CROOKED

CROOKED

Crooked is the house I live in,
It leans like the Tower of Pisa.
Crooked are my braceless teeth,
My smile is like the Mona Lisa's.
Wan and faintly warm,
Virtually unknown to strangers,
My raging inner storm.

Out of my crooked bed I rise,
To greet the day and its crooked sun,
It shines too bright, you know the one.
Turn on my crooked tv and feast my eyes,
On crooked politicians and their crooked little lies.

Then my crooked little mind,
Decides to go on a crooked walk,
Can't make it to the corner without falling on my head,
On the pansies and the rhododendrons
In some crooked flower bed.

I help myself up with my crooked cane,
And leave a note to my crooked neighbors,
Your garden is a lovely mess of beauty,
You really should do your neighborly duty,
To protect it from the crooked man,
Up so early and up to no good,
Falling on your plot of land.

Crooked is the walk I walk,
Nonsense is the talk I talk,
A spin on the teenage mumble,
You parents of teens you know it well,
Resembling a pout or a grumble.
Yet it really is the best I can manage,
Walking and talking like a beast or a savage.
Ask me no questions, they only frustrate,
Forcing me to be over industrious,
They only further illustrate,
And confirm just what I meant,
When I told you in the first place
Of my speech impediment.

Then it's home for my crooked lunch.
Of ice cream and of crooked punch,
That chokes when it goes down the wrong way,
Leaving me coughing up half a lung, 
Until I maintain equilibrium.
I dial 911 on my crooked phone,
Tell them that I'm here alone, 
That they ought to send a squad car by,
With a built and hunky cop,
To wit I've had a choking fit,
That only a hunky cop can stop.

Making whoopee with Whoopi on The View,
is often all I care to do,
I have a lady crush on her,
Rosie Perez and that Nicolle Wallace too.
And I really get my groove on when Mario drops by,
The cute Cantone, that Liza clone,
Who always my crooked body wracks,
With paroxysms of crooked laughs.
I'm not sure the View is crooked,
For Whoopi she would not allow it,
But should it take a turn for the bent,
I should not disavow it.

Then it's on to the crooked soaps I watch,
The days of our awesome crooked lives,
Will, Sonny and that rascally Paul,
Who haunts you with his puppy dog eyes.
Then on to GH, perhaps the one I love the best,
Port Charles which is inhabited by the hunky Nathan West
it should not surprise you nor should it stun,
That i ask for him by name when I call the 911.
Take me, I tell Nathan, for it's GH or bust,
Corinthos and Jerome, those crooked gangster hoodlums,
They may be easy on the eyes, but harder still to trust.

Then it's time for my crooked nap
 'Til my crooked friend comes home,
He works all day to support his habit 
Of shoring up the crooked me,
And gets even for his trouble
With incessant vacuuming.
Crooked is the house i live in.
Cute though, and devoid of crumbs.
That Kyle my partner and crooked friend 
Detonates just like a bomb.
Crooked I live and crooked i'll die,
In this crooked one man show.
Promise that you'll tune me in, 
Just once before I go.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALLRIGHTS RESERVED

I SHOULD LIKE TO COME BACK AS A FISH

I SHOULD LIKE TO COME BACK AS A FISH

(FOR MY FRIENDS THE KARENS, WHO NAMED THEIR FISH BRUCE)

When at last my time on earth is done,
And death has beat its final drum,
My worldly affairs left torn and tattered,
My heart so beaten and so battered.

It's then I'll have some thinkin' to do,
Should I stay or should I go.
Stay in heaven as my fate,
Or start all over with a brand new slate.
To play it safe just makes me chafe,
I think I'd rather reincarnate.
And were I granted my fondest wish,
i should like to come back as a fish.

I do not say this lightly, we are speaking of my soul.
I have conditions yet that must be met,
I'm picky I suppose.
And if I am to be truly whole,
I want to come back as a happy fish,
And swim in my friend Karen's bowl.
I do not want an ocean home,
To be torn and tattered on a hook.
I want to be free to swim and roam,
Not to live like a common crook.
To be gutted by a fisherman's knife,
Why, that's no kind of amphibious life.
He would brag and boast so cavalierly
And I love my friends the Karens dearly.
I do not want to be a feckless fish,
An aquarium would be my wish.
Nothing but store bought food for me,
Not to be fed on by predators
And die ignominiously. 

I do not want to be a salmon nor a rainbow trout.
And sharks are far too menacing, to be a shark is out.
I'd rather be a goldfish, not at all fancy and not at all stylish.
And since I know enough of lungs, and since I know pollution kills,
I'd rather take my chances on a snazzy set of gills.
I am not much on maintenance, the Karens need not know I'm there,
Except of course to feed me and to fill my gills with air.
And since I'd be no longer than perhaps about an inch,
I'd need some sweet protection from the likes of Baxter Kinch.
There's something in my DNA that distrusts a basset hound,
Why, he'd mistake me for a chicken and promptly gulp me down.
Not to mention the other doggies, Sadie, Piper and Buddy,
Should they side with Baxter, that would turn the waters muddy.

And what to think of Karen's cats?
Why, I had not even thought of that,
Perhaps if I sleep and do not snore,
I will not bother Montecore.
Yet I could and would all day obsess,
On the evil eye of Princess.
Were I not afraid of the awful orgy,
Should I fall prey to the new one Georgie.

Perhaps Karen would make me smile,
And bring me home a friend named Kyle.
A friend with which to dance and swim,
I promise to share my food with him.
And my gayness it should not offend,
The Karens, such two faithful friends.
But I may sway a bit and I may swish,
If I should come back as a harmless fish.

If Kyle and I should hit it off and really get on great,
I promise to be a gentleman and quietly copulate.
Not like an unmannerly dog or a snooty, snorty hog.
A little privacy's all i ask and I'll be a model pet.
When i get sick, they needn't even bother with the vet.
They can flush me down the loo, when my days come to an end,
And know how very grateful I was to the likes of them.
Karen W and Karen K, for the rest of their livelong days,
Will know how much it meant to me to be part of their menagerie.

By that time this fish thing will be out of my head,
I'll either stay in heaven, pretending to be dead.
Or perhaps I'll ask God in his infinite grace,
To return me to the human race.
I only know that i'd be ready for a change of pace.
And even though I may end up with a slab of egg on my face.
It still would be my fondest wish, to reincarnate as a fish.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

Maybe I should play around, just to shake the kinks out,
Let the words coalesce like a sacred holy mess,
Begin again, paint in colors that shout,
Like some lost and obscene clown,
Maybe I should play around,
Red bulbous nose and pointy shoes.
Forget I was born to sing the blues,
Play a little ragtime instead.
Nothing more and nothing less,
Than to mess a little with your head.

Mountains in my mirror and seashore in my ears,
Maybe I should play around, forget my petty fears.
Dance atop the roof of my home,
Dangerous and all alone,
Throw the words like Pollack threw his paint,
Let them land just where they will,
In the backyard, on the windowsill,
Let them tear and let them taint.
Maybe I should play around,
Come upon a brand new rhyme,
Break barriers of sight and sound,
The sepulchers of time.

Maybe there's no here from there,
I'm a madman on a wordless tear,
Fueled on by a heady wine,
Maybe I'll run out of signs,
Like a buoy on a nameless pier,
Who points the way to an atmosphere,
Where the theme is party down.
Maybe I should just lay low,
Maybe I should play around.

The words they come less easy,
Like a lonely sad parade,
The notes they blow less breezy,
Like ocean winds cascade.
And should you feel a lot less brave,
Accosted by some deadly wave,
All you do is cough up time,
Choking on a teaspoonful
Of the most delicious brine.

Maybe I should play around,
Until I reach my happy place.
A place where no one's lost or down,
A life that's full of grace.
Maybe i should play around,
With a harmonica and blues.
A big 'ole hat like Belushi and Akroyd,
Just play around until I annoy,
While wearin' my blue suede shoes.

In between today and dead,
Play a little blues instead,
Nod my head and just say yes,
Nothing more and nothing less,
Drop the downer, ditch the dread,
Just mess a little with your head.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WALK WITH ME

WALK WITH ME

Walk with me,
Let's hop down these spring streets
Like rabbits in heat.

And try to dispel all this crazy energy.

Let's look at the houses
And swing from the trees
And marvel at the squirrels
And mock this technological world
With our healthy frames.

We'll make up funny names 
For the people that we pass.
Hold each other's hands
And pretend our love will last.

Talk a little dirty, spread some harmless lies,
Like where babies really come from, and the origin of fireflies.
Spread vicious rumors about the sun and sky,
Make believe we're two year olds, our every question why.

Wonder at the beauty,
Call in sick and shirk our duty.
Learn to loaf like harmless oafs.
Beavis and Butthead minus the menace,
More like Ethel and Lucy or Tom and Jerry.
That Butthead dude is kinda scary,
That Beavis a little too fond of fire.
Perhaps we'd be twin Tweety Birds,
Singing on a fence wire.

It is so much finer, to hang with a mischievous crowd,
To sing off key and raucously loud.
Into your lover's ear until the break of dawn,
Always ensuring they'll miss you when you're gone.
To wake with glee to find, you may still have some time,
Just before the heart it flails and then begins to flat line.

Walk with me,
Let's hop down these spring streets
Like rabbits in heat.
Admire the neighbors' gardens
And their fancy garden fountains.
Roll around in all their yards 'til they come outside and scold us,
And into model citizens how they'll try to mold us.
And then we'd be slaves to their every whim and wish,
No longer free to roam at will, to gossip and to dish

But I say fun is worth the risk of running into a gloomy Gus,
And Fate will lead us to the yards of nice people like us.
And I have a little secret to whisper in your ear
As we swing from the trees and marvel at the squirrels
And mock this technological world.
The secret it is only this, I am dying for a little kiss,
And hope you'll not feel put upon, if I tell you you're my only one.
If I should one day up and say, I dig those legs you're moving on.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PAPER WEIGHT

PAPER WEIGHT

I should think it not a terrible fate,
To turn into a paper weight,
Perched upon the boss's desk,
A most distinguished welcome guest,
No worries that the whole damn world's gone paperless.
Beauty never vanishes, it only fades into the background,
Lost in all our worries and our rushing all around.

I'd like to be a prism or a rainbow sort of paper weight,
Colorful as crayons and durable as slate.
A bonus to have eyes in the back of my head,
To see the boss's computer screen,
The holdings and the foldings,
The hirings and the firings,
I could warn the ones in danger
With a strategic slurp or burp,
While sipping on the boss's Big Gulp,
While sitting on his tree pulp.

To catch the sunlight in my colored glass,
As it rises in the boss's window,
To watch the sunset close the day,
In a rich purple crescendo.
To understand what the boss goes through,
For the sake of the corporate schemes.
To catch his tears as they fall on the keyboard,
As he falls helpless on the sword
Of his expectations and his dreams.

I should think it not a bitter crime,
To log myself some overtime,
And bag myself a little peace,
For my suffering to surcease.
There are not many places left to land,
For the hapless motionless man.
And sometimes mankind lost in duty,
Forgets to notice hidden beauty.
So why not be a paper weight,
Expensive and classy, perhaps a bit brassy,
Perhaps one of those snazzy models with a ship encased inside,
I could sail in my daydreams to take that boat on its merry maiden ride.
Or maybe one made of lovely dried flowers to cheer all through the winter chill,
When springtime comes to catch the fresh air breezing through the windowsill.

Perhaps paper weights have become passé,
I think I'd be one anyway.
I should think that it would not be horrible,
Nor in the least incorrigible.
As long as I'm not humdrum,
I should not run afoul of office decorum.
To bring a little beauty back is all I have in mind I guess,
To bring a little comfort to the poor and huddled paperless.
I sense somehow that I'd be forgiven for such a harmless caper,
Though my buttocks they would soon get sore from sitting on that mound of paper.

I'd be living quite high on the hog,
Like the office mascot, a big 'ole lazy dog.
Until one day I let down my guard,
Got smashed into a zillion shards,
Was hurled from the desk in a fit of passion,
Once my antics were discovered, and I'd fallen out of fashion.

I should think it not a terrible fate,
To be an office paper weight.
Perched upon the boss's desk,
A most distinguished welcome guest.
Until he found out who had finished all of those Big Gulps,
His tried and trusty ornament who used to guard his tree pulp.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HERE COMES YOUR HAPPY

HERE COMES YOUR HAPPY

Here comes your happy you’ve been wanting from me,
I’m like a court jester and my goal is to please.
Open the flood gates, sunlight’s pouring through,
I’m weak and I’m weary but I can still dance for you.

Here comes the mother ship to sail on a rhyme.
To a gentler habitat, and a sunnier clime.
Close your eyes you might miss it, here’s your last warning,
My smile it is waning, may be gone by the morning.

Here comes your happy, here comes your dance.
Here comes the fever and the rush of romance.
One last fling of summer, one last walk upon the sand,
Hold on to your happy as long as you can.

I’m ripped apart, I’m wailing,
I slip and reach for the railing,
I tumble to the ocean,
Hole in this boat I am sailing.

But I’ll try to do it quietly,
Though I’d rather do it riotously,
But not at all righteously and not at all piously.
I am the perfect specimen,
A persnickety Parkinsonian.
And though I’m feeling crass and crappy,
Heaven forfend I should stomp on your happy.

I only want the shining sea,
To flail in lost and gallantly,
Its waves to roll right over me.
A desperate slave to the Deity.
I know he knows what’s best for me,
And not to go all soft and sappy,
Come get it quick, here comes your happy.

You try happy with a bounty on your head,
And you try joyous, with arms as stiff as lead.
Why, the most I can hope for is another day of breath,
And at the end, at the road’s final bend, a most delicious death.

For those of you in a mirthful mood,
Beware my hapless attitude,
Life is what you make it and I know it’s true for me,
I’ll make it to the pearly gates a long, long time before ye.
So this is alas, all the joy I can muster,
I’m filled to the brim with boisterous bluster.

I’d hum a hopeful number, but it would be off key.
And you would see right through my frank dishonesty.
But don’t go pout and don’t go faint.
I’ve plenty of rouge and a boatload of greasepaint.
Here comes your happy, with nary a complaint.

Here comes your happy you’ve been wanting from me.
Like a golden retriever my goal is to please.
Come and swim in this gooey pool of rhyme.
But do hurry in before you get slimed.

Come get your happy, like manure hides a pony,
This happy is here for a short time only,
Come now and jump into this raucous bale of hay.
And have a little fun with me, before I melt away.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FUN STUFF

FUN STUFF

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
Like pink flamingos on the lawn?
Drive-in movies and making out,
And little teapots short and stout.

Where are all the revelries,
Where is all the wonder?
They’ve gone the way of my failing health,
Blithely torn asunder.
They groan beneath my sagging wealth,
A pocketbook struck by thunder.
And the crack of closeup lightning,
Reveals each silly blunder.

Where has all the fun stuff flown,
Into the package of wreckage strewn,
The mile high club that I didn’t join then,
I certainly can’t take up now.
Though a midair romp is no big sin,
Just in and out is my solemn vow.
I need my restrooms for voiding and rest
And not to satisfy lovers’ requests.

Where is all the happy verse,
The readers want to know.
Why such a wuss and a gloomy guss,
We came here expecting a vaudeville show!
You’ll have to bring glasses versed in 3D,
To see the hapless side of me.
The stumbling here and everywhere,
The tumbling on the flight of stairs
The web cam set on Bruce I Am,
Is what you’ll long to see.
And I’ll do a giddy happy dance,
An honorary Black Eyed Pea.

Where alas is my ship of fools,
My happy courtyard jester?
He lies in pain, in the foyer slain,
His wounds they bleed and fester.

I can barely crack an egg,
Yet you long for me to crack a smile?
The fun stuff and the folly is going out of style.
And with the fun stuff goes the laughter,
Though I still crack jokes at my own expense,
But like smoke it rises to the rafters,
And mixes with the heady incense.

Where is the fun stuff when you need it,
Like the joys of medicinal hashish weed,
My attitude could sure improve,
And gradually get back up to speed.

Surely a toke or two of the demon pot,
Could calm the pain of what I’ve got.
But alas I am like Auntie Em,
I mustn’t go against the law,
For that would make me one of them,
The stoners and the potheads all.

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The chinchilla and the pet rock?
I am quite the sour puss,
As I pause to take my stock.
But I still have my sardonic wit
That I bring out on demand.
So jump ye reader to your feet,
And give me quite the hand.

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The pink flamingos on the lawn?
The Geico gecko and the pig that goes wee?
You don’t even have to ask
Just take a look behind the mask,
In the corner by the calamity,
Snorting loudly, chuckling merrily,
It shouldn't be that hard to see,
The fun stuff’s still inside of me.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED