IN A BIT OF A FUNK

IN A BIT OF A FUNK

Excuse me, for I’m in a bit of a funk,
Like a road kill squirrel or unfortunate skunk.
But unlike that skunk in his black and his white,
I cannot go quickly into the night.

Excuse me, for I’m in a bit of a funk,
Pardon me, pardon me, please,
Unlike the brass knuckled city punk,
The down and out looter, the out and out drunk,
I am the proud owner of a designer disease,
A black ship sailing on pirate seas.
The reckless wanton disregard,
It opens its jaws and crushes me hard,
Like a garbage truck treats random junk,
Pardon me, for I’m in a bit of a funk.

Excuse me, for I’m just a little bit dizzy.
Forgive me my tantrum and pardon my tizzy.
Up to my eyeballs in hoc to the docs,
Lining my closets with inflatable bills,
Stripped to the bone with no marketable skills,
Oh how my battleship is sunk,
Here in my pivotal, pitiful funk.

Excuse me, for I’m in a bit of a jam,
Nobody knows or cares who I am,
Not in the least bit handsome or glam.
If only I were a Cosmo or a Playgirl hunk,
Why I could sure make enough by posing in the buff
With tasteful photographs of my junk,
In cool strategic places.

A film career could be my calling,
if I could stop this random falling.
For a man upon his feet unsure, can be costly to insure,
Just go and ask my carrier.
It’s plain to see that woe is me,
Everywhere I turn’s a barrier.

Excuse me, for I’m in a bit of a funk,
A cheapo muffler or carburetor
And its lonely pricey clunk.
Get me to a nunnery soon
Or the monastic ways of a penniless monk.
And turn my tantrum and my tizzy
Into a Gregorian chant.
Give me three square meals a day,
Relieve me of my tiresome rant.

Or maybe an ugly man like me
Would fare much better on the streets,
A twisted Johnny Rotten or Sid Vicious wannabe.
Sucking dry Society’s mammoth welfare teets.
With a clothespin clamping shut my nose
And crowding out the stench,
Some wild and wanton woman
I will take for my wonderful wench,
Accepting all offers and draining the coffers,
Once more in the game, no longer benched.

Excuse me, for I’m in a bit of a funk,
Envying the roadside squirrel, the flat as a pancake skunk.
Too young to die, too old to pimp, too cursed to even care.
Alone in this wreckage, this ship that has sunk,
This tainted Titanic beyond all repair.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I WOULD MARRY YOU

I WOULD MARRY YOU
(FOR KYLE)

I would marry you in the citrus state,
And the orange groves would lend their blessing.
I would marry you in Florida,
Teach Anita Bryant a lesson.

I would marry you in the state of the hanging chad,
And the dubious election,
Though I think in Florida gay is still bad,
Upon further reflection.

I would marry you in the streets of gay Paree,
Beside the Eiffel Tower,
And the French in all their nonchalance,
Would smile and shrug at our special hour.
Viva la difference alas is the motto there,
Marry me in Paris is now my fervent prayer.

I would marry you in London, in the shadow of Big Ben.
We could flaunt our civil union,
To our family and friends.

I would marry you in autumn in Vermont,
In a quaint little church in the verdant countryside,
I’d marry you in autumn in Vermont,
In a burst of Sunday pride.
And the colors they would applaud and scream,
The red, the gold, the orange leaves,
Would toast us on the village green.

I would marry you in Amsterdam, where the swans they mate for life,
The Amsterdammers indifferent like the French,
They would not care if I made you my husband or my wife.
The prostitutes would smile and wink,
And the locals would admire our moxy,
But if we clogged a main thoroughfare.
They’d insist on marrying us by proxy.
Still I am a proud gay man, my motto is I am what I am,
So damn the bicyclists to hell for a day.
And marry me in Amsterdam.

I would marry you in California,
And maybe we’d be lucky and it would stick,
I’m unaware our current status there,
It’s enough to make you seasick.
Still we could give it the college try
And tie the knot in our beloved San Francisco,
Forget all the wherefores and the whys,
And spend our honeymoon slathered in Crisco.

Or New York City, in Central Park, would be a happy marriage,
A ceremony held after dark, by candlelight and horse and carriage.
With Judy Collins our special guest to sing our wedding song,
Or anything she damn well wants, if she’ll just agree to join the throng.
I would marry you in New York City, I would marry you on Broadway.
Just get me to the church on time, and we’ll throw the biggest soiree.

I would marry you in Canada, as long as we can dodge the geese,
I would not want to be attacked by an angry bird with fleece.
But I’d marry you in grand Quebec, in Toronto or in Montreal.
Some of my best friends are Canadian, a fine folk all in all.
And whether we are married by a holy man or by a justice of the peace.
As long as we’re together, we can drink life to the lees,
I would marry you, I would marry you, any damn place you pleased.

I would marry you here in Virginia, if I only had the right.
But you’ll be too old and I’ll be too dead when our statehouse sees the light.
Virginia, it may be for lovers, but it’s just my intuition,
For heterosexuals only in the missionary position.

I would marry you most anywhere, but I’m broke and out of time.
I would marry you in a banquet hall, ornate and oh, so fine.
I would marry you in a fine museum, surrounded by beauty and great art,
But you’re all the beauty that I need, the grand Picasso in my heart.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DUST AND DREGS

DUST AND DREGS

If you’re ready to heave and to hustle about,
Set to leave town on a moment’s shout,
Then I want to speak to you,
Leave credentials at the tone,
But if you’re a slacker and not a go getter
Then leave me the crap alone.

If you’re a loser and a whiner,
Lose and whine on your own sweet time,
Kvetch and cavort and go do what you must,
Let the chips fall where they may,
Drink my dregs and eat my dust.
And kindly get out of my way.

For I am a man in a monstrous hurry,
Tote that barge and lift that bale,
And make that bread without a worry,
If it’s safe or if it’s stale.

If we have to cut corners, by God we’ll do it,
All for the good of the bottom line,
Churn the convoluted butter,
Work on unpaid overtime.

Always forever the company man,
Never the man who bows low and begs.
Like a well bred horse on sturdy legs,
You amble toward the finish with style and grace,
Come home a winner or not at all,
Do not show us your loser’s face.

And if by chance your stats are grim,
There’s always our team with the art of the spin,
Who can turn your loss into a win,
Crunching their numbers in a blinding fashion,
Men who are soulless yet purple with passion.

At all times confident you must stand,
Even as the losses grow,
Hide your tears and play your hand,
The opponent he must never know,
Just how close you are to the end of the rope,
And the total abandonment of hope.

If you’re set to give up life and dreams,
Come join my brilliant Ponzi scheme.
Open the wineskins and pour the wine in kegs.
I am the winner and the one to follow,
Though my heart’s a tad bit hollow,
I am the man to blindly trust,
The horse who runs on mighty legs.
Come to me my fortunate son,
Eat my dust and drink my dregs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MARQUEE

MARQUEE

I put on quite a dinner party, I cooked the finest roast.
I even washed behind my ears, ever the gracious host.
I basted well that hallowed flesh, a cavalcade of words.
When I woke my verse had gathered dust, alas, no one had heard.

Left alone in the morning after, the smoke had risen to the rafters,
And I slashed my fingers to the bone, here at my writing desk alone.
Though I sat and bled and bled, still my words remained unread.
Was it that the readers lacked the time or that my couplets did not rhyme?
Was my one and only consolation the empty promise of tomorrow,
Left to my scholarly poverty and my beautiful sorrow?

I even asked a few wise souls, what do diners want these days?
My words were zero calories and quite form fitting,
Would they rather I made bouillabaisse,
Or something to be consumed at a single sitting?
The ones I asked diplomatically either did not know or lied,
Or wondered why I cared so much if my magical creations died.
But I ask you art for art’s sake folk who dare to even listen,
What’s the point of making your art your solemn mission?
What if you made a roast and it rotted in the fridge?
Would that fact not trouble you or hurt you just a smidge?

I put on quite a soiree, like a silver moon it glistened.
And I took to the foghorn of Facebook, begging folks to listen.
I pulled out all the Scrabble letters, polished ‘til they gleamed,
And careful not to hope for much, laid bare my fondest dreams.
Perhaps I was a Debbie Downer, too much a pessimistic Paul.
Too broken from the Parkinson’s, too enamored of the funeral pall.
All I know is a lot of nothing and yet I think I’ve learned,
This blogging game’s a lot of pain for diminishing returns.

But all was lost at quite a cost, to self esteem and my own damned ego,
If I were a TV show, I’d have been canceled more than a year ago.
And if I were a singer, I’d be dining alone at the table,
Singing at half filled nightclubs and dropped by his record label.
And if Google ever finds out my dirty little secret,
Why, they’ll be the first to cut the cord,
Brandishing their cyber revolver as if it were a sword.

I put on quite the lavish show, my name on the marquee,
‘Til the Scrabble letters spelling my name in glass,
Shattered in pieces in front of me.
I may be back or I may not, we’ll see just how the numbers crunch.
Perhaps I am having an awful day, just got my undies in a bunch.
But I just cut my hand on a Scrabble shard and it’s left an ugly scar.
And I cry out in my deep dismay, wondering where the readers are.
Those damn Scrabble letters still have me in their dreadful midnight hold.
And it’s only I that can decide if it’s time to play or fold.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED