Poem

Driving to the pub, I knew I wouldn’t
like sitting at the bar as much as if
my family was with me, but I drove
anyway and felt the unease of knowing
how I’d already feel while at the bar
with my book. I parked and looked
at the entrance to the pub. It wasn’t
much to look at but I looked anyway.
Inside, it was much as I expected it to be.
The bartender asked where my family was.
I told her that they ditched me. They didn’t
want to come to the pub, this time.
She smiled and said that our son was handsome
and that he was always polite.
I like that things don’t feel as good when I’m
at the pub without my family.
I ordered a Guinness and read from my book,
Growth of the Soil.

-M. Taggart

Growth of the Soil, written by Knut Hamsun.

poem

Got a bit drunk the night before my surgery.
Paperwork said not to drink.

I thought, if I don’t wake up,
and don’t visit my favorite pub and have
at least one Manhattan, what’s the point
of not having a damn drink.

So we went to the pub.

The next morning I told the anesthesiologist,
“I had a beer last night.”

“Yea? What time was that?”

“Around seven.”

“You’ll be fine.” He smiled.

“And by a beer I mean a few drinks.”

“Eh. You’ll be fine.”

And I was.

I don’t ask permission to live my life.

-M. Taggart

Cheers. To thine own self be true.

poem

sat at the bar
they’re all talking
The other people

I start reading my book
and listening too

I’m in the book I’m reading
so I skip my part

There’s another writer
sitting at the bar
She told me all about her project
I listened well
it’s a good project

I see her when I drop my son off
at school

I wonder if she writes about me too

-M. Taggart

Poem – The rain doesn’t know

Megan and Gavin are napping.
They are cuddled together.
It’s raining and the rain
doesn’t know about either of them sleeping, but I do.
I like watching the rain and knowing about them.
It’s fascinating. I’m the only one who knows both.
Welcome to our sleepy day.
When they wake, we’ll take my truck
and drive from our mountainside,
down into town, and have lunch at the
pub where the patrons
and employees
enjoy our little family.

-M. Taggart

poem-

It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.

-M. Taggart

 

book view

A Short Story – No Thanks, Lady

Short Story
Non Fiction
Written by -M. Taggart
7/8/18

 

No Thanks, Lady

 

Yesterday evening I went to the pub to have a beer, relax, and read Hemingway. Kim, the bartender, asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I told her they are good and happy. After she brought the beer I dove into my book.

I needed a moment to clear my head.

A woman zeroed in on me. She sat on the stool next to me. She put her hand on my back and called me baby. I tried to ignore her.

Kim saw that I was annoyed. She came over and asked what I was reading. I told her which short story and that it was Hemingway. I told her that his sentence structure and delivery of words seems to calm me.

The woman sitting next to me told me I was a man of depth. She put her hand on my left arm, near the bend in my elbow and squeezed while leaning closer to me. She told me she would know because she’s a therapist.

Kim looked concerned for me and again asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I quickly replied they were doing good while flashing my ring in the woman’s face. I told Kim that the building of our house was in full motion.

My thoughts raced. I wanted to scream at this disgusting being. I wanted to tell her to get her fucking hands off of me. I’m not a piece of meat. I would never do this to another person. But I didn’t. I had fought enough earlier in the day. I didn’t want to again.

I had purposefully chosen the bar stool closest to the wall. Hell, I had waited for it to open while standing in the corner. I wanted to be alone, with my book, around people without being touched. I dislike being touched. But I calmed myself and listened to her tell me about addiction. About how bad the town was suffering. She told me about all of this while licking her lips constantly. She even removed her glasses and tried her best attempt to show me her younger self.

She droned on and on and said, “I don’t fucking know, there’s the f word, I never say fuck, I don’t fucking know how to fix these addicts. I don’t know what to do.” All while finding any possible avenue to touch my shoulder, arm, back, and even reaching for my hand, the one with the wedding ring. “Do you know what I’m saying, baby, don’t you feel their pain. I pulled away, pushing myself into the wall the best I could. Then she made the mistake of calling me brilliant. She doesn’t know me. I’ve hardly spoken and now I’m brilliant? More like now I’m the therapist. This is nothing new to me. People latch on to me and vomit. I sit and I listen and I smile and I think. This person is a dime a dozen and when I was done listening to what I could gather for writing material I told her ever so nicely, “It’s time for me to read my book.” And I let her fade away into realizing how little I cared for her attempt at knowing me.

I ignored her when she tried to engage me again. She paid, quickly finished her drink, and left the pub.

I did want to ask her a few questions. Such as, “What are you views on sexism?” But I didn’t. I did tell her that I was a writer. She didn’t listen. But I did. I learned she isn’t capable enough to help her addicted clients to the level she wishes and she wasn’t aware enough to know I was going to use her possible sex addiction in a short story. That’s what happens when people talk too much and don’t listen.

 

-M. Taggart

 

The Funny Brother

Yesterday I spent the day with my two brothers and an old buddy. We pub crawled in a small Vermont town, got rained on- loved it, drank good beer and smoked cigars. I took a few photos. And soon I’ll write the best man’s speech for my youngest brother’s wedding. I’m going to put my heart into this speech and if I don’t make people reach for napkins I’ll dump an entire bucket of whisky onto my head to at least make a scene worth remembering. Ha! I wouldn’t do that to my brother. It’s their time and I’ll be sure to help make it their time. I can’t wait!

Tim B
Brattleboro, VT. I think someone should tell Tim Burton that I found his house.

Bratt VT
Brattleboro, VT

Funny Brother
Three Brothers on the right. Old buddy with the beard on the left. Our youngest, all the way on the right with the blue shirt, has always had an amazing ability to make funny faces for the camera. He delivered so well with this one that we laughed uncontrollably. I’m wearing the white and blue checkered shirt and our oldest brother is wearing the white t. We live in three different states and seldom are able to be together at the same time. Figured I’d share this with my digital family. Cheers everyone!

A dirt road, A pub, and Family

I splashed water from the bathroom sink onto my face and looked at my dripping curiosity. This is my third year as a father. Downstairs our son, Gavin, is running the pitter-patter pattern while yelling, ‘Oh No! The Dino’s a comin!’

Today we’ll drive to the White Mountains. We like old dirt roads that wind through the country side and give glimpses of lakes and mountain tops. We like to drive slowly, open the windows, and look for dinosaurs. These old roads are seldom traveled and when you’re on them they feel like they’re yours. Trees tower on both sides and the forest is so deep that it seems like there couldn’t possibly be an end to them; with that feeling comes thoughts that anything is possible, even finding a dinosaur.

We’ll most likely take my truck, where Gavin rides in the middle of the back seat. He sits up high because of his car seat and looks like a child-king. I’m fine with that. He’s the one child we have and we waited a long while to be gifted his presence. I laugh at people who try and determine our parenting style. All they need to do is ask. I’ll tell them, ‘Fucking awesome and nearly perfect.’ With a straight face. Hoping they piss me off.

After driving through the mountains we’ll eventually make our way into a small town and stop at a pub. I’ll order some kind of dark foaming beer, hopefully the foam will spill over the top of the glass and spill down the sides. We’ll order Gavin french fries with vinegar (he loves that stuff) and chicken nuggets and Megan will order anything her heart desires for the rest of her life.

I’ll scan the pub for people of passion. Let there be a few. Silent is the day when eyes cast shadows, drooping and lowering into their drink without thought. That is not the society to be. Have your pints, raise your whiskey, cheers the one next to you and talk about what moves you. Talk about why your day fetched its morning to deliver your afternoon. Hell, talk politics! Do it! Oh, I have…and will continue to. I find airing out differences over a pint of beer at a pub to be aggressively healthy; because how the hell do you find health with laziness? I think we’ve been lied to. Over and over. I see the lies floating out of mouths, especially the talking heads on TV, somehow those same lies find new housing and eventually find their way to me in person, and I put them where they belong, under my boot.

But don’t mind me. I was born with a bit too much energy. A bit too much passion. We’ll see what today brings. If it isn’t much, I’ll make it into something much more.

Matt

Cheers and Happy Father’s day to you all. Even the Mammas because, well without you…

 

white mountains
My cell does OK. White Mountains. 

A Real Man

Real men drink whiskey and beer
They get on their hands and knees and
clean the toilet because it needs to be cleaned
just after changing their baby’s shit diaper
while cooing with love and watching
their child’s eyes light up
Real men sit in pubs reading Hemingway
They salute the old brilliant fool by smashing
a shot because they wanted too and because they just did
They come home and stay home for weeks because
they want nothing more than to be with their family
Real men wake up early to make breakfast for their wives
They find the fluffy Maine Coon cat that isn’t allowed to sleep
in the bedroom, and walk as silently as possible as not to wake
their sleeping beauty- place Mr. Fully cat just so, and leave the
room wearing a smile. Check on the baby, race downstairs,
start the coffee, place the eggs on the counter near the stove
along with the English muffins, one package of bacon, butter, And
a can of beer. Because drinking a can of beer while making an
early breakfast before the family is up is fucking amazing.
There is no such thing as a real man. There’s only one thing a man
can be and that’s himself. And when he does that well, he’s able
to love the ones around him fully, wholeheartedly, and life will be good.

-M. Taggart