jgtaylor

Wednesday Night.

Tell me about the places That I will never go; Tell me about the faces That I will never know. Tell me of the loves lost To tradition and ceremony; Of seafarers tossed Into plans for hegemony. Send me backwards, reeling From your deeper insights; Excite my raw feelings With your tender insides. Drag me … Read moreWednesday Night.

The Way It Is

We sat in perfect proportions like an entree with two sides. I’ve always loved green beans –     A few drinks     A little reefer Spiraling into the desire… one says, “Why don’t you ever try and get me in bed?” We keep on drinking until there are four of them. The other asks, “Is this all … Read moreThe Way It Is

letters to forgotten dead people

Dear Jim,
I know when you died, I promised to write you a lot. I haven’t. But you know that. Apologies are pointless, so, I’ll just get to it. I can’t remember the last time I wrote you, so I will just start from wherever … I’m in DC now. I’ve been here about 2 years. I suppose I came for a job, but really to find something more important. I’m still not sure what it is, but I suppose it will all clear up as this movie unfolds. This weekend was like few others … Bar / Club hopping on Friday night with Dave and some Boy Candy who got us in to the I Bar for free (and me with my sneakers!). The guy at the door gave me a future reference point that sneakers weren’t normally allowed, but he gave me props on matching my nice suede blue pumas to my blue button down, untucked. What a style monster I am. Jim, if it weren’t for the failures I keep repeating, I swear you’d be proud.

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Hard to say

OK – here it is. I’m torn about releasing this one. It doesn’t really have a title, per se, but it’s been called “Amerika”, “3 Thousand mile Love”, “God damn piece of shit”, and others. Either way, I wrote it in January, 2004 over the course of about 5 very sleepless days. Of the 6 public readings this poem has had, the introduction that was closest to the truth was, “I slit my wrists and bled out onto the page.” Of all the poems that have kept me up, this one was the worst. I don’t think I can convey just how personal this poem is to me. Everytime I read it, I well up with tears and choke on my words. When I’ve read it publicly, it always comes with a lot more pauses than I’ve written into it. It is with great reluctance, but even more promises to share it, that I post it now.
It came from an argument I got into in front of a coffee shop with … well, let’s just say that they weren’t the best debaters. It ended with them saying, “This is America – love it or leave it!”

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Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind