Sometimes I’ll ask myself
what would Bukowski do
and sure enough
I find myself back at the track
having a beer
& studying the program
in the back of my mind
calculating how much I might
possibly win
but more importantly
how much I couldn’t
afford to lose
december two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ll pick out the runt
you can always tell which one
—you just pick ‘em up by the neck
I’ll make him tough I will
kick him around a bit
make him stay out all night long
just like me
it’s not like I’ve never
had one before
haven’t kicked one out of the house
haven’t given ‘em a few bucks
and told ‘em to get lost
but this one—
there’s something different
about this one
and so you let him stay
for a little while
as long as he doesn’t cost you much
october two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
this is my poetry the way I like it
and sometimes it’s just not good
or not nearly good enough
but it’s mine and I’ll stand beside it
the good along with the bad
the funny and serious and corny
left for dead in the city
or alive out in the country
jamming to the blues or rock and roll
those poetry gods gave me the freedom
to do whatever I like
including those floating butterfly verses
only I can call my own
nobody
can make me change anything
not one letter from a lower to upper case
or vice versa
because the way I wrote it
the first time
that’s how it was meant to be
and it makes no difference whether or not
it was the way it ought to be
november two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the room trembled with silence
as i sat alone on the high chair
punching keys and the space bar
with fingers and thumbs
moments earlier the silence
was interrupted with the clip clip clipping
of the fingernail clipper
and i remember thinking
what a masterful invention it was
as i purposely cut the left hand nails
much shorter than the right
the room’s silence grew louder
with terrible thoughts racing out of my mind
ricocheting off the walls and ceiling and floor
before returning to my fingers
and magically appearing on the plasma screen
i remember thinking it was such an awful silence
as tears of joy swelled in my eyes
my fingers racing millions of miles per millisecond
traveling beyond space and time
before crashing beautifully
into this alien creation
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there’s nothing wrong with me
as i hit the snooze button
for the third time
stare at the cobweb on the ceiling fan
wondering where the spider is.
outside i hear mickey’s silverado
start up and head down the street.
it must be seven-thirty-five.
a few hours later i get out of bed
walk over to the window
and draw the shade
another half inch.
i spend the next ten minutes
sitting on the shitter.
i check my email on my android
and play a few pinball games.
“hey boss this is johnson,” i say,
talking into my boss’s android.
“listen, something’s come up,
i won’t be in today…or tomorrow….
actually i won’t be back until thursday.
“there’s nothing wrong with me
so don’t call back
and i’ll see you on thursday.”
i finish my business in the bathroom
and make my way back to bed,
excited about the idea
of doing nothing
for three more days.
author’s note:
this poem is in response to charles bukowski’s oral dissertation on depression
august two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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