the dull roar of
traffic below
won’t drown out
the din of my pre

occupation
as it seems

what’s the matter, baby?

I plead the fifth

the one drank
hasn’t blurred the lines
of these prison bars
any more than
her salt on my fingertips
seasoned this broth
of forget

I still wake up with your
whisper of a name
on my troubled lips

a 727 tears at the morning sky
I look at my phone
longing for the inquiries of
my safe arrivals
simple how are yous
each of them
wildflowers
growing from the cracks
of my concrete

the grey glow of my blank call log
lights my face macabre

I fasten my watch
button my pants
and do my best operatic clown exit
stage left

© Tom Watters  2/18/07

every meeting,
chance
is also a mirror

kneeling at our alter egos
with blasphemy and pride
showering ourselves with
pious affections

we met
with our backs to each other
arms outstretched
to our memories

we grew together
made love to our wounds
gingerly held out our hearts

neverland

we both fell in love with
differing views of the same
poppy field

opiates that made us
numb to each other

sorrow comes in a chance

sadness for a lack of
reason to be

the lightswitch that was never thrown

© Tom Watters  2/13/07

it was though an aging
pane of glass
that I made this photograph

warped and diffuse
like a walgreens salt shaker
that had been neglected to an empty state

the uneven surface
somehow refracted more vividly
the wings of a scarab subdued
through gauze of idealism

created a gem out of a rock

tricks of light,
tricks of a tired heart
I danced to its music
painted it with the petals of roses
made love to it in my dreams
made love of it
this canvas stitched of extravagance
coated by the oils of ignorance

a fotomat snapshot by Cartier-Bresson

my art
became my accountancy
I drew it different each day
drew it in deeply
deeper
deep
a needle’s hunger

I drew a simple chalk-line
surrounding
my splayed self

© Tom Watters  2/10/07

another breath of this chilly thin air
so familiar by now it seems to whistle

my cheap name

mocking from the brow of this ledge
that skirts the laughing surf
which gnashes at the rocks
in perfect analogous symmetry

my harlot body ground in the molars

two blue turtles weave in and out
between the kelp, whose gaseous pods
pull its protective vines sunward
shells and kelp working in consort

my ill-fitting jeans resist the urge to jump into freedom

this time was to be different
an awakening in my dusty heart
a hand to perfectly fit mine
the end of this shitty chain-letter

my grass was not as green

in these willowy strands of atmosphere
I step away from myself
I have the same body, all of my
fingers still do their unique dances

my being gave and gave at the office

I watch as this victorious butterfly
pulls away from her cocoon
lifting into the current
affection for shiny new toys

one more deep chilling draw
of my old acquaintance
I brace accordingly
I turn my key and drive

© Tom Watters  2/5/07