ditch,

the poetry that matters

Paige H. Taggart

Paige H. Taggart was born and raised in a small town north of San Francisco and currently resides in Brooklyn, New York. She has her MFA in poetry from the New School, and previously attended California College of the Arts for a BA in Visual Studies.  Her work has appeared in Acgriculture Reader, La Petite Zine, Critphoria, EOAGH, and My Name is Mud.

Saturday Troubadours

 

ladies are hills and

       mountains are men

funny thought a landslide

       could push-up concrete

the man speaking behind

       this machine is not single

the umbrella is not a

      concoction of toothpaste conical

the deck homes a penguin, if a fox

       lost track of divine

everything on the radio is

      polyurethane like holding

a plastic hammer to your head

      not that it’s a place

to be pretentious


 


 


 

Morning Gnome

  

 

I puff puff

an able crane

he’s become

 

Inside my stomach

playing on television

 

the remote isn’t with/

in reach

 

I say, “belch, ah

peach”

 

(caprice)

 

He’s hidden his

watch dog, from the

steel razors of my

stomach

 

I clip chow, chow

and meow, meow

 

Lollygag Mach 3

umbrella

 

Curtain now

closing




 





 

      All The Sky is Falling Down My Face

 

           

                  the option flying to me

 

the abruptness of my wind is an umbrella in uplifted motion


 

    a fossil skirt steady as lead leaking through sand

  I have a hand in mind

 

 

and the principal dilemma is this carrier of speech

 

      through my head

I promised I wouldn’t show it

 

 

 

                       and then redundant


and worth my time

 

            and sympathetic

 

man ingested reality       

                 share your face

                                          hide yourself

 

 

this is silly insane spindle          this is motion            this is a hump

 

the lump in the throat of disgruntled speech

swallow it whole

 

                  the book is dirty in my dancing palm

trying to contain everything              trying to contextualize everything

 

limbs

 

 

 

 

 

After fall, into the Clawfoot Tub

 

 

We have shoe

show horns

 

rusty blinkers

old crag on the

porch

 

south shears

things up

 

hummer ladle

down the tea

kettle

 

 

grin crevices

and lay down

the law

 

there’s nothing tender

in the book

 

in the molding double-u

 

steam-eye-bath

 

we’re deserting desert

 

sinister watch water displace

 

we’ve erected new leaves

for snowman’s ears


we’ve soured figs in a

stupid pot


we’re emptying out 

our tender eyes

 

 

 

 

 

Dollop Would-be Corset

 

 

``

 

o, tender belt

lapped around our

waist, I’m trying

to be gently

 

‘’

person container

smidgens of

painted pride

 

‘’

 

the sun is fake

you have corn

in your teeth

 

 ‘’

 

I’ve stuck the potato

garden out back

behind the tool

shed, for you to

bramble in

 

men don’t play

with gooses

get

down in the

rutabaga

patch

 

‘’

 

cut and paste

myself into

various

backgrounds

 

‘’

 

my avatar

 

‘’

 

Offer my luggage

to the man in

charge

      swap for an

      experience

 

            “no it wasn’t

            you            we

            were looking

            for”

 

‘’

 

bind my corset

and exit the premises

 

‘’

 

cotton balls

made as clouds

pith o’diorama

 

‘’

 

goodnight

moose ears

 

 

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