spit, mixed with dirt – muddy words flow
i drove to my father’s house
in Massachusetts.
a group of us made a large
dump run for my step-mother.
we even pulled the old pool table
out from the basement.
i held onto one end as a neighbor
cut it in half so we could
fit it into the trailer
i felt a bit sad thenafter everyone left
i stayed with my step-mother
and listened to some of
my father’s music
he was damn good
but gone nowi walked into each room,
a house i lived in
as a small child,
and walked around the yard.
so much had changed
but everything was the sameeventually i loaded my truck and
drove home on streets filled with
traffic, but i only saw blank and
empty faces, gawking and waving
unhappily at slow driversi wonder if they know they’re alive
-M. Taggart
Reblogged from -M. Taggart’s blog mtaggartwriter
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how do any of us know we are alive?
i guess we are here, aren’t we – bleeding our aliveness out for all to witness.
strangely captivating writing, lost me (because of me, not the writing) then whacked me with a bat at the end, back into attention. loved it.
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Yeah, it’s like that with Matt’s work. Strangely captivating.
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