inside my mind a tiny mouse
has found some cheese
nibbling but not offering
—he’ll be quiet for a while
perhaps falling into a stupor
and I will sit in silence
imagining what his eventual
next move will be
or if he’ll simply no longer exist
for obvious reasons
such as foxes or traps
or surgical strikes
—cast from the skies
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
did you see that spark
in the sky
spooking thousands of blackbirds
and sending them
to the stars
the earth shook
from the footfalls of five hundred
elephants
rushing away from the scene
of the crime
in absolute terror
the nuclear winter
was unmistakably inevitable
all the armies of the world
laying down their arms
praying the world
as we know it
will recover from its losses
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there was something I was going to say
over and over and over again
but whatever it was it just went away
and I was left wishing my heart was cold
I was lost inside my bewildered mind
going over and over and over again
where it was I wanted to be
but I was frozen in my own tracks
believing I would likely die from the cold
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Let’s see
how shall we begin
to describe the fortunate son
It’s impossible they say
a trick question
the description itself but a
mystery
like who killed Marie Rogêt
In the end
there is no such thing
except for a brief moment in human
history
that maybe just maybe
he was the boy next door
voted mostly like to become
an unsolved serial killer
januarytwo thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it was cool at the microbrew
vinyls playing on turntable
jazz & blues & some rock & roll
streaming from the speakers
hanging from the ceiling
they take requests
or you can bring your own
tracks piped into the adjacent room
imbibers waltzing & grooving
to the likes of anyone’s guess
they say it’s the place to be
as long as the lights are low
—the barrels all aflow
hands & feet shuffling in & out
of the [corner] revolving door
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
mistakes are made after some sort of action
is performed
—such as a bank teller debiting
your account instead of crediting it
without any action there is no mistake
there is only negligence
a sort of indifference to those who may
be affected
what invariably may take place
after such lack of caring
is of no consequence
it’s like deer at midnight
snatching away your incipient flowers
—there’s nothing you can do about it
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the doc told him he had trigger finger
I’m not surprised the cowboy replied
I’ve never been much of a patient fellow
yes of course that is quite evident
the doc responded
you were more than likely born
with this debilitating condition
having been given limited options
the dejected cowboy
collected his things
his pearl-handled pistols
safe inside their holsters
a single silver bullet
buttoned inside his shirt pocket
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if we’re lucky
we’ll see the moon
rise along with the sun
any day now
dismissing any worries
it was blown
to pieces
by a barrage
of nuclear warheads
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
there is some life left
in the frozen woods
I found it by accident
no doubt beneath
where owls once ruled
in their wise-old ways
along the way I spotted
the dying & the dead
collected them in my
photographic memory
like non-fungible tokens
one click at a time
I was told I don’t
belong here anymore
that it wasn’t my time
the wind & ice crystals
encouraging me to go back
before it was too late
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
if I were to start from scratch
I wouldn’t even know my mother
I would be a microbe
either in someone’s gut
or on the ocean floor
a mere figment
of an imagination
I can’t begin to comprehend
if I were to be reborn
what are the chances
I’d be back in the same womb
the one that nourished me
the first & last time
before exploding into this world
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I never thought a career as a musician was possible
— Billie Eilish
she’s just a person born of this century
unable to describe herself with words
the songs come from out of nowhere
as if channeled by a diva born ages ago
being misunderstood is an understatement
the higher notes no longer intimidating
the synergy of courage & independence
brings forth new life and countless encores
once the lights fade & the curtain is drawn
she retreats to a world she barely knows
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve heard he’s enjoying the zen now
relaxing & a regular on youtube tv
working on a list
—can you even begin to guess
vintage this & brand new that
something in store another delivered
anything worthy as a distraction
misdirecting or misleading
sorting out fact from fiction
—inevitably
coming to terms with the reality
of the great escape
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve been on holiday
for what seems
like nearly a decade
bypassing pandemics
and pandering politicians
—living in a bubble (as they say)
enjoying a life of leisure
my doctor says I’m gonna die
any day now
mainly because I neglected
those who need me most
whether third world children
or children of my own
how she found me
is a nugget of information
that will eventually find itself
on the information superhighway
—like a secret ingredient
to the finest dish
exposed for all to see
there’s a light at the end of the hall
I keep telling myself
I’m not going there
—even though I know the ride’s over
I turn the other way
diving headlong out the window
as if knowing exactly
what I’m doing
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
one by one they die off
and every spring
they come back to life
they die off in threes
one-two-three
like a nursery rhyme
sometimes
all of them on the same day
other times over three days
four or five days
maybe as many as seven
we bury them
& then we move on
counting the days
the weeks
the months
the years
did you see where
she died on the third day
I was asked
yes I answered
& I am certain she will return
soon after the winter solstice
or the one after that
silence ensued
along with a smile
& a nod
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I am the last of a dying breed
how many times have you heard such a thing
my irish-backed whiteness
and lack of an accent [due to my
american upbringing]
couldn’t make me any more
plain-janier
inkless & pierceless & without
nary a conviction
I look & sound exactly as expected
—predictably beaten
I say do not interview me
I’ve nothing interesting to add to the
conversation
I like to talk about all the times
I’ve almost died
but nobody wants to hear those
cat stories anymore
if only they had changed over the years
embellished & unbelievably heroic
perhaps they could have
transitioned into lives of their own
instead I’m the interviewer
& the interviewee
a super long list of imperious questions
going unanswered
hour after hour after hour
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
It’s no wonder
how tired I became
having consumed
Stoker’s ‘Dracula’
inside twenty-four hours
With the assistance
of [mainly] valium
but other various uppers
& downers
I found myself
in the midst of it all
delving inside
major & minor characters
as if I never existed
All alone along
the way
I became immobilized
obsessed with insects
and all things
hematology
having become paralyzed
somehow the pages
continued to turn
—in the end
I walked on air
possibly through walls
january two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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