly me. What are you doing?’ asked the frog. The young girl studied the frog. ‘I’m being sad because I’m a degenerate.’ ‘And who called you a degenerate?’ ‘The man who didn’t like my dress. I told him I wore it for the sharks and that I wanted to grow up and swim with them and know them. That’s when the man told me I was a degenerate.’ ‘It’s best to never know that man. That man has forgotten where his dress swam.’ said the frog.
Cloudy whispers sank near the window asking for more. We held our mind under steam filled moments screaming. No more doors without locks. No more drawers to be pulled. The brushes and combs were dead while everything else looked on.
Hopelessness is no reason for more hopelessness. It’s a self inflicted mood absorbed in selfishness. The boy walked on splintered glass to view pain. He wanted to understand. The frog was not here and he collected his breath to continue. He spoke out loud what he’d heard, ‘We can be the most hurt we’ve ever been and go to sleep smiling and wake up laughing.’
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