Your soul doesn’t need but one visit.
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.
We are death while alive
sipping on imagination
not always our own
By strife’s design we disallow individual freedom of mind
Carefully staging failures- gaffed as though they truly happened
Stuck in mindful numbness, fear, intolerance of self-worth
And yet we may stand screeching of victory at first light
The rain won’t talk anymore
There’s a face in the mirror
darkened, hollowed, soulless.
He paddled his canoe along the riverbank. Up the banking to his right a corn field stretched for hundreds of yards. To his left woods ranged for miles sloping up into the mountain. He paddled in the middle of it all watching the wind touch the water. He liked to look at the sandy bottom as he glided over. If he used his shadow he could see the river bottom clearly. He could even see individual grains of sand. He wondered if anyone had ever seen the particular grain of sand that he was looking at now. There wouldn’t be enough time in any universe to prove if it had, he thought. “Remember your first thought. Now remember before that. Think of time as a flat surface already containing the past and future without an ending. Now place a mirror above and below. This is nothing but imagination. Remove my voice, I’m already unseen. Now it is yours. Is it real?” Whispered the wind.
be perfectly mad perfectly well-
write it to the point of never happening
and back again to the moment we all know