JUBILATION JADED
Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
This crumbling of the research dollar,
The stiffness it is choking and sure,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.
Forgive me if I sorely lack,
The energy for a victory dance,
The pain shoots like devils through my back,
Their pitchforks at the ready, I scarcely have a chance.
It’s treacherous waters into which I have waded,
My hope has dissolved, my jubilation jaded.
Amidst this dance of dreams and hope,
I struggle in my way to cope,
At times I struggle through undaunted.
At times this body’s a house that’s haunted,
The grisly bears encircle it,
Like Pooh bear circles the jar of honey,
I play the sacrificial game,
I pretend the weather’s sunny,
While the telethons and the walkathons
Compete for my dwindling money.
I believe in progress and for a long time thought the best,
Put aside my reservations, locked them away in my hope chest.
I’ve lost my faith in doctors who stand around and hem and haw,
I dedicate my brain to science when the undertaker calls.
Forget the victory parade,
Complete with fife and drum,
I’m not sure I will be here to watch it when it comes.
An inefficient spectator of life in all its glory,
I was 38 when diagnosed,
Have heard the cure in ten years story.
And now I’m fifty years of age
And have turned the half a century page.
Hope has receded, like my hairline it’s faded,
Joy is hard to come by and jubilation’s jaded.
Not ready to rocket ship into my grave,
Not ready to be helped to my wheelchair,
But I’m not a fool or a courtly knave,
Unschooled and unaware.
Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
The scientific logic sound,
The motivation good and pure.
I admit I’ve come a bit unwound.
I must admit I’m a bit bemused,
Much more than just a little confused.
The brain is not an easy thing, to isolate and analyze,
Stem cells, they may be the answer,
To clear these murky skies.
Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
I put my faith in whatever comes,
I’m a poet and not a scientist,
When all is said and done.
So I’ll open up my wallet
And throw down my last few dollars,
While disease, it seizes my throat like a vise,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Saturday, June 30, 2012
CHASM
CHASM
There’s a deep hollow chasm between our lives,
Reminiscent of stillborn friendship ties,
The scent of deception, the hint of your lies.
A gaping wound that will never mend,
A person on whom I once could depend,
Let me introduce the elephant in the room.
Her name’s Anita Bryant and she’s risen from the tomb.
You can say what you will, write what you want,
Do as you damn well please.
You can hide behind your scriptures
Your foot in the mouth disease.
You can hide out in your comfy home,
Pretend you are mystified by this poem.
But distance lingers,
Like grains of sand slipping through fingers,
A promise ring slipping down the drain,
And my tears are misting with the rain.
I used to think your friendship mattered,
But to the ground it has splintered and splattered.
Hypocrisy blows like a twister,
Your mock concern is bittersweet,
For I can only hear your words that blister,
Your turning and your fleeing feet.
I know not even where you are,
I don’t know if I care a smidge.
You’re lost in the hills of self-righteousness,
Like a troll in hiding under the bridge.
It will not be me to make the call,
Your absence matters not at all.
I balance vicariously on the railings.
You may as well go finger point,
Elucidate my human failings.
This train is running on labored breaths,
Panting through the mountain pass,
Friendship hideous and hoarse,
Dying its lost and little deaths,
Trampled like an overgrown golf course.
I’m way off par and I miss the tee,
So much for our felicity.
There’s a twinge that’s left of our former glory.
It echoes in my dreams.
It haunts my broken sleep at night.
And it rips at lonesome seams.
But that, alas, is all it is, a quiver and a twinge,
I long to feel Vesuvius, but I lie awake and cringe.
Cringe for the past and its gallant stories,
Weep for the loss of our former glories.
Tear out what’s left of my thinning hair,
While you and your memory vanish into air.
There’s a deep hollow chasm in our lives,
The stench of stillborn friendship ties,
The shallow grave of your deception and lies.
Gone are the hopes, the faith and the trust,
We are watercolors swirling in the deep August dust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
There’s a deep hollow chasm between our lives,
Reminiscent of stillborn friendship ties,
The scent of deception, the hint of your lies.
A gaping wound that will never mend,
A person on whom I once could depend,
Let me introduce the elephant in the room.
Her name’s Anita Bryant and she’s risen from the tomb.
You can say what you will, write what you want,
Do as you damn well please.
You can hide behind your scriptures
Your foot in the mouth disease.
You can hide out in your comfy home,
Pretend you are mystified by this poem.
But distance lingers,
Like grains of sand slipping through fingers,
A promise ring slipping down the drain,
And my tears are misting with the rain.
I used to think your friendship mattered,
But to the ground it has splintered and splattered.
Hypocrisy blows like a twister,
Your mock concern is bittersweet,
For I can only hear your words that blister,
Your turning and your fleeing feet.
I know not even where you are,
I don’t know if I care a smidge.
You’re lost in the hills of self-righteousness,
Like a troll in hiding under the bridge.
It will not be me to make the call,
Your absence matters not at all.
I balance vicariously on the railings.
You may as well go finger point,
Elucidate my human failings.
This train is running on labored breaths,
Panting through the mountain pass,
Friendship hideous and hoarse,
Dying its lost and little deaths,
Trampled like an overgrown golf course.
I’m way off par and I miss the tee,
So much for our felicity.
There’s a twinge that’s left of our former glory.
It echoes in my dreams.
It haunts my broken sleep at night.
And it rips at lonesome seams.
But that, alas, is all it is, a quiver and a twinge,
I long to feel Vesuvius, but I lie awake and cringe.
Cringe for the past and its gallant stories,
Weep for the loss of our former glories.
Tear out what’s left of my thinning hair,
While you and your memory vanish into air.
There’s a deep hollow chasm in our lives,
The stench of stillborn friendship ties,
The shallow grave of your deception and lies.
Gone are the hopes, the faith and the trust,
We are watercolors swirling in the deep August dust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, June 16, 2012
SALT OVER SHOULDER
SALT OVER SHOULDER
Many a year, alas and alack,
I avoided stepping on sidewalk cracks
Lest I’d trip and go on the attack,
Recklessly breaking my mother’s back.
Only once I tripped and failed,
Landed in the belly of Jonas’s whale,
And now I have this strange psychosis,
That I caused Mom’s osteoporosis.
If I were smart I’d cradle a frog in my arms,
They say that frogs cure a myriad of harms.
Perhaps though gay, I’ll go straight on the seas,
For they say naked ladies the storms do appease.
And I never sweep my doorway with a broom after dark,
This is tempting fate at best,
For witches use brooms to travel at night,
And sweeping past midnight brings unwelcome guests.
I save my fingernails in an airtight jar
After I clip and prune,
Witches use fingernails in their nasty brew,
Mixed in the light of the moon.
I salute and flatter Mr. Magpie,
Complimenting him on his lovely wife.
If he knew he was still single,
He’d be miserable for life.
And so I do a public service
And tell an eentsy-teentsy lie,
For magpies they are thieving birds,
Not to be trusted alone in the sky.
I’ve never lit three cigarettes with a single match,
I don’t want my third friend cruelly dispatched,
A soldier felled by the hand of fate,
Old wives’ tales hold a lot of weight.
And I always say bless you when someone sneezes,
I don’t want their spirit slipping away,
Felled by a head cold of sniffles and wheezes,
I want my friends safe for another day.
I take pains never to walk under a ladder
Afraid of some dreadfully serious matter,
Like a nasty bout with the demon gout
Or a strange disorder of the bladder.
And yet I am struck with a strange disease,
I tremble, I shuffle, and I freeze.
And sure as I know my middle name,
I swear that Judas I’s to blame.
The reason for my stiff and useless limbs,
Can ultimately be blamed on him.
It is said that Judas spilt salt at the famed last meal,
A Last Supper shared with Jesus
As the Easter bells did peal.
And that one should always throw salt over shoulder,
I’ve ignored this adage alas and alack
From birth until much older.
I know it sounds preposterous,
Even a bit medieval,
But the salt was meant to appease the devil,
And to somehow ward off evil.
Somehow I’d forgotten that wise little pearl.
And how it has wreaked havoc in my sad little world
Somehow I’ve forgotten that plain and simple truth,
And I’ve been struck down like an old man
In the flower of my youth.
Now I guess it serves me right,
All I can say is alas and alack,
The devil’s Mr. Parkinson,
And he’s always on my back.
And so my disease is a mess of my making,
My misery my own damn fault,
A useless remnant of my former self,
Like the wife of Lot, a pillar of salt.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Many a year, alas and alack,
I avoided stepping on sidewalk cracks
Lest I’d trip and go on the attack,
Recklessly breaking my mother’s back.
Only once I tripped and failed,
Landed in the belly of Jonas’s whale,
And now I have this strange psychosis,
That I caused Mom’s osteoporosis.
If I were smart I’d cradle a frog in my arms,
They say that frogs cure a myriad of harms.
Perhaps though gay, I’ll go straight on the seas,
For they say naked ladies the storms do appease.
And I never sweep my doorway with a broom after dark,
This is tempting fate at best,
For witches use brooms to travel at night,
And sweeping past midnight brings unwelcome guests.
I save my fingernails in an airtight jar
After I clip and prune,
Witches use fingernails in their nasty brew,
Mixed in the light of the moon.
I salute and flatter Mr. Magpie,
Complimenting him on his lovely wife.
If he knew he was still single,
He’d be miserable for life.
And so I do a public service
And tell an eentsy-teentsy lie,
For magpies they are thieving birds,
Not to be trusted alone in the sky.
I’ve never lit three cigarettes with a single match,
I don’t want my third friend cruelly dispatched,
A soldier felled by the hand of fate,
Old wives’ tales hold a lot of weight.
And I always say bless you when someone sneezes,
I don’t want their spirit slipping away,
Felled by a head cold of sniffles and wheezes,
I want my friends safe for another day.
I take pains never to walk under a ladder
Afraid of some dreadfully serious matter,
Like a nasty bout with the demon gout
Or a strange disorder of the bladder.
And yet I am struck with a strange disease,
I tremble, I shuffle, and I freeze.
And sure as I know my middle name,
I swear that Judas I’s to blame.
The reason for my stiff and useless limbs,
Can ultimately be blamed on him.
It is said that Judas spilt salt at the famed last meal,
A Last Supper shared with Jesus
As the Easter bells did peal.
And that one should always throw salt over shoulder,
I’ve ignored this adage alas and alack
From birth until much older.
I know it sounds preposterous,
Even a bit medieval,
But the salt was meant to appease the devil,
And to somehow ward off evil.
Somehow I’d forgotten that wise little pearl.
And how it has wreaked havoc in my sad little world
Somehow I’ve forgotten that plain and simple truth,
And I’ve been struck down like an old man
In the flower of my youth.
Now I guess it serves me right,
All I can say is alas and alack,
The devil’s Mr. Parkinson,
And he’s always on my back.
And so my disease is a mess of my making,
My misery my own damn fault,
A useless remnant of my former self,
Like the wife of Lot, a pillar of salt.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, June 9, 2012
STREETS WHERE I DREAM
STREETS WHERE I DREAM
Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The tunnels and the labyrinths through which I scheme,
The dusty, dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit,
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.
Care a whit for the sound of my tires swirling in the muck,
The ground up debris of what used to be me,
Before I gave up on my living and luck.
Cursed they be, the streets where I dream,
Or the streets where I hide in my nightmare.
Where I wake from my dreaming drenched and screaming,
And find alas there is nobody there.
Except the eyes of my lover fair who sees me through it all.
He cannot pacify me, I must go alone,
Tumbling like some reckless stone,
Down the mighty rabbit hole that I nightly fall.
Hushed and hidden away are my deepest fears,
The snake that coils around the neck,
The doctors commenting on the health of my heart,
They listen but can’t find a beat,
At the finish line before I start,
I taste the bitter and long for the remembered sweet.
Cracked and crumbling are the streets where I dream,
A bitter end where REM is laced with fear and danger.
Where at every turn, there’s a hell that burns
And an unforgiving stranger.
The streets where I slave and misbehave,
Destroying all vestige of hope and sleep,
A strange medieval museum slave,
I wake in a web where the mesh is deep.
Tangled like a vampire’s prey, I lie here and I waste away,
A man once so imposing and now so small and slight,
So willing to throw down the rubber gloves,
Surrendering without a fight.
The streets where I dream are grim and paved with hot coals,
The coals of recrimination, the coals of fear and blame,
The streets where I dream are a color scheme
Of viscous dark crimson where my spirit lies slain.
Where the lost coins are tossed in a messy blur,
Into the holy trinity of all that they once were.
Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The dusty dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit.
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The tunnels and the labyrinths through which I scheme,
The dusty, dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit,
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.
Care a whit for the sound of my tires swirling in the muck,
The ground up debris of what used to be me,
Before I gave up on my living and luck.
Cursed they be, the streets where I dream,
Or the streets where I hide in my nightmare.
Where I wake from my dreaming drenched and screaming,
And find alas there is nobody there.
Except the eyes of my lover fair who sees me through it all.
He cannot pacify me, I must go alone,
Tumbling like some reckless stone,
Down the mighty rabbit hole that I nightly fall.
Hushed and hidden away are my deepest fears,
The snake that coils around the neck,
The doctors commenting on the health of my heart,
They listen but can’t find a beat,
At the finish line before I start,
I taste the bitter and long for the remembered sweet.
Cracked and crumbling are the streets where I dream,
A bitter end where REM is laced with fear and danger.
Where at every turn, there’s a hell that burns
And an unforgiving stranger.
The streets where I slave and misbehave,
Destroying all vestige of hope and sleep,
A strange medieval museum slave,
I wake in a web where the mesh is deep.
Tangled like a vampire’s prey, I lie here and I waste away,
A man once so imposing and now so small and slight,
So willing to throw down the rubber gloves,
Surrendering without a fight.
The streets where I dream are grim and paved with hot coals,
The coals of recrimination, the coals of fear and blame,
The streets where I dream are a color scheme
Of viscous dark crimson where my spirit lies slain.
Where the lost coins are tossed in a messy blur,
Into the holy trinity of all that they once were.
Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The dusty dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit.
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, May 26, 2012
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
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
Saturday, May 19, 2012
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
(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
Saturday, May 12, 2012
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
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
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