another breath of this chilly thin air
so familiar by now it seems to whistle

my cheap name

mocking from the brow of this ledge
that skirts the laughing surf
which gnashes at the rocks
in perfect analogous symmetry

my harlot body ground in the molars

two blue turtles weave in and out
between the kelp, whose gaseous pods
pull its protective vines sunward
shells and kelp working in consort

my ill-fitting jeans resist the urge to jump into freedom

this time was to be different
an awakening in my dusty heart
a hand to perfectly fit mine
the end of this shitty chain-letter

my grass was not as green

in these willowy strands of atmosphere
I step away from myself
I have the same body, all of my
fingers still do their unique dances

my being gave and gave at the office

I watch as this victorious butterfly
pulls away from her cocoon
lifting into the current
affection for shiny new toys

one more deep chilling draw
of my old acquaintance
I brace accordingly
I turn my key and drive

© Tom Watters  2/5/07

ideas and potential
were outlined on paper
and placed into a
windowless manila shroud
clasped by a thin
chaste sliver of tin

it rests in the elements
weathered, bleached and frayed

this envelope has been held
to the lamp by Pandoras
a phrase parsed, a glimpse of numbers
judgements made, movement, movement
onward, on… on

the parcel has been offered
it has been stolen

it has been slept on
beads of sweat have been formed
steam almost compromising
its sentinel adhesive
blind with boredom

perhaps if these wraps were paisley
indicative of the purple passages within

its records remain untold

awaiting nimble, swift

deft fingerprints

© Tom Watters  1/30/07

her calling card presence belies
an aura of a certain dignity,
a riddle that
leads with its answer
so clearly that you miss
that it is in plain sight

she carries a duality
in her deep green
or are they hazel
5000-piece puzzle eyes

indifference to pain
that she might cradle
those who suffer

cause and effect
carved her
slowly and perfectly
like a river gently cuts
the walls of a canyon
unwrapping a life
of color and light

she cannot help but
make music, with her hands
or by the way her
body cuts through the air.
she is a song,
a six syllable waltz
with the most perfect
Japanese lyric

indifference to pain
that has defined her
celebration of discovery

© Tom Watters  1/26/07

containment is for
the criminal element or
forest fires

emotions get corsets
love gets a push-up bra

restraint,
more of a
shut-the-fuck-up,
these groceries can not
be boxed
neatly

they are fragile
walk on eggshell
snowshoes
ever delicate
concealing the Byzantine
embroidered on tattered sleeves

they are held by their
lovely leashes
skills atrophied
smiles pasted in place

they
never wanted to grow
never wanted incisors
pastel on their walls suited them

now look at them
tarted up in a teenager’s
amateur bonne bell
welled up inside of me
a fire-starter

© Tom Watters  1/25/07