Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Paige Taggart

I am loving Paige Taggart lately, though I see and speak to her almost never. Here's a poem of hers from the new So & So (which reminds me a lot of Karl Parker actually):

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.

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