alternatives to gravity
do not end well.
they leave the grounded
without the lesson
one desires to deliver.
repression of the sounds
falling in the forest when no one is there

giving in to
your sentence of impotence
breaks a law that no solicitor
could beg nature to dress in.

or some saw like that.

so we run, or walk
tell ourselves fables.
fly on the radar of our ego
blind and cautious
wearing the merit-badge of confidence

the hurting is anathema to
all intention pushing through the soil
so we don’t.

no.

that would be blasphemy
cardinal red.
sticky with something pure
like a thread of doubt.

our comedy is lower,
crime no longer seduces shock
ink becomes gray
the palate monochromatic.

gravity becomes exercise
tone for a slower grin,
heavier eyelids,
sharper comments,
and future investment.

© Tom Watters 10/7/08

in this summer of collection
cut our loss
like oily grasses
strangling in the morning glory

unblemished
in sort of a no-harm-no-foul
rescue from sentiment

breathe deep
this stale air of inconvenience
off white and starched
like hospital linen

wipe your hands
and observe the yellow tape
left by those internal authorities

at least your heart
stuck its head out the window
racing the devil away from
the prim Connecticut byways

a nervous whistle
replaces the syrupy harp
it’s getting on fall soon

who will notice that one more line
wizened into this smile
thin lips that only speak now
from distance grown

© Tom Watters 9/9/08

in the waning days of beginning
I came home in decision

your ‘ness was my itinerary
kind, thoughtless, blind, slow
and mine:
happi, restless, forgive, wit

breathe.
hope can draw blood.
I reached into your bag
then traveled to Kowloon
via air Ektachrome

we walked gardens,
gazed in Buddhist temples.
I half-heartedly asked if I could
buy you dinner at a floating restaurant
this epicure unrequited

you still don’t trust us
my version or yours
honestly, there’s comfort in no

it’s all too much

this prismatic trip,
squinting at my fingertips,
brought me closer to a clairvoyance
teaching me a history
in your present absence

a smile comes to my lips.
I thought about the sound,
the greasy smell of a projector

shining forth a picture of you
closer than before travel
in our junk’s full sails

© Tom Watters 8/23/08

on a cross-country drive
my fellow traveler
woke from a stolen nap

he chastised the jazz
filling the vehicle
as music with the cymbals
in all the wrong places

I want

to make love to you
on those brass lily pads…

organic
knowing that you would understand
their morse code

the right places

chewing doublemint
because it’s not such a distraction

raise the wonder
of Marvin Gaye.
Marvin Fucking Gaye!

@ Tom Watters 8/12/08