I stood there with a crunch in my shoe,
I had been running in rainbow-half circles all day.

The workman at my house had a hammer;
quirky, he put plastic around it and kneaded my bread.

EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT!
The Mcdonald barn burns in an accident with some plastic and a bread-maker.

The sterling stamping of silver nails into my counter
enflames my head more then the bread-making workman.

Olsen W. Potter

I love to be the stamp
Of a black epitaph
In black ink
On the first line of “Date Due”

I walk out with 3 or 5 or 2
And rip into them,
Breaking that virgin spine
Into beloved used.
gargling their words
to wash out
the talking-breath
of everyday conversation.

Give them to me, these icons of god’s addiction;
I want to saturate
in the serum of their forgotten fruit.

When the Portuguese found you,
A river in January,
The Samba, the Christ, Carnival
weren’t what they sought;
The wanted the gold of the land,
The slaves hidden within the natives,
The wood that has more life,
Nothing but gain.

When I found you,
A lake of passion,
The language, the food, Cariocas
Captured my soul.

I want to speak the golden language
Of the tongue,
Experience the samba of food on my tastebuds,
And let the carioca’s carnival
Releash the native in me.
I want nothing, but your passion.