we had a wild & wonderful drive
crisscrossing west virginia
but in the end
it must have been just a dream
having found ourselves
back in boring kansas
november two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there were six of us
maybe seven
seated in the dining room
my grandmother (born in belgium
& someone I’ve never met)
occupying the head
it was a hearty meal
a meat & potatoes kind of deal
homemade bread
fresh fruit & veggies
a little dog
sitting on someone’s lap
not sure my exact age
but I was sporting a red cap
w/a minimal bill
and I remember her telling me
(in her broken english)
it has no place at her table
november two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
these buildings don’t belong here
sooner or later they will implode
either by an earthquake
or sworn enemy
it matters not
people will die
it’s an inevitability
no matter the property
no matter the where or the when
it will first come as a dream
and then it will be a reality
streamed online via satellite
archived to be revisited on demand
long after the world
has become a quieter place
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we were relaxing in the future
sitting on the edge of a pier
our legs dangling above the waves
motioning toward us
like clockwork
it reminded us of an ocean
but wondered
what the locals call it
curious whether or not
they name their bodies of water
soon the second sun would rise
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
lost to the ages
I wrote snippets of thoughts
onto scraps
of colored paper
stuffed them into my front pockets
—and left the city
for the country
there I bowed to the sungod
unstuffing my thoughts
from my front pockets
—like butterflies they flew
away from my hands
into an endless blue sky
—up up & away they went
and suddenly
I felt a piece of me
go with them
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
3:30 AM
a cool breeze
touching the silky white curtain
nary a sound in or out
of the bedroom
his eyes in REM mode
acting out a scene
racing down an alleyway
guns & knives & cocaine giving chase
adrenaline fully kicked in
instinct & logistics collaborating
his heart racing
his skin clammy
someone on the other side
shaking his limp body
screaming wake up wake up wake up
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I probably won’t be around
to see how it all ends
but then again maybe I’m just a cat
enjoying an earlier life
it’s true I don’t recall
where or when I was born
instead I must rely on others
who claim to know such information
concerning the before & after
what I witness by day isn’t enough
instead I rely on technicolor dreams
forcing me to jump to my feet
I’d like to be a mouse or a mole
working from the inside
gathering intel by way of a frequency
only I can understand
somehow I’ve got this feeling
next time I’ll wake up
on the other side of the world
probably someplace like kathmandu
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what sorrow is this
that sings me to sleep
on a moonless night
a gentle breeze stirring
the white curtains
brushing my check
what sorrow is this
that dreams inside me
sending me to places
foreign & soulful
two moons in the sky
guiding me to the sea
what sorrow is this
that speaks to me
without saying a word
teaching me to grieve
in a silent manner
teaching me to laugh (again)
when the time is right
september two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
what’s lost inside these lines
the ones once written
long ago
somehow suddenly
thrust back into the fold
did you not dream them up
in another life
only to make them come alive
time & time again
some images are difficult
to conjure
to bring back to life
to relive so to speak
like the terror
in someone’s eyes
the moment they are captured
through the lens
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
how long have you suffered
how long have you lived the dream
the two going hand in hand
how can they ever be separated
you walk a mile in your own shoes
you walk a mile in someone else’s
distinguishing between the two
an impossible proposition
when the heart becomes swollen
when the heart becomes weak
what do you do with your love
before it all goes away
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I fell though by no fault of my own
wavelengths in my brain
crisscrossing atmospheric conditions
with single grain whiskey
when I fell the weather radio went off
a mayhem of sounds of fury
highlighting the sightings of EF5
tornadoes racing across the plains
as I lay there lost & paralyzed
my eyes blinking as if in REM sleep
I witnessed past & future lives
barreling toward my rescue
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the dream I had no hair
not on my head or arms
not on my legs or chin
or anywhere else
for that matter
it was as if I was a hairless albino
but I was anything but white
my eyes blue like a flame
my lips a liquid hot pink
could it have been that I was melting
left hanging above a candle
my body slowly becoming the wax
creeping down all sides
of the cylinder
august two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was only a kiss
[oh what a kiss will lead to]
something I wish
I’d never saw
something stuck in a dream
I only dream
I only dream
the same dream now
and I’m sure it must be killing me
the kiss & the dress
the drag of the cigarette
as the song goes on
so does the kiss
—slipping off her dress
july two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Note: Based on the song “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers
I left the house for the ocean
a hammer holstered to my belt
my pockets full of nails
up and down the shoreline
I collected & stacked
driftwood into various columns
the sun would bake them dry
while the moon marveled
how my dream became reality
july two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
When I awoke
I was back in Dublin
for the second time in nine days
The first time I never got much of a look
other than the canal
and the suspension bridge
resembling a harp
I had planned on meeting Joyce
at the Gravity Bar
instead was swept away by all the tourists
and before I knew it
found myself blocks away
from The Liberties
Having bounced from here to there
I somehow landed in a pub
slash eatery
down the street
from the Google building
where an up & coming young gent
(with a Mediterranean accent & penchant
for rhyme & meter)
bought me a cool chocolately stout from Galway
In turn I handed him one of my chapbooks
which he quickly flipped
from one page to the next
before stopping cold on his own volition
june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
to not think of death
would be a lie
the way in which
turning on my imagination
—the top ten ways
repeating in a dream
each one worse than the next
in the middle of the night
I awake in a panic
the knife at my neck
the blade facing the other way
turn it turn it I say
please end it now
the villain dressed in black
wearing a half mask
eyes colorless
presence odorless
the voice as familiar as my own
emotionlessly saying
no this is far too easy
I believe I’ll let you live
to tell the tale
yet another day
june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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