terrain is spiteful

on a hill
sometimes
a road
a path, a rut,
a rivulet in song

full frontal
brick, glass, asphalt
glare, radio,

sirens call

amplitude and fluttering
uncommon grace

in chains

wheezing, I run these steppes
slowed by rapturous grapevines
and silver bullets

the hill is blinding
a green jewel
kryptonite
core
gentle

drainage ditch

steep and piercingly
crisp and

I check my brakes
they function for the cross-traffic
trees
concrete abutments

mellifluous

failure falls on top of me
shadows grab
fishhooks barb
lines tangle
I sink in

flesh

wound

© Tom Watters  4/30/06

the silver orb retains
her focus amongst
deranged clatter and
the Las Vegas of her terrain

Speaking, slurring, with
the most leaden of drawls
she awaits new destinies,
the new directions of evangelists

never wanting
never expecting

she freefalls
caught, rebounded, freed
reflects her surroundings
with perfect admiring distortion

desire is not her lot
life is blinding, fleeting
creepishly carnie, and
her suitors spend freely

full of desire
full of anticipation

lust is marked on
tally-boards that total
skill quotient, prowess
metallic clacks and cigarettes smoked

historic records reveal
those who kept the fire
lit brightly longest, who amused
the tenant of this glass house

always ready
always open

age betrays her, reveals
all in the lines of her face
smoothed ruts that speak
experience and betrayal

whistles of a different nature
the song that now mocks
bells that ring too long
spindly legs rocked to buckling

never the bridesmaid
never the bride

© Tom Watters  4/24/06

…sorry

gazing up, or at,
or in anything but the
objet d’farce

more attention is
paid to the magnitude
of victorious blue flinty sparks

this lightning, divining from
portholes that show
no soul, no velvet

this battle has been
lost, but the
war was decided long before

…okay?

Chinese checker smile
triangulating advantage
another round–I’ll buy.

an accusatory lower lip
accomplice to cigarettes
and dives off moral cliffs

purchase is fumbled for
on which the slightest excuse
could rest tenuously

a measured inhale
terse and dispensing, and
the corner has been rounded

…mad?

fuck.

after careful review of your
qualifications we would like to
offer you an
exciting career opportunity
in a growing field

you fucking loser.

welcome to round fifteen

the bell rings
its liar’s laugh…

but who’s counting?

© Tom Watters  4/19/06

amber columns strain through
cigarette-stained curtains, the
patina reminiscent of a faded
kodacolor print from the seventies
the aquamarine glow and
drone of some re-run
cutting laser shows across

I
am not alone

I own the procrastination of
a spring lawn that grew a
for sale sign between two idyllic trees
commerce was stopped at the brink
my agent misses ME
her Mercedes purrs in lust she
sends thank-you cards with alacrity

I
am a social butterfly

even though I check my pulse
I cannot compete with the
death/glory/immortality of the
faces that could be/should be/might be
I am a place-mark, a bent page
an English car on US freeways
no moss on the passenger seat

I
am in demand

another 11th day–another sunset
boulevard-strip-grill-beach

second.

© Tom Watters  4/11/06