from Starts in Herds

I felt rich and so tested fine
leathers for quite sometime 
wore thick armed bracelets
with eagle paired earrings and sang
phonetic-intercourse-themed-songs
beneath the Topaz Valley
was wrestled down by a carpenter
bought him cocaine and tote bags full
of champagne
lifted him across a lagoon
where a trusty steer yielded to him
door-step upon door-step selling shampoo
and foot cream
a hypnotherapist came one day to ruin him
is what she did 
but she actually wanted
to convince him of his loyalties
not by ogling the curvature in his spine
no no but by putting him to rest
communicating by shellacking his inner-core
she wanted to condition the opalescence 
in his mind to feel more
to be a man of modern riches
not that foot cream wasn't a passion 
of his but he should be signing large 
installments of artwork in worldwide museums

*

thoroughly confused by this mission 
of overwrought joy
I am now pouting in my bathing suit
sorting through bins of scuba gear
I went to washdown while staying awake 
closed the door to the water closet 
put my body all the way under 
felt the itch of finger glue and 
the putty in passing around wine
passed out passed in-and-out of
various sounds from the street
some sounding like a deer claw
walking across cement
how the road
is what we need in order to visit friends
but not them 
bended leaf upon bended tree
can the mountain tell us that we are lost
that we've composed everything without compassion
that we should quit our jobs
write haikus about the value of
fatigues and emotions trailed like a slug
I want to be a prison 
break-free-tour-guide 
show those rusted-heads a bird sanctuary
for once I'd like to lay down blue pillows
for someone other than my own name

*

care about nothing
then care about everything
and fall full of trust
into the arms of all my fans
putting the rain together 
how hammered the blue sky
looks drunk on its own color
the hip side still just another
way to pronounce low tide
it barely touched the joint
just about tugged the lace
and pulled the room down

________________________________________

Paige Taggart is the author of Digital Macrame (Poor Claudia) and Polaroid Parade (Greying Ghost) and has another forthcoming chapbook, The Ice Poems (DoubleCross Press). Peruse her jewelry at mactaggartjewelry.blogspot.com.