Paige Taggart's chapbook Polaroid Parade is forthcoming with Greying
Ghost Press. She has an e-chapbook, Won't Be A Girl with Scantily
Clad Press. She was a 2009 recipient of the NYFA grant. Recent or
forthcoming work can be found in the following journals: No Tell
, Glitterpony, Forklift Ohio, Bateau, So and So Magazine, Sink
, Alice Blue Review, RealPoetik and Sentence.

Free Atlas

No bundle of balloons tied to a lawn chair lifting me off the earth.
I'm not going anywhere.
My eyes can't even focus on the accentuated darkness.
I hate everything right now. Kill me. There's a black flag, wavering.
I stand up salute it then fall down and smash my head on a bag of sand.
My abdomen is orange from all the carrots I consume. I give a plethora of high-fives
when I drop by a craps shoot game. I have too much heart invested in what I do.
I want to feel fully compensated. I tugged on my hair and it slowly grew.
All the windows in the world burst-out. Broken glass all at once.
I came a brown cloud and a vulture straggled forth from it. I hypothesize a laugh,
and many "lols" for my first full-length-feature-film. Carbon flames forged
through beating a stick against a white rabbit and a drawbridge opened, please
poison me in my sleep next time you're with me.
Am having a horrible day wrought with heavy emotions.
What should I do but stop trying and die in a quavering ball of light.
Nothing is going anywhere. It's all frozen in motion. A possessed position.
An entire family of chocolate covered ants. I used to think you thought suffering was cool.

On Sand

Finally we're alive
and the only thing that's keeping us alive is a fine hair comb.
Finally we are everything where confusion gets brushed back,
keeping the curls from sticking to our cheeks.
The amends that we've established are serious.
You used to be a runner of a shout.
Seaweed washed up on the sand, we comb through with our hairbrush.
It's quiet, then little soft sea things swishing against the sand:
microscopic for the code of flawless aperture.
We mold our ear into the sand, closest to the water's edge you are.
You having always been closer than me, to everything that matters.


Euclid, you know I'm drained
Tired Euclid, my shipping mate
The anvil slams refuge from the iron brought with tears and pellets
Wrought iron of the only instinct
Sea captain of the high waters, I chart your anterior
A smell belongs to what it smells like
Sea captain, your ankle has gangrene, fish, your bones are dry
Nothing happens today in order that I imagine this all to lay fallow
Underwater vision creates a spectacle of the anchor
Begrudged roll-over the 3rd wave.


Come here, establish licentious behavior, flag seaward out
Lay rubber flippers on deck, last call and cameos
Flirt with the compass, gentry away, lack the stalks and the frayed
Ordinary came a day or two late, was fixed with a bow
And stored under the bed
Bee-keepers travel with their eyes open
Honey alas is a luxury
If you knew what you'd find with your eyes open,
There'd be no sleep on your wheel.

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