we converse through the random.
fortune cookies
and coins
oblivious that
every occurrence,
every turning of a corner
breathes the others name
gingerly
on the earlobes

our music is
organic, house,
and sparse
we dance slowest
wide-eyed and spooked
fingertips and spines,
pelvis under sanded palms

we thrive in secret
sweet cool streams of
our own wonder,
our childhood
our tears taste like our laughter,
taste like our sweat…
taste invisible

no promises, no promise
experience necessarily
not
required

we build our fountain
on quicksand
we suffocate delicious
precious few
attempts at escape
we grow downward

© Tom Watters  6/16/06

this veil of pity
was sewn from
mutual fabric

I craved its softening
gauze and wanted
to serve
its halo.

to believe you.

Pollyanna shit.

in your clasp
it was
subterfuge,

security
for your
sleight of hand

a hedge
against any
sudden

shifts in attention

that might damn you to
the plain
thick black shoes
of mediocrity

oh-fucking-well

trust,
as it turns out,
is a wind-up toy.

tension the spring
with measured caution,

or hail the
motionless cymbals
in the paws
of a sad,
evil monkey.

© Tom Watters  6/12/06

forever
almost left your
wiry lips
moments before
I wore out my welcome

spent flares on the
roadside, we were
an attraction
third-degree fun and
games… oh the games

together we were
the grind of meth
washed down
bottomless

the dawn knew
our first names,
and our fetid personal
sense of
obligation

we were
abraded by the
jagged edge of
the exclamation point,
soothed by the aloe
of 2-hour rooms

we wore our tattoos
on the inside
next to our
pincushion hearts
names crossed out
repeatedly.

© Tom Watters  6/8/06

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