admittedly
it is hard to read
smoke signals
under voluntarily
blue waters

walks go deeper
in prevailing winds
anaesthetized with
delusion’s shade of gray,
bare feet blistered

you could fry an egg
on the signals
oracles and injuries,
measured sighs
and fortune cookies

and yet

optimism has
coke bottle glasses
thick, distorted
twelve full ounces
of myopic bliss

a heart is but a muscle
it gets stronger with use
a smile becomes
almost sincere eventually.
scars contain allure

accidents happen

sometimes with a smirk

© Tom Watters  7/26/07

her face purrs
sex
and America
teeth,
glory and cars

he wants to
pull all of her in,
hear her temporary song, but
listen for the hymn
written in code

he smiles in her skin
can’t stop racing
over her July legs
drinking those
Vegas sparkler eyes

hard at her scent
forever wanting
more… another taste
can not drench his
memory full

a dream
gets haunted
by the softest
grip,
slyest grin
a slip of a giggle

once lucky hands
run idle
fumbling now
for words

for light

and for release
from what was
brought to the fore
through
her impossible kiss

© Tom Watters  7/17/07

diamonds lie.
interpreted as
pinched
fallen squares

prim angels
their waxy wings
trimmed sexy
with contradiction

there is commentary
in the evidence
of transformation
or sales

as if I said
“I love you”
and was rewarded
with a bruised lip
or the consolation
of a plainish sister

settling creates differences
that are acceptable,
slippery, fashionable

a rose for the public, a
thorn for your solar plexus
frayed, soiled
margin notes
in an economics textbook

no black keys
or blue notes
to make you question
things like symmetry,
color, or grade

just this outward
spit-shine of
common coal
a few years on.

© Tom Watters  7/12/07

signals woven
for the purpose
of a shirt or pants
that might communicate
in a manner
of non-speaking

tend to tell all
then let people look…
dance judgment
then leave
bewildered and
enriched

salad days
that’s right—for you
weave these tales
in tune with the
keeping
of dogs on leashes

look in
shop windows
with pastoral abandon
imagine new themes
on which to pontificate
true love

you.
that spark
could have started
a god damned fire
instead of the perforation
cauterized

even crows gasp
kind women
look carefully
write cautions on their lips
and love notes
to the hope of the ladder

© Tom Watters  7/10/07