anger is an action

I try to crate deep
inside of what I bring
to the party

just like sense
and common decency
are something we tried to
emblazon across our t-shirts

sign on the dotted

line-up of summer
blockbuster actions
coming to a mirror
near you

or me

I fan the flames
and hope that my
hope doesn’t betray

the portrait I paint
of idyllic sensitive
horse shit and pie

and the flies flock
to the hidden,
to feed on what is
not part of the
commercial
dance that I perform
of myself

jester of my actions,
loosely wound strings
on a fine instrument
the song is in the
overtones,
and not the fundamentals

of a principled judgment
all boxed up
kangaroo-style.

the verdict is

on me.

© Tom Watters  6/6/06

there remains a tainted
luminescence down here
through the cracks

enough lamplight to view
the hope of those
that you let slip

it’s an amusement
park of clarity,
the line forms daily

you must be
at least this tall
to experience this ride

participation is the journey
of yet another prodigal son
I will return informally wizened

until that time, my
job will be carney, hawking
the happiest place on hell

© Tom Watters  6/1/06

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