"potbelly" poems
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
32.7k
Software job
80k salary
Potbelly
An apartment plot
with 20 years of loan
Yo yo sounds
Yea, you're a hero
Many a parent claim
Your hand in marriage
For their daughters
And for your parents?
You're a model child
Deviate from it?
Yes you are the parasite :D
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Raccoon tapping on the windowpane
Fuzzy beggar, growing tame
Evenings longer, midnights colder
My love and I
Just a little bit older
Quarter moon above the trees
Wind blows softly, rustling leaves
Would you love me if I lost my hair?
No, my dear
And don't you dare
Dog curling up by the potbelly stove
Whiskers peek from the old mouse hole
Grandma's quilt has a brand new patch
No more cookies
Or I'll get fat
Rocking chair got a squeak again
Sniff the air, smells like rain
Horned owl hoots from out the wood
I believe
All life is good
Before I die I want to know
All the winds and why they blow
All the forests, every stream
Why you smile, babe
When you dream
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
The soft edges of femininity,
Round, ******* complements,
Heels, ***** of the feet, sockets,
Soft eyes, soft hearts, soft hands
Tinkering, thanking, crossing, legs.
Girlhood is enclosed in a silver box
With mute pastels and a heavy soundtrack of strings,
Strings which bifurcate, dissect, divulge,
Horrors, bells, instruments and lush melodies.
Girlhood smells of iron, hot animals, heaving,
Converging, pin ****** the sharp alacrity of Knowing.
Eyes are wet, armpits go black , round edges
Protrude into a potbelly, grow and stagnate,
expand and collapse.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
a potbelly
scarecrow
itching
its backside
on a tree
in a wood
where aliens
grieve.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
so naturally I would do anything
when she invited me to her room
bolted the door
sat on the bed with legs crossed, chin on fist
a studious frown
told me to strip
but don’t remove your eyeglasses
those ugly black frames so perfect, so typical
stand against the wall
no, sideways, in profile
yes, like that
Your **** is so big
like two pumpkins squashed together
odd on such a skinny guy
Is your **** always crooked
or just when it’s soft
You should paint it red, that would be cool
No, better paint stripes to emphasize the curve
Your little potbelly gives balance to the ***
but you should work out, develop your chest
Okay, put your clothes on
For this evaluation, no charge
but please, more basketball
less poetry and maybe someday
somebody will love you
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.
in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
The lady's large legs
shuddered, spreading
-becoming broader-
as tears treaded
descending down
corpulent cheeks and chins
(like a rill running from
narrow eyes undulating upward)
She laughed... Oh joy!
this wonderful woman
seated shaking on her small stool
hardly holding in
chortles of cheer
palms on her plump potbelly
erupting with euphoria
as her heavy heart hurt heaving
boiling blood battling
plaque packed into
every artery to
locate luscious lips that laughed loving life.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
The Unbearable Winter’s mist
The winter’s mist,
peculiar,
the sky augurs
blue and sun mellow,
but clouded vision
begets and besets,
my own and owned
melancholy vision is
a consequential
snake like blurry speckled band,
of my own drawing,
covering my eyes,
when I read Márai‘s
wit, write, legal writ,
but with my corrected
add
of the
un
and my own self assigned
grade is a bright red
F
eye of the beholder
Life becomes unbearable
*”when one has come to
terms with who one is,
both in one's own eyes
and in the eyes of the world.
We all of us must come to terms
with what and who we are, and
recognize that this wisdom is not
going to earn us any praise, that
life is not going to pin a medal on
us for recognizing and enduring
our own vanity or egoism or
baldness or our potbelly. No, the
secret is that there's no reward
and we have to endure our characters
and our natures as best we can, because
no amount of experience or insight is
going to rectify our deficiencies, our
self-regard, or our cupidity. We have
to learn that our desires do not find
any real echo in the world. We have
to accept that the people we love
do not love us, or not in the way
we hope. We have to accept betrayal
and disloyalty, and, hardest of all,
that someone is finer
than we are in
character or intelligence.”*
Sándor Márai
Jan 10, 2024
Jan 10, 2024 at 2:36 PM UTC
Dark hair. Two pins, keeping each other company.
Green eyes like transparent emeralds
and skin like porcelain dolls
carried by a loving girl
given by her mother
taken by none, until later.
Through the city I make my stroll
but I've already gone and paid my toll.
Hair like slinkys left outside too long
curling thrown aside, up, and away
eyes like thunderstorms over blue sea
watched by lovers
fled by less than lovers
never closed, until later.
Through the city we make our stroll
but I've already gone and paid our toll.
Have you seen the cafe? the one with the pig
inside, licking peoples feet and running about
like a dog with no training, like a person with
no idea what they should be doing?
I challenge you, O my love to challenge me.
do I bring out a potbelly pig in myself with you?
isn't that what you wanted?
It would be cute, if I could manage it. maybe l8r.
Through the park we take our walk,
never really needing or wanting to talk.
mango tea and meltdown tears
don't do anything to my existing fears.
They just bring me along, again, to feel closer,
to convince you that you're not simply a poser
but a person that's more than you. more than me.
Thus saith the lord, the lord of hosts.
Around the lake you start to talk,
and I listen closely while we take our walk.
Hissing geese and widowed ducks
only show the gratitude of those things
that are happy to recieve your bread of life
and my grin of awe at you, feeding them.
Hair like palm trees in the wind, tall, thick
happy to have you under his care, he supposes,
but even happier to have you in his arms
watched by others
envied by more.
never saying goodbye.
Hair, getting longer. Have you pearl earrings?
two pins saying hello to the top of a desk
and to the rim of a crystal cup
lips like a rose petal, touched by one in my hand.
Lips carried by mine,
given by both,
taken by none other, evermore.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
1)
There are three letters
which form strange company -
that's, let me announce them:
C, P and E
(audience claps; C, P and E bow)
2)
Which word
(this may sound a little twisted)
*begins and ends with the same one letter of the three -
and yet, impossibly, has only one letter?*
That's E - as in an envelope, see?
and it's only got one letter!
...ha,ha...he, he, he...
(audience laughs, E grins)
3)
*And now, of these three -
C, P and E -
which holds most water?*
(audience, please, look puzzled)
Why, C - C has the most water, see?
...he, he, he...
(wave of tolerant laughter sweeps over the audience)
4)
And now for the finale
(audience shows signs of impatience;
C, P and E appear nonchalant):
*What starts with the letter P
and ends with the letter E
and - wait for this -
has thousands of letters?*
da, da, di, da, da, di, dum...hmmm?
well...the....POST OFFICE!
(the audience does not laugh
as most nowadays
don't know what a post office is -
just look at each potbelly;
C, P and E nevertheless take a bow)
-----------------------------------------
(audience heaves sigh of relief
as they leave)
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
messages from the mountain sanctuary
the scariest image i can think up:
rows & rows of rooms without windows.
the scariest thought:
placing your mind in the future.
when you can’t
see the dancing loblollies outside those windows,
taste the skin of your newest lover,
smell the burning cedar in the ancient
potbelly stove that heats the whole house.
let go of everything
to begin to breathe bliss,
turn your body into an empty mug,
you will be full of
the sweet brew of
this moment.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
In front of the Union Station on a cold December day,
were us sitting.
Watching people come and go, fallen leaves turn and twirl, travelers and tourists rushing along
We were having Potbelly sandwich, meatballs and chips
and it was only 40F degree.
You and me, with a homeless man on the fountain stairs
quietly eating
Winter sun was shinning , a warm 40F degree day for me
Winter in Washington, D.C.
Oh it was never too cold for me
Because I had you
Sharing chips with me.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 2:32 AM UTC
It'd be nice to have a *** belly stove
to sit up close to like a treasure trove
in those moments when you'd be alone
depending on no one else who's prone;
and sit there beside it in its afterglow
with nothing to think about or to know
for its warmth would give you strength
in cold days where you'll be at length
to immerse yourself in another world
that would open up before you unfurled
and where you'd be safe from any menace
lurking behind all the darkness or surface
of those places hidden in your child's mind
to wander about in with some friendly kind.
________________
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 10:00 PM UTC
icy winter on the afternoon breeze
gives pause so the sun can lie
and encourage children out of doors
only to kick up vengefully
chapping lips and watering eyes
while simultaneously giving cheeks
a rosy glow –
frosted lawn greets the day
altered dew rests glisteningly
subdued bird song breaks the silence
and my own breathe distorts the image
exhaling clouds
liquid vapors instantly freeze
and fall to the cold ground below –
slapping mitted hands together
and piling up six pieces of fir and elm
I return to the safely of my enclave
arrange the sticks in a 1956 potbelly
and light the match
which will combat
the change in seasons –
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC