Paige Taggart

In some legendary light I am mistaken

for a blinking field, an analog across

the eyes with a series of horses running

forward, like that painting of a wave

where the wave has horses galloping

inside its enormity, and I pity the

person who’s vision can’t relax

to see this moment, sea sweat combing

the indistinguishable ardor,

the painting I’d always look up to

mid-stride past my boyfriend’s bed

and he’d say he read an article

about how surfing was better than sex,

I couldn’t tell if he agreed or not, I believed

he did but he kept falling back

on how it was interesting and that condescends

the expression like a relaxed sonata, a coming up

for air between being charged with meaning,

alas, he said it really was about catching

the perfect wave, and very rarely is someone

able to do this in their life, so the experience

sort of transcends all other actions by its

rarity, horses that are the wave,

Walter Crane’s Neptune Horses, no one

predicted I would remember this,

I didn’t even trust myself then,

and hardly realize how inadvertently a perfect

wave sticks with you, a thousand horses galloping

in your mind, a thousand visits to a house

whose deck’s sloping down in the unreal, whatever

we do now is like a vision of something coming

undone, a microcosm of never again, it isn’t sad,

the sea salt sticking to the horse’s hair,

if they are always coming forward in

retention with the wave, are they ever galloping

back— an entire life spent preparing to break,

unheard, a lack of any want

to amend the past, something striding,

splitting apart and coming back,

the elastic history of hair.

Split and Raise Forcefield On Deck

Entropy: Instead of the Crux

sneeze attack

on the Jesus Christ

statue out back

I’m a hood monger

I burnt the edges

off a map [to halo]

the rim

that’s what

she said

she also had

no problem

demonstrating

so much more than I

could  ice that you’d like

to put in the fire

there is when

we claim  told you so

if we could be

received more often

and certainly I am

not enough poet

and certainly I am

not enough ghost

even within the half

way marks I still

don’t even come

close to recognizing

my own god

the face of a zebra

launches at me and I

feel the tempo

of an Icelandic song

coming into existence

and then stifling into

my flaws  are the

great uncles of all

my pasts

The Yellow Crocus Of Down Under

I sifted through the late crowd

wasn’t going anywhere in particular.

I felt the find. Blah

wire and deep commotion. I felt that I was an

extraneous person to my actions,

being less involved meant

I didn’t have to be impressionistic, I pulled

down the curtain of a very minor musical. I started to compose

false drama; a stone throw away from

ingenuity. I have begun to think about

what it would be like to spend my entire

life on the edge of sanity. The frequency of those

illusory visits are such that

they ignite sub-par feline crawl. I constantly don’t care or if

I do, I don’t have a scrotum to lose. And the big balloon

keeps trafficking through my window, I’m fat

between its red and green zones. There’s no need to recognize

yellow. Eat. Sleep. Caucasian.

The French Navy

My worst enemy is the moth worm,

now don’t come near me with that

bullet-proof vest, I’d love to die

from a pistol wound to the chest,

just imagine that metal meeting the

cranial surface or the oil of a ghost

leaking into your skin, it is forever

a wound if you forever feel it

and can’t heal from it and honestly

just today I was thinking about

what a beautiful object the ordnance

pistol of the French Navy was,

it’s form asks to be caressed

≈∆‡≈

Somewhere else I am writing a book

about the sun burning up the sky

in increasing catapulting phases

of moisture bombs and sweat

legions, milking the mothering clouds,

clouds move together, forming bigger

clouds and the bigger ones can’t be

called babies, where I come from.

Sinister, speaketh I, go back to bed,

unclog your rotary track and

head to the horse betting show,

where you can bet on the small

man riding it around the track,

again and again. Stony Tender

was his name, he who won the

horse races today. Slammed a

ticket worth $8.65 onto the table

and thought the best way to use

this money was to reenter it into

the race. Swift Chariot of The Night

came in 2nd place, so I voted on his

bravado but the flank stake tripped

him up and he bruised. He burst

through the wood swinging doors.

Later in the day he was brought

antelope soup to heal his undying

wounds; a message of Get Well

Soon from a women of

large proportions. The clouds

look beautiful with the horses

below, they too have a backside.

 

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