Mindblown: a blog about philosophy.
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#soapIdontthingso
Sophie had shot to fame unexpectedly. She wasn’t young — far from it. She wasn’t new — far from it. She had dreamed about it for so long. Yet, it took her by surprise; it destabilized her, it scared her. Sophie had written a script. Not any script, mind you; she had written the One.…
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A is for Anomaly
Cup half empty since age two,drinking the juice out of a bendy straw.I cried every time I had to light the stove.“I want to live inside of the microwave,”I announce. It’s safe to say, it’s hard to make friendsfrom the inside of a deep freezeor a computer screen. I’d leave my homehalf frosted, half digital…
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The Masquerade
Tires crunched the pebbles ground from stones ground from old Roman homes. The sleepy Etruscan road hid its ancient face beneath this mask of gravel. “Ah, look,” said Cesare, my Italian host, as he pulled the car to a stop to allow a costumed procession to cross the street, “the masquerade.” Cesare swiveled in the…
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Back Woods Witches
Born and raised in a summer hazebe different when youCan’t stand the heat.The beads of sweat drip downOnto a lace white dressPurity from a GodShould have disowned us whenThey had a chance. Taken from the frying panThrown into hellLowcountry basin of brine for my deathThick woods turns saints into sinnersFire casting witch trials orMartyrs come…
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The Target
The Ivan de Monbrison is a furry little animal of about 5 inches long which can be found living in some cellars in Paris, France. It’s a vegetarian specie. The males tend to get bald with a pouch belly growing with age. Snoring loud at night seems to be another behavior of the males, the…
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The Ife Bronzes
Our three faces are in this room. A chorus of memories: three pasts, three stones, three stories.Reduced to nothing but white eyed ignoration As if our faces are not worth a glance, a momentMade in our likeness; the patterns earthy, clayed, bronzed,Lifted on a mantelpiece like prizes across from The untouched, undutched seamstress of storiesInterweaving, a…
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You, At All
Packed an overnight bag to swim with the fish, I’ll get top bunk to the whales. Brought a bottle of corsets, a harvest of sand, a sixth grade classroom of shipwrecks. Bloody glass turning to the sea. Out to dry. I don’t know what you said that made me change the subject. Bowl of pizza…
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RSTLNE
When Vanna White gestures to the letters, I see her floating arms blowing away the bugs near wildflowers and enough wind to make anyone notice them. Her feet bare like her body, mud-covered like the tearful newborn, she has a mother and both her and her mother know this. Arms not swinging, just still and…
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August Poem
“Why can’t we go back to the days of golden hour?” A Starbucks girl said. You mean when all that was noticed was your vibrant skin. “Why can’t we go back to the days of golden hour?” A Starbucks girl said. You mean where the streak of the highlight drizzled all over your skin-instead of…
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Mother
John “Hoss” Taylor Jr. is a cartoonist from Hebron, Maryland. He graduated from Salisbury University with a bachelor’s degree in art. His art and comics work has been published in various literary magazines (both in print and digitally). Hoss can be found at home with his wife Caitlin, and their daughter Sophia.
Got any book recommendations?
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