You have to go, to go. Push on, pushing on. I’m smoking a cigar inside. First time in years. I accidentally put it out in my son’s cereal bowl dish with my spit. I didn’t want that. I had fun lighting it again with a wooden match made of what the fuck fire.
I’m coming to terms with my life. I have terms and Life doesn’t. So we’re both sitting here with this cigar watching smoke. I once read that a blind man wouldn’t smoke because he couldn’t see the smoke rise around him. I get it. I wouldn’t smoke either if I couldn’t see the difference in each rising movement. Those columns are different each time so that’s where we’d miss the everything about what we wanted to be.
Anyway, I type so letters become words around thought.
Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song
Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask
Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.
for others to dismantle.
Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it
My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.
The Whiskey Poured-
Glass Half Full-
The Cubes Swirling-
Smoke Rises-Helping to Focus-
Flashes of Hate-
Trust-Doors Locked and Opened-
I sit, here, at my desk. Cast iron. My cigar is neatly hung on the side of a cast iron ash tray. The smoke is billowing upwards. I watch the smoke climb. Within a thin line, I clearly see images of the past. Which one to write next? None. All. Fiction. Through the grayish vapor stands my bookcase. There’s a picture of myself and my brothers. I see Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickinson and others. They also sat at desks and filtered their thoughts. -M. Taggart
How can you sooth when your voice is cemented. Your laughter hurts. Not because we’re upset that you’re laughing- because we can hear it pains you. We’re Standing in a room. The room has wooden floors. You ask me to look closely. I do. I ask, why should I look closely. Still, I wait for your reply.
So what about ‘this’ causes pause? Is the moment too short? Too dark? Is it difficult watching the nothing pass you by? Collecting your things, we watched. It’s challenging to witness, you miss handling, you. I ask not for permission- I see what is. We couldn’t believe you missed your creation. It’s not so hard, really. It’s here, in front of us all. Ask, ‘Why can’t I see what’s so realistic to me?’
It was not smoke rising from the field, as you thought; it was fog fading- settling down. -M. Taggart.
When the flame, in which you produced is close, keep this in mind. The smoke rolls, near your face, your lips, you have a moment when you realize. It’s something you may do. Whatever comes of it, remember, don’t swallow your spit. -M. Taggart.