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poetry by j matthew waters

Archive for the tag “Bukowski”

capital I is for me


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

sound barrier


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

voluntary rejuvenation


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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