Move him into the sun,
into the daily fire
of reality.

They told him that he could
change the world,
make people read more,
help others embrace
this dying natural resource:
our beautiful English tongue.

They gave him Dickens,
Dickinson, Gogol, Tolstoy, and
so many other ink-filled pages
from the past, and said
"Read and never thirst again."

As the final act
of smearing on his educational sunblock,
they let him teach college freshmen.
Let him artificially indoctrinate them
with his ideas too potent
to be contained in
a standard classroom setting.

Ideas, words that burst from his mouth
like rays of light in a dark forest.

He's had it too easy,
let's move him into the sun,
where its so hot
his books will melt into sorrow,
and his ideas,
his words,
will burn through his sunblock
and eat away at his unconventional soul.

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Paisley Price Pincock  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

Purple is her favorite color,
purple with pink spots that
pronounce to the public
the she has pride
in her posterity.

People always perturb her
with their pointless peppering
of penetrating ponderings.

Of course she has the pluck,
poise, permanence, power,
and pertinacity to perplex
them with this plea,

"Please, plug your pit
with Peanuts, and pop off."

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Will you go to Prom?  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I had envisioned a huge truck full of Oreos and Cheez-its,
That you would have to excavate to find a question that I wrote
on fancy smelling paper I found in my mom’s underwear drawer.

But I’m on a budget and couldn’t afford the truck and the driver (DUI, you know…).
Besides I’d eaten two bags of Oreos and all of the Cheez-its before I realized
That my mother likes to keep the things in that drawer private.

So I wrote a poem. It’s romantic, it’s easy, and it doesn’t cost anything,
Oh don’t worry I’ve planned the coolest date for the day, we’re going
To go milk cows at my uncle’s farm…you’re not allergic to mice, right?

I do have to ask one favor, can you pay for pictures? My family thinks that
The camera steals your soul, something to do with Uncle Bob and Aunt Jane
Going crazy after they got their picture taken at the Here’s Ur Sign convention.

We can wear matching over-alls! Momma says that they’re “easy” clothes. Her
And dad wear them all time to bed; she keeps hers with the smelly paper and strawberry
Flavored lip gloss. I invited my cousin Jimmy to come with; he’s taking his sister Bessie!

So, You wanna come? Be ready to kick up your heels, cuz we’re going square dancing!

It’ll be a hoot!


Posted by Olsen Potter in

Waiting with a five year old
in the doctors office
with the bruise hiding his face.
I wish I could cover myself.

I didnt do it...
His mother, a meth user,
hit him in the night
when he had a nightmare,
wet his bed,
called out her name...
she didnt care.

But people dont know that.
They think I'm the dad,
I'm the culprit of this crime,
That I was jealous of his black eyes,
his brown cheeks,
his spanish voice.

I wish I could mask myself as white powder,
and tape her striking her son,
but I can't,
so I sit and wish I was camouflaged.


Posted by Olsen Potter in

There are no scales,
no morning breath
from left-over page
with Knight gravy.

They look like a lizard
but not a lizard.
Like a human
but not quite.
They look like a mix between
a castle moat
and Stone Henge.

They drink ice water,
with a slice of King.

They live in waterfall caves
like Frank Lloyd Wright's
Falling Water, Bear River.
Style, Class, and little elf girls
that feed them sushi wrapped in skin.

Sunday afternoon in the park with Becca.  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I called her today around 3:00
Said “hey baby how about hanging in the park,
Watching those crazy star-wars freaks choke each other
With their invisible hands and slash each other with plastic light sabers?”

She said, “ok.”

So I went to her house
in my white hippie van made for making love.
Singing Sweeney songs, the sweet sound of sharp
Notes filled the spine of Harold Bloom with a literary pain in the ass.

She said “hey,”

When I knocked on the door.
With my black “cool cat” beret on my head
I looked like the owner of my “books on wheels” hippie van,
As well as Mike Myers from “So I married an Axe Murderer”, only better looking.

She kissed me.

I kissed her back
and threw her in Wisp the magic van,
driving down Park Avenue like Batman chasing a lead.
Except I am a safe driver, only leaning to kiss her on the yellow lights.

She just laughed.

We got to the park
And no one was there but us, the freaks
Must have left the premises when they saw the White Streak
Of Love coming from afar; screaming out passion and fire as it squealed it's wheels.

She said, “sweet.”

Not one to mince words,
I kissed her like New Years Day after two Jacks
And a Strawberry Daiquiri with a slice of lemon and a splash
Of sex. It shuts her up for a moment; she talks enough to chew the ear off an elephant.

She said, “wow”.

A true account of a lover’s drinking habits.  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

The radio on the bus is blaring out
The news of a fire somewhere.
The man who sits next to me
Is wearing cattle skin and drinking
coffee from a cup marked "Caution Hot!"
I need something for the pain.

It’s a hang-over, head-smashing pain.
I got it last night at Rebecca’s party, out
near a river, where my girl, hot
With Tequila Sunrises, wished to be somewhere
Else; wished to be drinking
In public without me.

She doesn’t love me.
Adding an emotion-numbing pain
to my introvertive drinking.
only in the unassuming night I go out;
To the movies, to a bar, somewhere
Other than my dump. Anywhere hot.

The sun, that big hot
Eye with searing rays, stocks me.
Every time I kiss her somewhere
lower then her lips I feel pain.
Because I'm always out
of it; always drinking.

I find escape, relief, Home in drinking.
Those Tequila Sunrises, makes her hot
pent-up pleasure fizz out.
So its the bus for me,
Causing my red retinas pain
Because I can’t get off somewhere.

Because I can’t get off somewhere
With my girl. My drinking
leads to skin-boiling pain.
why the sun is so hot?
Is it jealous of me?
Jealous it cant black out?

I want to go somewhere parched and hot,
drinking instead her love for me;
Maybe absorbing her pain will finally dry me out.

Let's Hear It  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

Cut to the heart of the subject,
and tell me,

Why don't you enjoy
smelling the scent
of freshly read words
in the air after reading
a poem?

What's the probelm
with the taste of letters
merging to create the
sound of life in your mouth?

Perhaps your tongue
refuses to have worthy
company join it for dinner?

Where else can you
find the soothing touch
of meter and style
on a night when the raindrops
mix, join, and combine
to form whispers of regets?

You're to busy for Poetry
you say?

Maybe Poetry's to busy
with me
to find you.

Olsen W. Potter

Love is like the 4th of July  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

With fire.
and lights my nights
It celebrates FREEDOM;
4th of July.

Wrong Address  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I get my mail at 11:15.
By 11:30 I was kicked out of the house.

It was the day after Presidents day.
I’d brought her a new select comfort mattress.

In the mail was a coupon.
“Mail in for your free bra!”

It wasn’t addressed to me,
But Gisele was on the front.

I have a weakness for hot Brazilian chicks.
So I took it inside.

My wife saw it, took it,
Ripped it up. Giselle’s face

Was torn just left of her nose,
Right down her beautiful Bra line.

She missed the coupon though,
So I mailed it in.

Figure I’ll give it to her,
With a dozen roses.

Hate Mail  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I wake-up with no one.
I feel like John Donne.

I'm pious so I raise the kid,
I won the "sober" buyout bid.

I've got PB&J and a carton of milk,
She's living it good, lying in silk.

In the drive, there's a 98 Silhouette
Cost: $15,000; I'm still in debt.

Jamie has to get to school,
I'm her pet, her dog, her mule.

I return home and write,
stuff thats nice and polite

When I really just want
to write in Hate-mail type font.