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





He’s hidden his

watch dog, from the

steel razors of my



I clip chow, chow

and meow, meow


Lollygag Mach 3



Curtain now




      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








After fall, into the Clawfoot Tub



We have shoe

show horns


rusty blinkers

old crag on the



south shears

things up


hummer ladle

down the tea




grin crevices

and lay down

the law


there’s nothing tender

in the book


in the molding double-u




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


down in the






cut and paste

myself into






my avatar




Offer my luggage

to the man in


      swap for an



            “no it wasn’t

            you            we

            were looking





bind my corset

and exit the premises




cotton balls

made as clouds

pith o’diorama





moose ears



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