seeking, seeking
no regrets
in this magic

run my obstacle course
with the joy of the raven
trickster, teacher

I am foolish in matters
of conscience and a
master of the short-term

I don’t speak in
benign truths or
passing experiences
ignorance is…

I can’t know
what the hell
I want,

I want.

option anxieties and
remorseless buyers
crowd this bazaar
a blinding array
of halter tops and bells

a cacophony of toes
never going beyond
a dip in the cool water

I find myself admiring
the tastes of those who have
come before me
and the flawed patina
of their travel

the flaws

perhaps it owes
its opera
to the infomercial
of my own unsurveyed
chutes and ladders

parting of love
the suicide of my father
lovers on any street but…

the blue
excuses of memorial day

need, need
time speaks of need
as it were a curse,
and an ideal

the sway of
so many skinny French skirts
like Lamborghinis
and palm trees

I will shed
more tears and
expectations on this
highway…

and I will
burn rubber
and brake pads
in the fool hearty
abuse of this vehicle

in search of shelter
numbness
a circuitous path

home

© Tom Watters  5/29/06

I travel to the
same garden again,
to reach for
fruit of odd shape,
pristine fragrance

to smooth the chalk drawings
between
my calloused fingertips

those pants are musical
their stripes spelling
serpentine phrases on the
softest silver flute

lightly scented linens,
ask familiar questions
dappled sunlight
creating the most gentle hum

a hoofbeat rhythm
sounds like sweet
lazy sex

the time…
a whole clock-full

her eyes are
twenty miles deep,
prussian blue

I know I’ve been
here

before

it rushes me back
to then,
was it
that long ago?

and this bed of greenery
and melting chocolate
longing

that which has
created the most
uncomfortable happiness

© Tom Watters  5/26/06

you refer to them as friends
they pour what
you

cannot have
cannot really want

the need you bring with
you

it has all been bookmarked
with a criminally bent page

chide them
and call them
names,
and over for darkness
you

toy with their guilt

her and I–many years ago
we got together in some sort of
holy alliance

judgmental (in front of god and all)

we lived it
in the way
our examples instructed us
but without
the cheating and alcohol

also without
the damp air
that is so present
in our breaths today
you

we are salamanders
and chameleons
we are fornicators
and we tip the barmaids

no expectations
all moral codes
encrypted for now
over-dreamt

© Tom Watters  5/23/06

I have taken to seeking
her light, filtered, forsaken
or otherwise muted

just a glow

sometimes just a harsh reflection
bent across a dusty windshield
in rush hour

I grab it and try
to amplify its fleeting rays

to harness
it

because
I am selfish and
want to drink

what

I can

to taste the
burn on my tongue

that there will be deliverance
in a trick of
words or theatre

I am practicing
1981 and its

supply-side

© Tom Watters  5/20/06