ADRIAN S. POTTER
Educated at the University of Iowa and the University of Minnesota, I currently
reside in Minneapolis. I work as a consultant and play by writing poetry. I will
have poems included in the upcoming editions of Talking Stick, Word Is Bond,
Offerings, and Poetry Motel. In addition, I was awarded first place in the
2003 Langston Hughes Poetry Contest.
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TAKING CHANCES
"I normally don't take chances, but
I have a good feeling about you."
Opening line to a deliberate lecture authored
by a man with sideburns and fashion sense.
Protocol is simple: charm his way around
this unglamorous room of smoke and perfume,
maneuver past the ladies trying to finagle
their way into free drinks.
Find the female with her hair in a sexy mess,
lonely eyes the color of potting soil.
Ignore her breath that reeks of lust and
apple martinis. Resurrect the inner whore
from this prissy, college-town princess.
In an hour, her blouse will be unbuttoned,
while they perform entries from their
sacred list of forbidden acts.
Midnight lessons, bodies entangled underneath
cheap movie posters that paint the interior walls
of an apartment with a fresh coat of silence.
Rod to lips, mouth to crevice, thrusts to repetition,
playful biting, twelve minutes of action until both
pass out in an alcoholic coma.
If he is lucky, nine months and twenty other conquests
will pass by without a nocturnal phone call pleading
for child support or an uncomfortable trip to the clinic.
Unlucky would be defined by
contracting some tainted infection,
causing him to mentally reenact those annoying
medical commercials on television,
with tallied lists of potential side effects
and couples prancing together on beaches.
Paid actors could smile onscreen,
but he would know that the sting
wrapped inside of his boxer shorts would never
result in grins or a sudden urge to play tennis.
Risk versus reward.
If you think about it,
that is what taking chances
is really all about.
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REVERSING SPELLS
The day stereotypes died, due to a severe heart condition,
women received a one-time, lump sum check as compensation
for decades of unbalanced pay scales and glass ceilings. The payoff
spawned massive offerings during Sunday service, especially at the
Catholic churches where qualified clergywomen were inaugurated.
Later, a teenager who had previously called me nigger
rang my doorbell to apologize. We even went out to dinner,
his treat. Said he appreciated our differences, now that his school
taught African-American history for more than one month out of the year.
Some were troubled by the demise of stereotypes, but my world
became fresh. A yellow cab actually stopped for my black ass.
I knew the turban-wearing driver was not a terrorist or a card-carrying
OPEC member. We did bicker, when he tried to overcharge me.
But I never once accused him of rigging crude oil prices,
nor did he blame me for western colonization of the third world.
That evening, I unearthed a crass memory of Dad
referring to AIDS as gay cancer and chucked it into the recycle bin.
Stereotypes had finally died.
Despite our differences, I went to the memorial service.
At the reception, I noticed acquaintances that I had avoided for years,
like jealousy and immaturity. I gave proper respect to the recently departed.
I was raised to never rejoice in a death,
but we have all breathed easier since stereotypes passed away.
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TWENTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY
The calendar complains that I have
squandered another year, idle seconds
spent performing the same acts,
wondering why the outcome never changes.
Distanced myself from maturity;
it came to visit after midnight,
rattling the front doorknob like an intoxicated tenant
who has forgotten his address. It eventually
realized that it had the wrong apartment,
or maybe just bad timing.
Bourbon for breakfast, usually too busy for lunch,
and a serving of missed chances for dinner.
Not exactly the diet of champions, so testosterone
drives my corporate afternoons, filled with sensitivity
training, stiff coworkers, and cardboard personalities.
Dumped the jealous ex-lover, another set of synthetic breasts
with an attitude problem and no motivation. Unfortunately,
I will inevitably attract a clone princess with a slightly different name;
therefore I will once again cope with flirtatious freeloading,
gratuitous criticism, and somebody else's unhealthy
habit - pot, Prozac, promiscuity,
or all of the above.
I am not much compared to the man that I could be,
but I fail to fully understand this. So I start my twenty-eighth year,
seeking shelter from my mistakes, but making them in order to survive.
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A PRODIGAL HUSBAND
Like a drifter meandering between towns, seeking purpose
while completely forgetting the reason for his search;
soon figments of his internal dignity dwindle, leaving only
a few liquid ounces, stored clumsily in an unsealed container -
So wanders a prodigal husband, muttering lies and
wearing wrinkled clothes doused with the stench of betrayal,
hoping the shell of a prior vow that he has rebuked
can conceal his shame once he returns home.
He emerges from a disgraceful, nomadic journey,
separating a resultant understanding from an opiate haze;
it is tough to uphold a pledge designed for a lifetime
when you are instinctually a whore to the moment.
Conflict ensues as he enters,
spouses battle around a failed commitment,
two people who have swallowed and since vomited
the notion of man and wife as one.
His posture exemplifies anxiety; shoulders hang low, similar to
a winter coat on a wire hanger. Words pick at her emotions
like an interminable scab, but she keeps composed,
since there is no statute of limitation on her spite.
She drops her head, studying the carpet with a slight smirk,
almost snickering at her belief in this personal Judas, realizing
that she is sole owner of the winning ticket in the loser lottery,
and this man with an ink blot for a brain is her grand prize.
His excuses remind her of a world where promiscuity flourishes and
virgins are treated like lepers; an instant flashes, a pistol surfaces from
underneath yesterday's newspaper, and four premeditated bullets
explode in his face like the promises of an unfaithful lover.
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I LOOK AWAY
why must you mimic an environment that you allegedly despise?
you just turned twenty, raising a pair of young offspring
too loose with your juice to have any chance at a ring
waiting for meager benefits that welfare checks bring
and
what makes you think that you are living correctly?
limited coverage of garments with your womanhood showing
the scent of missing panties wafts while breezes are blowing
truth glares off the mirror, but you have no chance of knowing
plus
where do these downbeat vibes come from?
not really a woman, more like a damp, soiled rag
neglecting your poise by letting those plump breasts sag
homecoming queen runner-up, now with no reason to brag
listen
I have friends who knew you, ran through you, and cared nothing about it
rudely joked behind your back, and then tricked you to lay down on it
you were once a prized princess around the neighborhood
now men bluntly gossip about what acts you perform good
look
I do not claim to always travel the proper path
but I recognize the wrong one in its aftermath
any fool or chump can figure out this simple math
two children plus a single mother equals zero hope
a father that didn't bother, but you still have to cope
all of your girlfriends survive without scandal, so what is your excuse?
now I admit I don't understand how your life really feels
nor could I ever stroll a mile in your tattered high heels
so
I look away
while you snap at me for teaching a new way
showing that dire decisions result from private dismay
I look away
as your makeshift family drifts and dies
dragging children along, ignoring your baby's shrill cries
I look away
disregarding your life of compromise
while you slither like a primitive beast towards your demise
I look away.