on a cross-country drive
my fellow traveler
woke from a stolen nap

he chastised the jazz
filling the vehicle
as music with the cymbals
in all the wrong places

I want

to make love to you
on those brass lily pads…

organic
knowing that you would understand
their morse code

the right places

chewing doublemint
because it’s not such a distraction

raise the wonder
of Marvin Gaye.
Marvin Fucking Gaye!

@ Tom Watters 8/12/08

pawnshop found
made you laugh
like some partridge family lunchbox
not of your era, but if you could
y’know

time travel

that perfect piece of clip-art
not too much information
or superfluous features

it could get the job done
made out of metal—not plastic
would serve you well
at least until you could afford
the dreamy one

this object

he has seen white
been to the edge of
what you never want to know
why he smiles
in that great distance

no expiration date
and no label indicating fragility

it’s all implied…
while the music of nostalgia
sings its passion play
kitsch and dust
polaroid barbie
wind up toy

heart aside
you throw yourself
into this channel
and adjust
rabbit ears accordingly

and just watch

© Tom Watters 8/6/08

static.
that, and roller skates

a small voice that
runs in,
leaves a wake

the receiver
becomes a monitor
distracted by a sexy beauty mark
dancing above that lip

the one she tends to bite

I feel corners of my smirk
lift as grass to the light
syrup of Pet Sounds
with a twist of Gil Giberto

I trace small ovals
on the back of my hand
veiled to earlier weather,
storms of malcontent

I scuff an obscured itch

in wonder of
foolish electrons
and parts

love of tiny transducers
that bring her
cinematically

© Tom Watters 7/23/08

a prayer meeting
after the show
Jahweh ties off
and sings dry,
minor key,
elemental bloodless joy

squints through dusty glasses
searching for mustard seed
misplaced analogy
piquant in pheromone incongruity
like the Q in liquor

sunward they reach

water of faith

satyr-bees kick through
the plaque of pollen
always leaving sticky fingered
drunk dialing florists

he tunes the strings low
they buzz and rattle
this sonorous junkie dirge
wood speaks for the wire
speaks the tongue of the oppressed

fingertips heavy

driven by showers of leaden lust
and the rush to its charge

of blind faith
where there was once light

© Tom Watters 6/25/08