I have taken to seeking
her light, filtered, forsaken
or otherwise muted

just a glow

sometimes just a harsh reflection
bent across a dusty windshield
in rush hour

I grab it and try
to amplify its fleeting rays

to harness
it

because
I am selfish and
want to drink

what

I can

to taste the
burn on my tongue

that there will be deliverance
in a trick of
words or theatre

I am practicing
1981 and its

supply-side

© Tom Watters  5/20/06

I wouldnt bet
on success anytime
sooner than you deem
fit for a king-sized dilemma.
this casino dont pay

it is hardest to recognize
ones own patterns
in the mud track
even the tenth or twelfth circuit
around the god-damned track

we love the sweet of our own morphine
as much as we love to watch
the needle find its mark
in perfectly imperfect strangers
or friends of friends

we are better than that
better than the freefall the we see
on the big-screen
or through the screen door
puppet show of the avenue

turn up the thump music
drown out the panting
and the choir of thieves
lover, it is just a game
winner take all, take mine

throw down a buck or two
but dont expect that ball
to land on this number
or even be happy, when it cheats
at the oddest moment

our salvation will be redeemed
when we get it wrong
for the last time, at last
garden of prime time news,
lining the cages in better homes

© Tom Watters  5/16/06

statement!
she is
ego for the night
she wrests from me
the arcade
and the arcane

she is truth

serum
my blood
wont just observe
casually

the offering

the masterwork
of being
pointedly foolish
and impossibly
higher-order

she speaks
of gods
as if they
slept over on
a dare

graced by a
method of ease

you are so lucky

she says and yet
my lips taste no
arrogance

its just the

serum
chanting

© Tom Watters  5/10/06

with just a few words
the uphill climb
in which I
honed my countenance
was tossed like
a paper cup
to rocks
and crashing surf

the looking glass
splayed
into countless shards
seven years of
ill fate added to
a litany
of twelve-step strutting

mere words,
single-cell words
not a drop of blood spent.
the possibilities, once endless
now
were head-first
and hell-bent on
a joyride
down the spiraling chute

oh process,
oh practice,
I cocoon myself to chrysalis
dreamtime
brings the revival
of my inner light
the hindsight
that does not require
the color rose

the shards at my feet
are a mirror-ball
dancing color
across the perfect
and the future tense

© Tom Watters  5/8/06