Where does an epiphany end and a thought think. -M. Taggart
Sometimes I’m so cold
that I can’t fathom how bones
can feel that way
but then I jump in the shower,
make it real, real hot,
the steam fills the room,
and my skin prickles and becomes red-
I’ve become so hot that I force myself
to remember the deep cold that pushed
me to the shower, the cold that buried itself
into the marrow of my being and imprisoned thought.
I wonder if this is how a caged mind thinks, or feels,
or if it even has memory at all if only bars serve as an observation point.
As the last drops of water skim down our legs and drip toward the drain.
The unfortunate part of a thought, is sitting on it. -M. Taggart
I admire words that
infect my mind. I want
them to bend and twist
so I feel them. I’ve torn
pages from favorite stories
and stuffed them into my
mouth. I don’t know why.
Or, I do, and I’m not being
honest. Much like when an
author writes for an audience
rather than the raging
passion wishing to be seen;
truly, and finally freed.
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.
Your soul doesn’t need but one visit.
I wait for thin air to deliver thoughts
And sometimes I remember them long
enough to write them down
I wonder if they really aren’t mine-
But of course, I breathe this air
which flows through my lungs
and I’m nearly positive those are
Sent from my iPhone
I just wrote a short story.
It was complete shit so I destroyed it.
I kept thinking about how we drive
down the highway at 95 MPH
and somehow, our fucking brains are able
to process every damn blade of grass,
every car slower than us, every grumpy face
we look at as we pass, and never do we
take time to think about how we’re able
to understand when to apply the brakes
while observing two lines side by side, which
aren’t that, but the number eleven instead.
Our thoughts think themselves through
even when we don’t want them to
So we stand looking at their faces
seeing beyond what we are seeing
A Child Hopes
Written by -M. Taggart
A child too young to crawl had no parents. A man placed the child in a crib and walked away while listening to its suffering cries. The infant had no understanding of the fading footsteps, but fully felt the abandonment.
Near the crib, carved into the cold stone wall, was the saying, ‘These stones wash my mind.’ A smiling face was left as a signature.
A nine-year-old had created the message.
Etched into the wood floor beneath the infant’s crib was another, ‘My thoughts are new this morning having never been thought before.’ Another smiling face was left as a signature.
‘What are you doing?’ Nick’s grandfather asked.
‘Reading.’ Nick replied. He held onto a nail. He was helping his grandfather in the garage.
‘Oddly, I never read much. But, when I did, it changed me.’
Nick’s grandfather was a large man. He wore grey work pants and a white t-shirt with suspenders.
‘Grandpa, what does this means? “These stones wash my mind.” That’s what it says in the book.’
Nick’s grandfather stopped fidgeting with the bird feeder he was building. Looking at the rafters, then his boots, he shook his head, ‘You might want to find another book.’ He reached a window with his eyes, and noticed how the sunlight spilled around the clouds.
Nick didn’t want to find another book. This book was too important. And he didn’t miss his grandfather’s face when he’d asked. He saw. He saw fully. Nick looked at the nail in his hand. It was metal. It smelled like metal. It looked like metal. It tasted like metal. But these words didn’t taste, or look like anything, but words. Though, he felt them.
‘Why didn’t you read much? That doesn’t make sense. If it changed you, was it for the better, or worse.’ Nick asked.
‘They were fluff. So much fluff. And the eyes reading them never cared. They read because they read. But, a few, changed me because they were meant to be written. And when I read them they made me to see.’
‘To see what?’
‘That’s not really the question. ‘These stones wash my mind.’ That’s the question. Be careful to not lose focus. If you want an answer to a question, truly want it, never stop until that one question is fully answered. Then, move to the next.’
Nick felt shamed. His cheeks filled red with emotion. He stood to walk from the garage and let the nail drop to the cement floor. It wasn’t that he couldn’t focus.
‘If you had answered my question the first time I asked it, I wouldn’t have had to rework new questions to again come to the first. And if it’s too hard for you to talk about, why’d you write the book?’
Nick walked out of the garage. Sunlight lit his young shoulders.