Archive for the William Taylor Jr. Category

Luck With the Day by William Taylor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. with tags on May 27, 2012 by Scot

We didn’t have much
luck with the day
it came apart
so easy in our hands

and we can blame
the heat
the hangover
or the blank faced
hipster kids
sprawling outside
the bars on Polk Street

all I know is
tonight we’ll drink
too much wine
and sleep
the sleep of the
blissfully gone

dreaming that
should tomorrow come
it will be made of
sterner stuff.

Two Poems by William Taylor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. with tags on April 29, 2012 by Scot

If There Must

If there must be an afterlife let mine
be a little bar in San Francisco
somewhere near the ocean
an endless grey sky stretching
out over everything
dim lights
and a soft rain falling
with grand windows to watch it through
a bartender with a knowing smile
leaning to fill my glass
a jukebox with all the right songs
and endless credits
to the left of me sits a blowsy blonde
with enormous laughter
and to the right an old man
with shining eyes of kindness
and stories to tell of days long passed
and we will talk
if we want to talk
or just be quiet and listen to the rain
time is obsolete
and there’s no place anyone ever
has to be and maybe an old dog
the color of gold
asleep in the corner
and people could smoke if they wanted to
I wouldn’t


The Woman in the Building

The woman in the building
next to mine
has big sad eyes
and a pretty mouth
that never smiles.

Her long black hair
is streaked with silver grey.

She looks a bit like Patti Smith
and smokes many cigarettes.

I see her on the sidewalk,
in the Goodwill

and at the corner liquor store.

She never meets my eye.

She’s always alone
and moves is if
through water,

not quite of this world.

I like to imagine her
a poet,

someone with stories to tell.

More likely she’s just
another sad lady

who never smiles
and doesn’t care

that I’ll never tell her
how I like her face.

Protests by William Taylor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. with tags , on December 11, 2011 by Scot

Outside they’re trashing police cars
and setting things on fire,

everything is sirens and anger
beneath a burning moon.

I shut the panes against the noise of it
but leave the curtains drawn so I can see
the colors.

In good conscience we all must protest
the way of things in our own fashion;

I’ve plenty of beer and sad old music
to last me through these lightless hours.

Down in the streets I guess the cops
and their billy clubs are having their say.

I turn the record over and pour another drink
remembering the failed revolution of our kiss.

…and the art of William Tayor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. on April 10, 2011 by Scot

William Taylor Jr./Rusty Truck Reading @ Bitchez Brew III

Posted in VIDEOS, William Taylor Jr. with tags on March 21, 2011 by Scot

The Poetry of William Taylor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. with tags on March 20, 2011 by Scot

The People You Try Not To Look At

I awoke with the terror today
usually it comes and goes
with the night

but this morning it lingered
in the unmade bed
the dirty dishes
the bathroom mirror

and through the day it
dogged me, blooming
into the corners everything

I saw it in the man on the bus
and the woman in the grocery store

and wondered if they saw it
in me

some people you see
how the terror has taken
hold of them

and it will be all they know
for the rest of their days

these are the people
you try not to look at

most everyone knows the terror
more than they will say

at some point we made
a collective decision
not to speak of it

except in books
and poems
and other things we
cast aside

the young know the terror
only through stories
and the faces of the old

they don’t yet believe

the rest of us go about
our lives as best we can

we lose ourselves in crowds
and pray it will not find us

let it take the others
let someone find a way
to save us.


If Only Out of Spite

The afternoon holds us like a prison.
You dust off death’s tired arguments
and once more I’m thrust in the roll
of life’s pale apologist.
You know my case by heart
and will not be dazzled
by my rhetoric.
All I can do is
offer up my eyes
in the chance you’ll take them
and steal a glimpse
of the frail beauty I sometimes see
in the midst of the horror.
And maybe it’s nothing
but that doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful,
doesn’t mean it isn’t reason enough
to struggle through
another dreamless day, another
stupid hour, if only out of spite,
because death thinks it’s already won,
and so what if it has?
Take my hand and we’ll go so deep
into the fucking dark there’ll be nothing
to do but sing.


Alive in the Midst of It

Another Sunday afternoon
in the belly of the city.

My wife, my cat
and myself
in the midst of it.

I’m told one day this
will not be so

but don’t yet quite
believe it.

My wife is in the kitchen
making lunch

the cat and me
are gazing out the bedroom window
at the potted plants arranged
in the space between the buildings.

I love my wife
and I love my cat
and sometimes I even love
the city.

I’m just looking out the window
and thinking how

we suffer through so much
to arrive at these brief moments
of quiet joy


that in spite of everything
I still think
it’s an okay deal.

The Thing That Hurts Most by William Taylor Jr.

Posted in Happy Birthday Issue, William Taylor Jr. with tags on January 9, 2011 by Scot

And there’s that big dumb feeling
inside you that you can’t
quite find a reason for

everything so heavy
every movement

you breathe in the late
afternoon sky

and breathe out
the loneliness of  time

all the faces and the voices
have nothing to do with you

and the thing that hurts most
is holding on to it all

when you dearly want
to let go, to dissolve
the anchors and the chains
of your being

and evaporate
into the divine forgetfulness
of everything.