The Works of William Taylor Jr. 

William Taylor Jr. lives in San Francisco with his wife and a cat named Trouble. His work has been widely published in the independent press and across the internet in such publications as Poesy, Anthills and The New York Quarterly. His latest book, Words For Songs Never Written: New and Collected Poems is available from Centennial Press.

All Poems © William Taylor Jr.
My Plastic Heart

In my time upon this earth

I have loved the sun
as well as the rain.

I have been at peace
with the light and the dark.

I have spoken
in private with the sky

and the night has shown me things
I've promised not to tell.

Wasting my hours
dreaming of my
wasted hours,

dreaming of everything
and everyone
I've ever loved,

surrendering nothing to the void.

My plastic heart breaks
for most anything as it melts
in the September sun.

The grand and beautiful
sadness clings to me
like a desperate lover

and I sing with its voice until
it becomes my own.

Poem Written While Getting My Hair Cut By a Pretty Korean Woman Who Doesn't Feel The Need To Talk So Much, Which I Think is Nice

And some days you still wake,
if not with a sense of hope,
then a sense that,
after all is said and done,

things are right enough with the world.

A feeling that
good and evil,
darkness and light,
life and death

all are in balance,
part and whole
of a grand harmony
we do not understand
and are not required to.

And then
you make the honest mistake
of going outside or looking at
the television

and all you see
are the faces and the voices
of the graceless and the damned,
a sea of dreamless eyes attached to
lives more dead than death.

And you are filled
with the horror of it,

and a vision of the last of our breed,
abandoned and unsaved
in some hell of our own design,

frightened shadows of what
might have been,

forever buried
in the ash of our collective

This Quiet Room

Give us this,

these few decent moments
in between all the rest of it.

Enough wine,

some music,

and the simple
pleasures of each other.

Just this quiet room,

and the world outside like
a sad old war,

long grown tired of itself
but continuing on
because that's all it knows
to do.