Paige Taggart
3 poems
**
When You Decide To Let Go
when the whiskey is finished and you’ve poisoned absolute notions of insecurity
hurl a black balding bear into the sea, you virtuous animus
free your secluded speech
I’m really sad today
I’m really a carnival mongrel
a diseased horse pin, a consequential cat-eye
o, rooster, you’re hideous
what disease has given you feathers that can’t
tired makes the world turn, half vaults into sleep
heavy in bed makes the axis spin likely paranormal
hideous traditions this whole–– stroking thing
say, why don’t we go play on the lawn
it’s a lovely day, and I’d love to be outside with you
woooh, look at that monarch, check out a praying mantis
leaves are hungry, no one around to feed them
skin your knees on the grass, and grass stains galore
who cares though, cause this is a lovely day
bring a book and some sentences, really careful ones
strange, that playing with words relaxes us
I oft’ thought it makes community strong hidden safe to say
**
The Apple Fell Off the Sidewalk and Rolled Into a Lime
Instead of myself I spell
goodbye or lullaby Putin
when couldn’t have known
the whole world’s affect
If the village be
wounded and
only a wood sliver
saw to
the events
then the dimwit of laws
could have been worse
Close-up is to two choosing
to be less friends–––
to say worst all begins open
mouthed and ends locked gondola
dangling above icy summit; when
couldn’t have ever seen an edge coming
A bear scraped of it’s pelt in insurance
for reasoning when the man with
the hand invited me in
Blister to the stone is the thumb
splitting in half
hands bellow over, check
the thick wool mattress
**
We Play With Faces
we had marbles in our socks the past few days
but we’re getting over such ornery displacement
a cat with horns stuffed on the balcony, by god
and the children are screaming, night comes in
phases and earthworms surface
the moon slants in such a telling way
knowing known better
we recede into the friendly Alps and have a
face-off, whiskers tied tight in frantic
letting us know, it’s time to cry and a mighty
glass symbol dings into this wooded arena
it lets our voices be poked out by wood
peckers in the surrounding trees, pocketing
a rhythm more defined than ours, a hollow tree
stump becomes a banging good time, how often
are we fortunate enough to find hollowed homes?
we have a lawn chair and a Cat Stevens album
we play into the air, we pass instruments
back and forth and pass each other
off as one singing and strumming, we make
melancholy circles in the air with our lips
the face-off has ended, as far as rigid barriers go
**
return to sawbuck 2.4
**
Paige H. Taggart lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She graduated with her MFA in poetry at the New School after, receiving her BA in Visual Studies from California College of the Arts. She makes jewelry and you can find her stuff online: http://mactaggart.etsy.com. You can listen to her reading one of her poems online at Weird Deer. Her poems have appeared in the Agriculture Reader, La Petite Zine, My Name Is Mud, Ditch Poetry and Critphoria. Her poetry is forthcoming in EOAGH, Elimae, Blazevox, and Robot Melon.
**
When You Decide To Let Go
when the whiskey is finished and you’ve poisoned absolute notions of insecurity
hurl a black balding bear into the sea, you virtuous animus
free your secluded speech
I’m really sad today
I’m really a carnival mongrel
a diseased horse pin, a consequential cat-eye
o, rooster, you’re hideous
what disease has given you feathers that can’t
tired makes the world turn, half vaults into sleep
heavy in bed makes the axis spin likely paranormal
hideous traditions this whole–– stroking thing
say, why don’t we go play on the lawn
it’s a lovely day, and I’d love to be outside with you
woooh, look at that monarch, check out a praying mantis
leaves are hungry, no one around to feed them
skin your knees on the grass, and grass stains galore
who cares though, cause this is a lovely day
bring a book and some sentences, really careful ones
strange, that playing with words relaxes us
I oft’ thought it makes community strong hidden safe to say
**
The Apple Fell Off the Sidewalk and Rolled Into a Lime
Instead of myself I spell
goodbye or lullaby Putin
when couldn’t have known
the whole world’s affect
If the village be
wounded and
only a wood sliver
saw to
the events
then the dimwit of laws
could have been worse
Close-up is to two choosing
to be less friends–––
to say worst all begins open
mouthed and ends locked gondola
dangling above icy summit; when
couldn’t have ever seen an edge coming
A bear scraped of it’s pelt in insurance
for reasoning when the man with
the hand invited me in
Blister to the stone is the thumb
splitting in half
hands bellow over, check
the thick wool mattress
**
We Play With Faces
we had marbles in our socks the past few days
but we’re getting over such ornery displacement
a cat with horns stuffed on the balcony, by god
and the children are screaming, night comes in
phases and earthworms surface
the moon slants in such a telling way
knowing known better
we recede into the friendly Alps and have a
face-off, whiskers tied tight in frantic
letting us know, it’s time to cry and a mighty
glass symbol dings into this wooded arena
it lets our voices be poked out by wood
peckers in the surrounding trees, pocketing
a rhythm more defined than ours, a hollow tree
stump becomes a banging good time, how often
are we fortunate enough to find hollowed homes?
we have a lawn chair and a Cat Stevens album
we play into the air, we pass instruments
back and forth and pass each other
off as one singing and strumming, we make
melancholy circles in the air with our lips
the face-off has ended, as far as rigid barriers go
**
return to sawbuck 2.4
**
Paige H. Taggart lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She graduated with her MFA in poetry at the New School after, receiving her BA in Visual Studies from California College of the Arts. She makes jewelry and you can find her stuff online: http://mactaggart.etsy.com. You can listen to her reading one of her poems online at Weird Deer. Her poems have appeared in the Agriculture Reader, La Petite Zine, My Name Is Mud, Ditch Poetry and Critphoria. Her poetry is forthcoming in EOAGH, Elimae, Blazevox, and Robot Melon.
Labels: 2.4, paige taggert
