they’re talking on the streets
how it’s much safer than
metropolitan america
oh how I laugh
not interested in going back
my passport surrendered
so many years ago
—I’ve since developed
a new language
dutifully translating
unknown poetry
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
a child is unwrapping
her birthday gift
in the center
of a makeshift stadium
the audience of strangers
in the tens of thousands
cheering her on
throwing visual objects
on the neatly cut grass
surrounding her
music blaring as shes roars
raising the stuffed T-Rex
high above her head
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was an explosion
a single sonic boom
and then there was fire
a thousand years
is nothing
a thousand ten-fold
or one hundred times
a thousand times
it’s all the same
it’s impossible to go back
to the beginning
or is that a fallacy
an old wives’ tale
the elixirs & the medicine
celebrations of birth
coinciding with the bad
and the ugly
what could be much worse
the iterations
propelled by the sun
capable of producing
improbable uncertainties
like in the case of jacob’s dream
a ladder lowering itself
—the heavens high above
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
you can only go so far
singing the same song
comparing
the goose with the gander
with too much regularity
beating down the same path
praising mediocrity
—but as for the newness
of tomorrow
it is rarely considered
like a stepchild believing
every moment in time
resides in and of itself
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
my mother called today
and I answered with
a brave voice
she prefaced her intention
with a word of caution
and I assured her
now was as good a time
as any
in the end
it was a nonevent
[seriously mother I can
buy my own drugs]
and by the time
we had mutually hung up on
one another
I assumed my father
was still alive
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in between phases
I’m in a funk
like a derelict balloon
with no place to go
I’ve been collecting string
and shredding
old tees into strips
tying them together
as if commanded by an ego
greater than mine
4:20 in the morning
seems to be daybreak anymore
though I’m fully aware
it changes more or less
every 24 hours
there are raw eggs
in a red bowl
next to a notebook & pencil
on the counter
—center cut bacon
chilling in the crisper
as the pig squawks
and the chickens sweat
I begin channeling today’s
getaway
[on the notebook]
a black on white conveyance
counting on the wind
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there I was again
writing it all down from
start to finish
the translation always failing me
and so I take out the jumpers
from the trunk of the honda
telling everyone around me
to clear
why do I find myself
translating the past
into a present tense kind of story
freezing me in time
maybe ten or twelve
or fifteen years ago
what would I say
and why would I say it
I don’t know
I just don’t know
fast forward and here I am
again
medicating in my own weird way
treating whatever it is
that ails me
I’m not a hypochondriac
I say
just an aspiring one
maybe we can try to hook up again
[so that you can show your cards]
maybe sometime later next week
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is a disconnect
between sublime living
and the reality of the day
so much so
even the planes
and helicopters overhead
produce background music
execution style killings
by thugs & gangs
are just as commonplace
as walks in the park
mother & daughter & child
enjoying the sunshine
unsuspectedly
in the marketplace
a man sells as is avocados
turning pennies into dollars
cross-training his
only surviving child
working & maintaining
chasing down their dream
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
now that we are nearing the end
can we say it could be another way
at what moment can you point to
saying right there
that specific place in time
progressing toward the committed path
only to back off
at the eleventh hour
country boy in the big city
big city girl lost in green acres
hopping from one continent to the next
eyes set on orbiting like a satellite
there’s no debate
it’s all left to conjecture
but it’s the world we live in
and the worlds
that we don’t
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this life has been scripted
from the very start
not a fairy tale
not a love story
not a dress rehearsal
but rather written in the stars
evident & true to its word
for anyone to see
what happens afterwards
is scripted as well
awaiting your presence
like a child awaits her birthday
opening gift after gift
shredding the wrappings
exclaiming it’s exactly
what she had hoped for
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
listen do you remember
the way it filled the room
an aroma you wished
would one day return
in court I’m appearing
as star witness most days
honestly saying I’m a master
at misremembering
go ahead and ask your
silly questions
it’s true I once was in love
judge unequivocally asks
is that your final answer
ordering the stenographer
to repeat the soup du jour
in the end it becomes subject
to alien interpretations
the smoke from the gun in the room
the cigar of the inspector
february two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
one twelfth of the year
seemingly gone in a heartbeat
frozen in time
in the northern hemisphere
literally & figuratively
good news on the horizon
or so I would like to think—
a cloudy groundhog morning
a bright red valentine’s day
a national holiday soon to arrive
one of these mondays
but what of the prior
thirty-one days
locked inside a capsule nobody
wants to open
tossed without much thought
perhaps into the sea
like a message in a bottle
or buried beneath the sand
twenty-eight paces from an oasis
like some half-hearted promise
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this sickness seems to be all
inside me now
I’m thinking it’s not wise
to keep looking back
you say there’s nothing
wrong with me
but we both know
I’m dying
this time there’s no letting go
and I’m left
looking inside
telling myself there’s no one
who can save me now
so just go ahead
and pull the trigger
free me from myself
the lights keep changing
but in fact
they’re all the same
I can’t seem to distinguish
red from yellow to green
the horsepower is gone
barely idling in neutral
all else racing by
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the human condition
beautiful & self destructive
depending upon
what stage
you find yourself on
inside the shadows
perspectives change
for good or bad
it matters not
pulling you effortlessly
to the unimaginable
becoming invisible
is nothing new
especially for the creatives
striving to elevate
to a higher level
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there are always questions
and not enough prophets to push us
in slightly different directions
it’s the way it goes I suppose
a common phrase
complementing so many
circumstances
the only church downtown
morphed into a 24/7 shelter
hosting mic night
every sunday at noon
attracting seers of all sorts
propagating their doomsday
scenarios
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
they come to the door
and ring the bell
they are the uninvited ones
I sit in the corner chair
off-white insulated curtains drawn
the bulb of the table lamp
barely buzzing
the brightless ones move on
but I suspect
they’ll return again
more capable of interaction
the next time around
turning off the light
I nod off in near silence
a dimly lit moon rising
whispering something sweet
into my ear
promising to awaken me
as always
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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