Monica,
your defenses are strong

you clutch your adopted daughter
close to your breast
ever mindful of the
wayward tendencies
of  children

Monica, I know
I am under your suspicion
your men have not
been kind
or trustworthy

you bloody my face
and yet I must persevere
dear Monica
I will pay your tariffs
until my means
are exhausted

lay down your arms,
my adversary Monica!
I came to show you strength,
that my heart is pure, I will
lay my armor at your feet

your jewel is under my skin
my ears are parched for
the music of her breath
my eyes for
the tranquility of her gaze

Monica, your gates are strong
you place your foot-soldiers
in tempting positions
they will not dissuade me
they cannot.

I am driven on
by this ancient foolishness

© Tom Watters  4/25/07

spare me your condolences
nobody died here

I listen
I wring from my palms
truths and victims
and celebrate the birth of lessons

we had fun—
fucked for our own vain edification
no
partial reality
nor permanent press

leaves peeled back
lives laid aside
deft suction and
penciled-in
attentive bullshit
designer band-aid Novocaine

I know
the untold is
the elephant in the room

yours unruly
truly

mine aches my
headaches
and pins my skin to the wall
plain and tall
smile
crawling back to

punch
the clock

feed the
feeling that we’re
okay, dear

that we can
see through it all
and blame the
torch of
each other’s
simplicity

© Tom Watters  4/9/07

like a fly
trapped
between two window panes
sometimes a heartbeat

just

ticks.

arbitrary
postulating meaning
fumble, sigh.
the mechanics of
release
with arcade clatter,
hydraulic emoting

on some
big screen

glare

I hold forth a candle
a soft-focus lie of
aspiration

I want to love
my own ad campaign
and its promise of

a beat that
gulps with
throaty muscle
tender respect
and the gasping
vulgarity
of dare-I-say…

heresy

© Tom Watters  4/2/07

2800 miles
brings a closeness
that 135 miles cannot

roughshod in the
palm of these sheets
grasping at concepts
while listless and
threadbare
listening to the sacred geometry
acting out on the ground below

truth laps at the shores of the Atlantic
proud, yet naïve
just, yet uncalibrated
she will send to me
her fairest daughter
that I will not long
for her gentle name

a reminder of
the good that exists inside
and that which once
welled inside of me

that the weapon is
always drawn before it is
laid to rest
safe of its target
free at last
from its arrogant pleading

I close my eyes
and swallow
this morning night
that is but a memory
to the future

© Tom Watters  3/29/07