I seek ablution in the coffee shop.

weathered with the patina of use,
this black orb tells all.
murky blue water with rejoinder:
“don’t count on it”

wash me in the water

distracted by the dragonfly
lavishly detailed on her breasts,
I gaze at my shoelaces, untied.
she reminds me “it’s always right”

temporary as the dew

walking away with my obligations,
I laugh at the simplicity of the morning.
grasp my keys with creative fingertips
and scratch through sexed hair

tears are never descriptive enough, apparently

windshield wipers swipe the morning off
I clear my throat of debris and pride.
your scent invades my car, my fingers
are the incense of musky distrust.

at least there was no soggy parking ticket.

© Tom Watters 5/7/08

it was reported lightly.
sympathetic,
doe-eyed fawning.

this was the shit
you couldn’t stand

mortality
was not
news you expected.
you had to mask your
indifference with
a furrowed brow;
“I know”
“I just heard… jeez”

truth be told,
life left months ago
when you sucked
those bones dry

you reckon

of course
he offered them up
like barbeque.
you gave at an early age,
now you take

because they’re stupid,
and you are owed.

this unquenched debt

© Tom Watters 4/9/08

in times of color,
I call upon a resource
always there, but simple
seemingly hidden,
right there in full view

peace remains
in the decay of the unwilling
calmly waiting its turn,
never mocking the experiments
of her wayward sons

there are blooms
amidst the trash,
birth, from the foulest of ideas
waiting for chrysalis
ready to take the most jaded breath
from breasts of heartlessness.

I will, I will!
want not–can not
free my blood from the last
gasp and cell-level light.

faith is in love…
in love with the dark,
as well as the well-lit.

4/4/08

unspoken
green felt shores
and your sherpas
carrying caches of venom
they tore pathways
under my wounds once more

forgiven by ruse
of convenience
and the sweet bird
of wish-laden timing
covering that stain on the sheets

you accept my hands
defensively offensive
tented here for the night
mirrored-ball mirage oasis
of your own fucked-up desert

laughter belies
the dry corners of your mouth
papier-mâché folds
in place of skin
clockworks surrogate any heat

have to check
your calendar, after all
await the remix
altering the meaning of the lyric
to suit

© Tom Watters  3/24/08