on opening day
vegas future odds
for winning the world series
has the chicago cubs
at eighty to one
the same as the pirates
and the mariners
and right behind
the new york mets
wish I could say
I’ve got the fever
but now into my fifth decade
of blindly following
the lovable ones
I’ve since grown jaded
often pondering
if there is more to life
than mere losing
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it snowed all night
and in the morning I went to look
for my boots
so I could shovel the drive
what the hell is it doing
snowing in springtime
I complained to the woman
sitting on the couch with pencil
in hand
she shrugged her shoulders
and put her face
back in the sudoku
you know you’re supposed
to do those things in pen
just like the crossword puzzle
I said
she lifted her eyes
and stretched her arm straight at me
the pencil an extension
of her middle finger
you know she said
if you’re looking for your boots
I sold them on amazon
last month
now get the hell out of my house
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
adrift on a raft
with no land in sight
you lie back
and make friends
with a setting sun
lost in dreams
the bulging moon
wrecks havoc
on brainwaves
regenerating
distant stars
seek rolling waves
tossing you
into a whirlpool
of endless light
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
he was so polite
he said yes ma’am
and no thank you
even asking permission
to use the bathroom
while he was away
everyone agreed
something terribly
went haywire upstairs
while everyone else
stood by fast asleep
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I was thinking about that hotel
in memphis
the old one a few blocks north of
beale street
where the ducks live on the roof
and every day around
happy hour
they take the elevator to the first floor
and march single file on the
red carpet
then hop-skip-and-flap
right into the lobby water fountain
for a late afternoon swim
as the patrons quietly applaud
I can’t help but imagine what a scene
it would be
if all of them were pigs
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
pretend you’re a stick figure
wearing a beret
and twirling a baton
out of nowhere a number two
pencil eraser rubs
against your thigh
you resist with all your might
pushing back
and kicking back
eventually you become stuck
like in quick sand
your mouth wide open
absorbing into another medium
you reach out
one last time
to be saved
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I stood in the kitchen dumbfounded
body leaning toward the counter
my arms stretched out
my hands gripping the edge
preventing me from falling straight down
once again short-term memory gaps
have poked holes into my productivity
the interruption of progressive thoughts
leading me down avenues of days long gone
like when I wore batman capes
and had real conversations with the mailman
I remember once when I was five
on an early sunday morning
all alone in the great room watching cartoons
my body laid out with elbows on the carpet
and chin resting inside my hands
when all of a sudden a dull clash
resonated from the kitchen and slowly
bounced it’s way into the great room
I dared not move one iota
as I stared into the kitchen
tall shadows moved about the inner walls
no doubt cast by the breeze nudging the evergreens
but I was petrified nonetheless
and hid like a stone waiting to be found
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
everything around me was ugly
including the paintings on the walls
the very walls that keep moving in
one ugly inch every hour
the newspaper scrawled out on the table
reeked of ugliness
delivered by the acne-plagued paperboy
on a dreary saturday morning
i looked outside and noticed the sun
hid behind hideous clouds
and i remember asking myself
why is everything so ugly
i decided to stay inside
and selected a rock glass off the shelf
setting it next to a bottle of jack
who was the ugliest son-of-a-bitch
i ever did meet
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
billy died on a sunday
and he never did get a proper
burial. fact is, nobody
knew exactly what happened
to his remains.
a bunch of his buddies
decided to get together one day
and followed a funeral procession
on foot. they were well equipped
with beer on ice
and hash under glass,
not to mention a few packs of smokes.
when the preacher finished
anointing the grave
with oils and incense,
someone beyond the bushes
cracked a joke
about how billy used to love
to smell his finger
after he’d got some.
nobody was ever sure
who really got buried that day,
but everyone knew
soon there would be pie.
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this little planet
collects preciousness
from throughout the galaxy
this ring shines
from outside energies
we’ve yet to understand
the established gods
refuse to assign value
for what is worthless
without ending
where would we begin
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the middle of the afternoon
the lights went out in the city
and all the people
filed out into the street from the skyscrapers
and candy stores
and barber shops
and taverns
quiet as kindergarteners on a fire drill
it was like the calm before the storm
as the full moon
performed its magic
only this time
as it slowly penetrated into the light
it was shot down
by a thousand arrows
launched from within the earth
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a sunday afternoon
and me and my gal sat at the bar
tipping pabst blue ribbons
while across the street
the crowd gathered into the stadium
for a doubleheader matinée
the flat screens hanging on the walls
aired most of the afternoon games
the sound muted by the country music
streaming from the jukebox
look my gal said pointing at one of the games
templeton is pitching for saint louis
i used to let him screw me you know
he played across the street
when he was just a baby she said
and i took him under my wing
and taught him a thing or two
yeah right i said
you’re dreaming again
holding two fingers up across the bar
my ass holds secrets you cannot imagine
she said and then lifted her glass
just above her still seductive eyes
waiting for me to do the same
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
enormous yellow bus
makes historic stop
at the corner of oak
and every avenue
daddy holds his little girl’s
hand as the two of them
stand speechless staring
at the flashing stop sign
the door swings open
and curious feet disappear
into a swarming world
of pushing and pulling
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
pretend you slip into my slacks
one leg at a time
button my newly ironed shirt
from bottom button to top
you get frustrated with yourself
because you can’t seem
to get the bloody dimple square
on the regimental tie
the silent alarm suddenly
signals half past eight
you lie awake forever late
to next week’s meeting
the reverie shakes you alive
screaming in your sleep
i hate you i love you i hate
the way the story ends
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i wandered the open market
looking for nothing in particular
when a young girl motioned me
from a little blue booth
she held out her hand
some sort of oval silver coin
placed on her palm
what is it i asked
it is yours she said
no it’s not mine i said
i’ve never seen this before
please take it she said
i want you to have it
i lifted the oval silver coin from her palm
and held it between my thumb and forefinger
with my other hand i reached into my shirt pocket
for my reading glasses
it’s a pocket jesus she said
yes i see that now i said
how much do you want for it
it’s priceless she said
as i left the open market
i could hear my pocket jesus
mingling with my american presidents
and i imagined what a lovely scheme
they must be cooking
to finish me off dead broke
but unafraid
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a dreary afternoon
and the local parish priest
spent most of it in the box
i sat in a pew in the back
underneath the twelfth station
narrowing my bloodshot eyes
and focusing on the pain
in my hands and feet
i lost count the number of times
the confessional door
swung open and shut
and i imagined none of the sinners
could hold a candle to what troubled
my criminal mind
when the lights turned dim
i delivered my own penance
and ventured back home
under the bridge
in the punishing rain
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 