It's the flowing of ink 
the endless motion of paper turning 
that moment 
when I post my poetry 
that under my name appears 
"Fear of the Shadow" by Olsen W. Potter 
at Amazon.com followed by a red link 

I daydream of publishing my writing 
and people actually reading it

I opened a photo of us 
the one where we're kissing 
under the oak branch 
pre-marriage 
in Photoshop 
just to see if I could make it better 
lighten the shadows 
fix the levels 
apply a soft blur to our edges 

but I guess 8 years 
on an archived CD 
had made that blissfully near-perfect image 
melt

I wish I could photoshop 
your face to be more friendly to me. 
My RAM can't handle the sorrow in your eyes. 
I'd love you if it weren't for that.

It was a just little shop 
on the corner of 10th and Washington. 
I had 10 minutes to kill so I walked in 
and immediately knew I had found my Kryptonite. 
Huckleberry Cheesecake, Caramel Cashew Crunch, 
Fire and Ice, Chocolate Heaven, Pumpkin Spice, 
were in plastic bags all lined up like the firing squad 
aiming their kernels at my heart. 

I have to go everyday now; 
I mean, even the kettle corn is 
faith promoting.

I thought, 
before I get married I should plan my honeymoon, 
so I took down a map and charted a course 
for Coeur D'Alene. 

It seemed to be a 9 hour trip, 
doable, 
but it would be so fun to stop in 
Bliss for a day, 
just enjoying each others company. 
Maybe have lunch in Cable Car Crossing; 
dinner at some diner in Darlington. 

Of course we had to stop in Fernan Lake Village, 
it would be in June and the lake would be green. 
And Horseshoe Bend was a must see. 

By the time the road brought me to Post Falls, 
where I planned on reserving our hotel, 
we would have passed through 
Ireland Springs, Judge Town, Knowlton Heights, 
Quartzburg, Underkoflers Corner, Yellow Dog, 
and Zaza 
taking 3 months, 2 days, and 7 hours... 
before we even got where we were going. 

I gave up; we went to Vegas instead.

There exists, in my mind, a couple. They fascinate me more than the books I read. And every once in while I write a poem about them. Life would be richer perhaps if I wrote their story in novel form, and who knows, maybe one day I will, but for right now I write their story in poetry. I post their story so far for you to read and enjoy.

Baskets

Emma was standing outside
Barnes and Nobles
Holding a basket of books.

Wayne winked.
She smiled.

They’ve been
Reading each other ever since.


Wedding Night

In black and red passion
They strip each other
Of their innocence.
Like two ancient gods hammering out
The last of their thunder before
Reason and Logic overpower them.

Wayne lies in the double bed,
Naked, spent, imperfect, the power
of Gods flowing through him,
as he watches Emma,
Dark haired Emma,
wash the make-up from her face.

The water is stained the color of regret.


Lua de Mel

It was a 9 hour drive,
Made longer by Wayne’s reading of
Tartuffe for his English degree.
The only honey Emma found on the trip
Was the moment, in a Barnes and Noble
(they were browsing the relationship section
For a book on Oral sex), when Wayne,
Looking at an illustrated Karma Sutra,
Shut up about books,
Looked Emma in the eye,
And said, “hum.”

She loves it when he’s speechless.


Reasons

Emma’s mind, like the faint light
Floating in on Wayne’s pillow,
Hovers, then retreats
To life before marriage.

He kicks in his sleep.

Last night, she told him
he doesn’t share everything
with her.

The music of their marriage
Is made from bubbling cheese
And noisy kisses;

Not from lights that turn red for a moment
or Emma’s embraces.

She takes Wayne with her everywhere,
Sharing with him her fears,
her dreams,
The stress of her every day.

He couldn’t understand that
When she left.

The First Year

Emma went back,
of course.
Her mother told her,
"You picked him",
made her feel guilty,
made her feel unloved.

Wayne had done the dishes.

She found him sitting
in her chair,
next to the bookcase,
reading King Lear
with the cliffs notes.

She laughed and said,
"let me explain".

And she did.

We only have one store in town,
the big bad wolf come to destroy everything we hold dear,
or at least drive all other businesses from the bank of our river.

So when my wife asked for some prescription pain-killer
(and also some latex-free "friends")
I forced to face the fiend.

They were painting the L
when I walked into the gaping maw
they call a sliding door entrance.

A friendly old person, brain-washed
to say only 'Hello, would you like a cart?'
asked me if I would like a cart.

I told her no, thank you,
turned, ran out the door,
and slipped on a puddle of freshly spilled white paint.

The Manager of the monster
brought me a 4 dollar knock-off for the pain,
which I took it home to my wife and said, "Sweetie, next time aspirin and latex will have to do".

I've been told I look like the Miller,
short, round, somewhat balding.
I take it as a compliment, because I
am, short round, somewhat balding.

So I read his tale. Seemed simple enough.
A girl, a guy, the girl's old husband,
the priest down the lane that likes to kiss
peoples "ers".

I like it enough to read it to my wife,
who, like every other time I read something to her,
gave a whimper. No laughter, no smile.
A whimper of disgust? A whimper that really said,
'Honey, I love you but stop reading to me'?

or was it a whimper of pain?

If only life were as simple as
the Miller's tale.

Her costume caught my eye
as it swayed with the beat,
beat,
beat.

Her feet flowed with the song
like hair in the wind;
her black hair that smelled of mangoes;
the wind that smelled of rice.

Her name was Sandrinha,
little Sandra,
smiling Sandra.

Her reaction to my watching
was a slip of the foot,
causing the team to miss a beat
and lose.

Her only regret after 3 years of love,
crazy-passionate-exotic-Brazilian Love,
was that her Samba team had lost.

I'm an unpublished poet,
still in school.
I teach computers at
the community college.

Somehow
I managed to pay
for twelve dozen red roses.

The color of her blood-clot.

I choked on those petals
when the clot broke free.

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!

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.

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.

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”.

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.

Cut to the heart of the subject,
poetry-hater,
and tell me,
why?

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

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.