in the middle of the afternoon
the lights went out in the city
and all the people
filed out into the street from the skyscrapers
and candy stores
and barber shops
and taverns
quiet as kindergarteners on a fire drill
it was like the calm before the storm
as the full moon
performed its magic
only this time
as it slowly penetrated into the light
it was shot down
by a thousand arrows
launched from within the earth
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a sunday afternoon
and me and my gal sat at the bar
tipping pabst blue ribbons
while across the street
the crowd gathered into the stadium
for a doubleheader matinée
the flat screens hanging on the walls
aired most of the afternoon games
the sound muted by the country music
streaming from the jukebox
look my gal said pointing at one of the games
templeton is pitching for saint louis
i used to let him screw me you know
he played across the street
when he was just a baby she said
and i took him under my wing
and taught him a thing or two
yeah right i said
you’re dreaming again
holding two fingers up across the bar
my ass holds secrets you cannot imagine
she said and then lifted her glass
just above her still seductive eyes
waiting for me to do the same
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i wandered the open market
looking for nothing in particular
when a young girl motioned me
from a little blue booth
she held out her hand
some sort of oval silver coin
placed on her palm
what is it i asked
it is yours she said
no it’s not mine i said
i’ve never seen this before
please take it she said
i want you to have it
i lifted the oval silver coin from her palm
and held it between my thumb and forefinger
with my other hand i reached into my shirt pocket
for my reading glasses
it’s a pocket jesus she said
yes i see that now i said
how much do you want for it
it’s priceless she said
as i left the open market
i could hear my pocket jesus
mingling with my american presidents
and i imagined what a lovely scheme
they must be cooking
to finish me off dead broke
but unafraid
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a dreary afternoon
and the local parish priest
spent most of it in the box
i sat in a pew in the back
underneath the twelfth station
narrowing my bloodshot eyes
and focusing on the pain
in my hands and feet
i lost count the number of times
the confessional door
swung open and shut
and i imagined none of the sinners
could hold a candle to what troubled
my criminal mind
when the lights turned dim
i delivered my own penance
and ventured back home
under the bridge
in the punishing rain
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
She hated the food, the guards,
the very place where her family
and servants were certain to die;
where somehow, miraculously,
the daughters of the Monarchy
would forever shroud any evidence of
advancing the Romanov bloodline.
Soldiers patrolled the mansion turned
prison, walking the halls as muffled conversations
seeped through the walls and floors,
the Czarina’s voice carrying through
the airspaces and into the room
where her daughters sewed hurriedly.
Anastasia found such affairs interesting,
her mother’s motives incredulous;
moved her emotions to extremes, especially
with thoughts of surviving the execution,
saddened at the thought of losing everything else.
Just before the Czarina and the girls
were blindfolded and taken away,
they had feverishly finished tatting
the final, precious stones
into their executional clothing.
As the boots kicked in the doors
and pointed their rifles at the family fortune,
the girls fastened their bullet-proof vests,
marched down to the cellar as commanded.
Nicholas II and Alexandra fell,
as well as their weakened son, Alexei,
his doctor, and three servants.
Just after the bullets ended their consciousness,
the eleven marksmen lowered their rifles,
gunpowder overtaking the dankness in the air.
As the shots rang out all eleven
fell; Anastasia and her sisters
lost all life in their limbs,
their minds make-believing death,
their faces touching the blood
that was not to live on.
Over and over and over again
the Czarina implanted what actions
were necessary for survival.
And as her daughters fell
they never made a sound,
and prayed to Jesus
they would live another day.
rewrite from november two thousand six
audio recorded march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the little ones gathered ‘round
ratcheting their bottoms
against the carpet as if trying to
permanently stay in place
you see
the old man began
bobbing his head
in the old days
you could drive out to the country
with your sweetheart by your side
leaving a trail of dust behind you
weaving your way through rolling hills
where rows of corn stretch toward the sun
and gigantic cows feed on fields
that forever stay green
once you reach the sign
with the painted horse
you abandon the car
and walk hand in hand down a narrow lane
leading you to an antiquated world
where you first learn to saddle your new best friend
and ride off into the sunset
with courage and grace
march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Rewritten from a poem originally penned July 5, 1983
You ask me why I’m seated alone in an empty bar
on a late afternoon scanning a complicated James novel.
But I am not alone my darling,
I’m terribly busy; I’m Lambert Strether
in Paris on business.
I’m an Ambassador sent by my own Mrs. Newsome,
attempting to persuade Chad to come home;
it’s a more complicated commission
than I could ever have imagined.
You ask me not to be silly?
How many drinks have I had since being alone in this bar,
mocking a complicated James novel?
I’ve been here since my lunch engagement
with Madame de Vionnet who has unfortunately
left to attend another matter.
This glass of wine is what’s left of our bottle.
We had been talking of her daughter,
a lovely young lady, who has indirectly disrupted
my plan of action.
I’m surprised you found this obscure bar outside of town,
it’s one of Madame de Vionnet’s favorite meeting places.
She cannot be seen with me, but she likes
my accent and my conversation.
It’s just that she’s married so secretly we must meet.
Oh, it’s a complicated matter!
Honestly, I am not attempting to toy with you.
Okay, if you would just like to chat for a while,
I’ll simply curtail my business for an hour.
Hell, Chad may never go back to the states
to run the family business for his mother.
I will listen to what you have to say as you try to salvage
some sense from this complicated relationship.
As for me though, I’m content, I love it here;
I don’t ever want to leave;
I couldn’t possibly marry Mrs. Newsome now.
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i walked outside
on a warm spring day
and smelled chocolate chip cookies
they must be coming from next door
i thought
so i moseyed to my neighbor’s back door
and knocked and waited
to be let in
my neighbor didn’t come to the door
so i walked to the kitchen window
and held onto the ledge
with my fingers
pulling myself up so my chin
rested on the ledge
the heels of my feet off the ground
lifted by the power of my toes
there i saw two sheets of
chocolate chip cookies
laid out on the counter
untouched and looking delicious
i wondered why my neighbor
didn’t want to share
her brand new cookies
i walk away
saddened
the smell of the cookies
lingering everywhere
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the older i get the less i know
and that is the only thing
i know for certain
i’ve become disconnected
with the political process
in this screwed up country
where we spend more time
kicking the can
down deficit lane
than trying to figure out
why most of us here
don’t want to be able to
feed our own faces
i heard the other day
the president wants some sort
of mandatory preschool program
put in place
so the little ones can take to task
and figure out why we continue
to get further behind china
who will one day no doubt
be pulling all the strings
dangling above our heads
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i keep wondering about the
rover on the planet mars
and the guy with the joystick
guiding it around during
daylight hours
telling it where to dig
and using tools at his disposal
to turn a rock over on its side
imagine the look on his
face when he uncovers
the false side of a mountain
exposing a sophisticated
learning ground
where time-tested
ancient mariners develop
tomorrow’s space travelers
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was a deafening ride
to the top of the clouds
and the further we climbed
the quieter the night became
one by one we jumped
through the crescent moon
the relative wind pushing us
toward our desired target
once reaching terminal velocity
we expanded our wings
and eased into the uncertainty
of a hostile territory
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the poetry i wrote ages ago
doesn’t belong to me anymore
the person that wrote those lines
of despair and shame and utter honesty
has long been gone
it’s almost as if he died from self-inflicted wounds
from too much booze and tabacco
and whoring around
from not giving a shit about work
or baseball
or forgetting to buy chocolate and roses
on valentine’s day
reading page after page of the drivel
i want to tear them to pieces
but something inside me
won’t let it happen
because deep down i’m in love with the words
that used to bring me joy knowing my misery
was no different than yours
february two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when i was a butterfly
i floated with the best of them
from country meadow
to urban garden
my world an eternal adventure
of technicolor and sound
when i was a butterfly
children chased me with their nets
but my keen instincts
evaded their hopes
of ever capturing the beauty
forever felt in their hearts
when i was a butterfly
every day was like a dream
of first impressions
repeating themselves
toward an expanding evolution
of psychedelic freedom
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there are too many bad guys
running around.
they’re everywhere
and they make everyone nervous.
these bad guys either carry guns
or they have access to them
or they have whole armies
at their disposal.
there are too many bad guys
running around.
they go to school
or work for the private sector
or the public sector
or no sector at all.
the bad guys either work alone
or become organized as gangs:
some considered illegal
and some considered legitimate
depending upon your perspective.
there are too many bad guys
running around and can be found
anywhere on the planet.
just pick a spot.
they are on television
and some of them provide the news
about the bad guys in waterloo
or shanghai or timbuktu.
there are too many bad guys
running around and they aren’t
going away anytime soon.
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
in the dream moses
splits the field of dreams
and turns a bush
into a bonfire in the center
of centerfield
notables like mantle
and cobb and simon peter
chew redman and spit
into the fire
casting pearls before swine
and laughing like little girls
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
i searched everywhere
for the button
that fell off my favorite jacket
but i just couldn’t find
the damn thing
it was as if the world
was testing me
to see if i would dare go out
wearing such a beautiful jacket
with a button missing
i opened the refrigerator
and there stood
a dozen pale ales suggesting
i drop the needle and thread
and let the button go
january two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 