The Cognitive Engine and Its Affairs

Paige Taggart

Tantalizing scape-goat, escape to France in an
overlapped envelope made from a tunic;
the myth caught easy in the vagina of a
summer thrill. Took the man to be a world
class champion; a little historical rat
an awfully quick, ready, look at life.
The bumper sticker misses its abbreviation
and I am flourless, beautiful poster child
bedecked in guano. I dangle on a castaway
big-den-thug, the mother hips are starring
in the film from the under toe with violent
female tendencies towards casting fakes
in her plays. On the train the Russians have
no wrinkles. She agreed to hold-up the artist
presentation for my tardiness, like when
my dad asks a congregation to step back
for the photo. I saw the end coming but
sparked a way to reinvent it. I angle and
gnaw into the fortress behind a ladybug
garden, vermillion gallons in the drum
wheel flair-out into my shaved legs. The
staff for my event is made from origami
and I am pupate erring into a caterpillar.
Prose should be observed as virtual
reality and real time is making a fool I am.
Gone under the bed into the dust mite
capital, memory candle, scroll up to
crumbs. I bandy and the dog is officially on
the lowdown, don’t want pups or
back yard clean-up, maybe wait a year or
two then throw a shoe into the river and
see what catches-up. Haven’t ever pronounced
the alphabet in a Jamaican birthday parlor,
never will the rumination glow when I hand a
vanilla ice cream cone to the lady in red. Thought
through the windshield wipers, heavily
wiping away the rain, addressed to the man
in a Houdini suit that the method is out
of town, wrap a sock around it, or get out
when getting to the end becomes paranoia.
Text roommate and tell her to stop playing
guitar. The urine wants to fall-out when I’ve
already tucked myself into bed. Our fattest
man in a blazer is running to the bank, he
might have over-extended himself. The slot
between my two front teeth is one of meager
length, I slide pillows there, then safely play
burrow-birdie. I make a nest in the shape of
a thumb with a collection of dominos and
you always say the black dots are running
away from themselves, blurring into a
collection of hole-punched binder droppings.
The theme is to lean, I lean on silence and
forget I is you and you is me, and I one
two be, bigger than the last mark hit, fall,
flash dash-up the matter. Mixed-media
with privilege and you get robot on
a liquid diet, I have more or less
internalized my behavior. The knitting
factory is a spacecraft for feminine
pursuits, most of the time between
waiting and not-waiting I think
about clothes. My stall is so
invested in my wears that I disappoint
myself by having this on. I implode
want to put a dime in the oven and
see how hot it takes to make nickel
jewelry with partly synthetic feelings.
A coroner vetoed laws requiring
detective rights to a conduit who could
induce leisure on the spot and they
pulled out a red and white checkered
vinyl tablecloth and placed four beer
bottles on the edge to keep the wind
from lifting it up, a pot roast they
stuck in the center and vegetables weren’t
worth eating tonight. At night the
moon falls over the sky and cradles the
base of the world in its palm. And strokes
the backside of it. A child has not had its
story told, and every syndrome has one
claw clawing its whimpers and the other
pressing healing bits into an already known
outcome, the realized are so unfortunate.
I have decision upon decision built my
life, I petty construction agent my own lumber
with my walkie-talkie in one hand and orange
flag in the other waving solo passengers please
pass to my right side and dicks with partners
I’ll give you my left stink-eye and you can
classically train yourself to produce soulful
bravados on an elliptical piano. More than
one group has already unveiled the always
blooming flower that never drops or never says
I’m sorry, I love you for all its worth, that I put
my heart away for so long I forgot it had a
loose sticky-tab that could be pulled up and out.
Some days the day feels like a cartoon saying,
walk around, walk around. I heightened dilemma
don’t care about your freefall panic, I have words
to spell, and music to feed in through my sweater
when the rousting is loose. Be my organ pillager
and showcase the parts, along with tin wind-up
dolls, everything helps. Curatorial is best along
a fallen redwood tree log, I like the contrast between
the larvae infested trunks and the old brass knobs,
there’s a haiku in the woods sounding, the applause
is always held till the timing is just right.