I don’t feel obligated to write
My soul touches words
So I might truly understand I exist
Not all stories need meaning.
Sometimes I want to read
about a trip to the store to
pick up milk. About how the
sun was covered by mid-day
clouds, and how the cows in the
pasture watched as you drove by.
Chewing hay with no small
amount of understanding as to
who you are, or where you might be headed.
I was asked to do a book signing
in Kittery, Maine and in New Hampshire
near the lake region.
Now I’m sitting here smashing a beer
wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
I felt pure embarrassment when asked
to do something I’ve prayed for.
She even helped me with that-
to not feel embarrassed.
It was her book store and her idea.
It’s just one very short story.
Is THAT worth a book signing?
I’m nobody, who are you?
Thank you Emily, you are brilliant.
I’m a man who takes care of our son
every day, picks up toys, gets on
hands and knees to wash around
the toilet, and then finds cat vomit
in the cat dish. Wasn’t that nice of him.
I work during Gavin’s nap and I work
at night, to catch up on the work I couldn’t do
while I was cleaning, or picking up toys.
My days of flying around this country
Branding financial institutions are over.
Or, are they? I left that behind by choice.
Maybe I ought to do this. Sit in a book store
and talk with people who love to read and write.
Maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll bring whiskey.
If we think hard enough to swallow our words
Could we never eat our thoughts again
And if we didn’t need to eat them at all
Would we have ever known any thoughts to have created our words
Our ears then become silenced and we muffle our cry because that too is gone
Now we’re alone in the blackness and we wave our hands in front of our face – nothing.
There – On the Shelf
Stored so nicely-
We’ve placed our thoughts-
All of them
And now they wander-
Hurt and abandoned-
They will search on their own
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart
I feel something in my head. I’m sorry. To my family, I’m sorry. It’s there and I cannot help but acknowledge. It’s a metallic twisting that’s working itself into pain. I chew on this pain best I can. I watch them move their mouth and I hear the words and the twisting continues. I try and identify with what I have nearest to me. If only to rest my mind. It does not work. I open my palms and ask them why. A voice tells me to calm and to understand. It’s my voice.