Taylor Jr. turns words into time bombs. His poems
read like prayers, but written to a god of blank walls.
A god of suicidal scars, jukebox tragedies, and burned
out streetlamps. A god of 4 a.m. A god who slouches
in shadow like a frightened animal. A god as fractured
and as bruised as your own disjointed reflection staring
back at you from behind the spindled web of a fist-shattered
mirror. His poems are as sincere as sadness, as transcendent
as love. They whisper. They weep. And always, they
sing. Like a car wreck. Like a forest fire. Like magic.
Are you brave enough to believe?