poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “americana”

haunted in america

forensic science is alive and well
in most of these here parts
despite what’s been codified

some internal wars are never over

collisions continue on a regular basis
like rogue comets passing through
rather unsophisticated asteroid belts

those on the ground continue to shoot
at the moon haphazardly
while snipers in the trees prefer
the precision of ropes and ladders

some past sins are not easily forgotten
let alone forgiven

this land of the free is riddled with asterisks
just look to anyone still on the run

june two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

uncle sam is no benevolent king

there is no royalty in america
perhaps that is what we are missing
a figurehead family that occasionally
admonishes its government
whenever it goes astray

with royalty in america
ordinary children would have
royal offspring to relate to and admire
watching them grow up and
learning from their mistakes
instead of following the likes of
movie stars and overpaid athletes
and career politicians whose
best interests rarely align
with their own constituents

but alas here in america
all we have are american baseball
american football
american cinema
american pie (and chevrolet)
oh yes
all we have are presidents
who come and go
while the machinery behind the scenes
continues to grease that which none of us
can truly ever change

january two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

shall we dance

i found myself without obligations
one saturday morning
and decided to ride jenny
down to the river
to parlor city where they
serve breakfast on weekends

the place was busy but i managed
to snag the last seat at the bar
and ordered a bloody mary
and hot skillet
full of meats and potatoes
and veggies and eggs

it soon became clear the clean
shaven gentlemen sitting next to me
was most likely smashed on vodka
perhaps even as high
as a champion kite

what do you do he hissed at me

i’m a poet i said shoving food in my mouth

there’s nobody smart enough in this town
to be a poet he slurred

i put my fork down and picked up
my bloody and took a healthy swallow

you listen to me i said using my best
dirty harry impersonation

i’m gonna go out to jenny and get
my colt 45
and if you’re still here
when i get back
i’m gonna make you dance

january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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