I wouldnt bet
on success anytime
sooner than you deem
fit for a king-sized dilemma.
this casino dont pay

it is hardest to recognize
ones own patterns
in the mud track
even the tenth or twelfth circuit
around the god-damned track

we love the sweet of our own morphine
as much as we love to watch
the needle find its mark
in perfectly imperfect strangers
or friends of friends

we are better than that
better than the freefall the we see
on the big-screen
or through the screen door
puppet show of the avenue

turn up the thump music
drown out the panting
and the choir of thieves
lover, it is just a game
winner take all, take mine

throw down a buck or two
but dont expect that ball
to land on this number
or even be happy, when it cheats
at the oddest moment

our salvation will be redeemed
when we get it wrong
for the last time, at last
garden of prime time news,
lining the cages in better homes

© Tom Watters  5/16/06

statement!
she is
ego for the night
she wrests from me
the arcade
and the arcane

she is truth

serum
my blood
wont just observe
casually

the offering

the masterwork
of being
pointedly foolish
and impossibly
higher-order

she speaks
of gods
as if they
slept over on
a dare

graced by a
method of ease

you are so lucky

she says and yet
my lips taste no
arrogance

its just the

serum
chanting

© Tom Watters  5/10/06

with just a few words
the uphill climb
in which I
honed my countenance
was tossed like
a paper cup
to rocks
and crashing surf

the looking glass
splayed
into countless shards
seven years of
ill fate added to
a litany
of twelve-step strutting

mere words,
single-cell words
not a drop of blood spent.
the possibilities, once endless
now
were head-first
and hell-bent on
a joyride
down the spiraling chute

oh process,
oh practice,
I cocoon myself to chrysalis
dreamtime
brings the revival
of my inner light
the hindsight
that does not require
the color rose

the shards at my feet
are a mirror-ball
dancing color
across the perfect
and the future tense

© Tom Watters  5/8/06

a frame,
moat-like,
rings this unfinished
portrait

skin that has been rendered with
undercoating
the palest shade
of jade gray

a pastiche in multi-media
cloth of questionable fiber
cigarette butt air-strips
photographic miasma
cardboard roses

the acolyte regards
in reverential tones
itself unworthy,
second suspicions
tries on a third shirt,
eyeliner and medication

greasepaint cracked
the marquee is sputtering
burgundy velvet sleeves
moth-tread and musty
a trace scent of gaslight

a frame,
handsome,
barely contains
this spilling

© Tom Watters  5/4/06