I’m no closer to being found than I was
a year or decade or lifetime ago
yet I continue to pick up words and
rearrange them in ways unimaginable
along the way I often get the shit
kicked out of me by unnamed sources
and while sometimes I pretend to like it
truth is I never do
there are these places inside your head
you often forget how to find
isolated places where stars are
bright and perfectly aligned
dying to be wished upon as they
race by in rarefied darkness
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we dance the good dance
a ballroom waltz
stepping metrically like shakespeare
or tennyson or carroll
stealing the show below the glittery
globe shining like a waning gibbous
high in the sky at five o’clock in the morning
all eyes are upon the two of us
like southern stars faint and fixated
occasionally blinking but fascinated
at whatever they may witness
though the band has long performed
its final encore
the dance continues uninterrupted
having transitioned into a resurgency of sorts
fused into a single thought
beneath this expanding artificial light
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they never played the organ this loud
on early sunday mornings
but the violins were lovely as always
and the priest and his priestess
sang mass as if was their last
this april fool’s day
the day jesus christ was reborn
there is this talk of witching hours
culminating into something destructive
but today is not the case
full moon having set hours ago
only to reappear again slightly altered
earth continuing to race through space
as if the end is nowhere near
the backroads and byways and highways
are busy with pilgrims inspired
to find resting places where peace must reign
where violence and conflict
have ceased to exist
inspired by a man born ages ago
expected to reappear as a superstar
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
thirty-one days have passed
and I’m prepared to breach the surface
having survived my stay with the living dead
who turned out to be quite charming
programmed to reach for stars
atop my toes I stretch my arms high above
palms open and eyes tightly shut
imploring the gods to answer my calls
expectations can be a bitch (I am told)
especially when living in a fantasy world
so I relax my mind and sit cross legged
repeating patience is more than virtuous
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
so here we go again
casting judgment left and right
makes me wonder what they
did in the old days
before the world wasn’t quite so small
I suppose there was letter writing
love letters and
hate letters
and letters to the editor
want ads and personal ads
blind box ads
desperate pleas by the lonely
and the secretly insane
on the fourth of july
we decked out our stingrays with
reds and whites and blues
playing cards clothespinned on
bicycle wheels
charcoal snakes well lit and
crawling expandingly on cement blocks
it’s nineteen seventy something
and I’m contemplating my first shave
daydreaming about that first kiss
and wondering when oh when
next time it may take place
on television it was brilliantly violent
both abroad and at home
vietnam war and frequent assassinations
watergate and race riots
regime change and constant intolerance
fast forward to this aging poet
reminiscing and prognosticating
looking forward and back
and forward again
children self-patrolling hallways
like helmeted robots
fully armed
escorting opportunistic problem solvers
from one classroom
to the next
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
though I feel sick I am not ill
this ever changing weather
playing games with my frame of mind
keeps me tossing and turning when wide awake
making me move onward
and upward
as I delve deep into
my most precious dream state
I often wonder who’s going to protect me
from thy enemy
how many times do I have to remind myself
to step away from the window
we’ve crossed this river many times
and will cross again if we must
enjoining many hands
together stepping like a human net
resurrecting life by conquering death
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
after the invasion we stopped lighting candles
instead looked to the stars for answers
the children were best at hide-and-go seek
despite the risk of never being seen again
days of routine left us long after the last train
and now what remains is this suffocating reality
where dreams and nightmares are but one in the same
there are no more rivers to cross or towns to destroy
no more ghosts to disperse or spirits to dispel
no more lessons to be learned
no more ransoms to be paid
no more saviors to be born
no more lives to be saved
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the rain is too much
preventing the last two doves from
locating the wayward ark
turkey vultures soaring undetected
circling high above singletary shepherds
determined and confident in their ability
to overcome the landscape
and account for every single lamb
entrusted to them by the good lord
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
be not afraid of the knock on the door
it’s been in the offing ever since you were born
if you remember the crib
there is something special inside you
awareness at such an early age
is a clear sign you’ve been here before
reaching various stages in life
is sometimes easier said than done
but the underlying truth will always remain
how you’re destined to be one in the end
hell on earth is as real as heaven itself
and oftentimes you wonder
what keeps you coming back
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we’ve been fooled again
or so it seems
by so-called friends coming and going
with redundant regularity
unnecessarily undermining altruistic ideas
such as a world truly free of
world war weaponry
though the artist may be crippled
she will remain relevant
pushing out new work in
unconventional ways
to imagine the mountain
outside my window
one day long ago was never there
and one day far in the future
will have simply disappeared
man-made destructive forces
once intruding upon our lives
(like those so-called friends)
will one day turn against themselves
never to exist again
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you arise out of nothing but from a dream
the kind that wakes you up
a dream that starts out
innocently enough
moves along pleasantly from one idea to the next
but then a sudden turn of events
two children
two brothers
attending a professional baseball game
given enough leash by their parents
both reaching for a foul ball
arms stretching out over the concrete wall
leading down into the concourse
the two of them catching the ball together
grasping for dear life
fans cheering them on
but they’re leaning too far
momentum preventing them from stopping
from leaning too far
leaning too far and falling
holding desperately onto the ball
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
We’re supposed to be on the road by now
but Ted can’t seem to find the car keys
and DeSalvo’s rolling joints in the next room
sitting Indian style in the loveseat
I’m busy stuffing my backpack with
chocolate bars and graham crackers
and marshmallows and assortment
of individual servings of breakfast cereals
and Frito Lay snacks
Ted is arguing with his folks who
never seem to grow old
his mother with a dirty dishrag in her hand
his father smoking Marlboro Reds
and lambasting his son for chores undone
I’m in the garage now
stocking the cooler with Bud heavy
and whole milk and boxes of Sunny D
carton of 18 raw eggs and Oscar Mayer bacon
Let’s go let’s go I yell but nobody hears me
DeSalvo’s now out of my sight
most likely licking the edge of the rolling paper
eyes smiling and marveling
at his own imperfections
Hey Ted where the hell’s the ice I yell
but I don’t think he heard me
but I do think I heard his dad slap him
upside his head
Finally he comes out all red faced
DeSalvo right behind him smiling
checking his pants for a Bic lighter
Everything okay I ask
Yeah Ted says let’s get the fuck out of here
we’re taking the Lincoln Continental
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
she had this voice
sultry and sad
band behind her
rhythmically energetic
and ever so melancholic
mesmerizing really
freezing you in thought
and action
there is this trumpet
somewhere in the middle
a wake up call really
shaking you to the core
reminding you
how much you miss her voice
and how badly
you want her back again
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I receive emails from myself
little hints about what remains undone
yellow sticky note reminders
what calls to return
colors needing washing
wrist watch in need of repair
gas running low
milk soon expiring
jeans day is friday
remember the alamo
it happened somewhere down south
somewhere in texas I do believe
you remind yourself to google it
continuously remind yourself
to expand your mind
lest it begin to shrink
(quite unlike the universe)
until one day you awaken
and see yourself in the mirror
barcode tattooed on your forehead
data represented by varying
widths and spacings of parallel lines
its contents containing
every single memory worth recalling
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I jotted down some thoughts at 11:15
central daylight time
vernal equinox restarting the clock
snowflakes flat as silver dollar pancakes
hitting concrete slightly warmer than freezing
disappearing like some magic trick
trapped behind this rectangular window
I gaze past rooftops at a sun that isn’t there
daydreaming of warmer days
clouds casting shadows over my
sixth house of logistics
meanwhile everything in front of me
is moving backwards
pedestrians wrapped in wool clothing
pigeons dressed in mock turtlenecks
fedex trucks double parked and idling
my incoherent thoughts
scrambling to recreate
a winter that never was
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we learned to swim in arizona bay
long after the great shake
the one predicted ad nauseum
for a century or more
predicated on the fact
tectonic plates eventually
can’t help themselves
we talked often about migrating
down to all saints bay
but by the time paper dreams
developed into concrete plans
santa monica was already
crumbling into the sea
flashbacks take over in no particular order
replaying those days somewhere
near baghdad
digging trenches west of the euphrates
smoking camels and breathing
out fire and sand
promising ourselves under starlight
one day we’ll make it back
all the way to southern california
march two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 