I travel to the
same garden again,
to reach for
fruit of odd shape,
pristine fragrance

to smooth the chalk drawings
between
my calloused fingertips

those pants are musical
their stripes spelling
serpentine phrases on the
softest silver flute

lightly scented linens,
ask familiar questions
dappled sunlight
creating the most gentle hum

a hoofbeat rhythm
sounds like sweet
lazy sex

the time…
a whole clock-full

her eyes are
twenty miles deep,
prussian blue

I know I’ve been
here

before

it rushes me back
to then,
was it
that long ago?

and this bed of greenery
and melting chocolate
longing

that which has
created the most
uncomfortable happiness

© Tom Watters  5/26/06

you refer to them as friends
they pour what
you

cannot have
cannot really want

the need you bring with
you

it has all been bookmarked
with a criminally bent page

chide them
and call them
names,
and over for darkness
you

toy with their guilt

her and I–many years ago
we got together in some sort of
holy alliance

judgmental (in front of god and all)

we lived it
in the way
our examples instructed us
but without
the cheating and alcohol

also without
the damp air
that is so present
in our breaths today
you

we are salamanders
and chameleons
we are fornicators
and we tip the barmaids

no expectations
all moral codes
encrypted for now
over-dreamt

© Tom Watters  5/23/06

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