by Adrian S. Potter

Old guy slugs bus driver, details at eleven.1

In other news, it should be obvious why I’ll never call her back.2 I

pretend that night in the pool hall never happened, when I was

sucker punched for the first time.3 Now and then I squirm inside

my body, uncomfortable with my thoughts.4 I no longer believe in

loitering on the sidelines while the world buzzes about. After all,

what good has ever happened to an innocent bystander?5

Never been a big fan of clowns, class or circus.6 Another four aspirin

hangover with a black eye.7 Neighborhood watch keeps on

watching. Me.8

Sometimes I feel as if I must injure either myself or someone else.9

Like the guy in the office who tells racial jokes in my presence, and

then with a smile swears that they don’t apply to me, of course.10

Of course.11 Neighborhood watch keeps on watching, yet blind to

what’s going on inside their homes.12 So I say what’s on my mind;

never mind what I have to say.13 It’s better that way, really.

1 Elderly man with a nine-inch cigar boards bus, and then calls the driver a fascist because

smoking is prohibited. A brawl ensues.

2 When I ask what her most vivid childhood memory is, she mentions how her mother

never showed emotion unless it was during a beating. Her spirit, broken like the spine of

a book. Fumble through, clumsy conversation for a second date. Has silence finished

being awkward yet? No.

3 Despite scripture or common sense, there will be no more turning the other cheek. Always

swing first, lest you end up on the floor with a swollen lip and the iron taste of blood

taunting your tongue.

4 We fight so hard to hide our fears that we frighten ourselves. Mental emancipation

needed. Soon.

5 See also Appendix D.

6 A carnival of misfortune. A disappointment. A drunken clown at a child’s birthday

party knocked out by an irate father.

7 An eye, for an eye swollen under the purple weight of a bruise. Subtract minor losses

from scar issue. Sometimes acceptance can be another name for defeat.

8 No longer believe all people are evil, yet don’t open your front door for just anybody.

In fact, double check the locks each night, to keep out legitimate dangers and those folks

who forgot how to be human, or humane.

9 Hatred drills wells deep in my chest, knots its fingers tightly around my throat, gives me

brass-knuckled affection and rocks my body’s brittle constitution to sleep.

10 Whenever I hear the words slavery or nigger, I taste rites of (middle) passage in my

skin. Chains linked like arms; a bullwhip’s unfurling mirrors the unraveling of my pedigree.

11 Ibid.

12 Latchkey kids open a parent’s padlocked liquor cabinet with the combination to a delinquent

kingdom they claim is rightfully theirs.

13 In theory, snide words commit arson; your ears smolder from my remarks. I’ll hold

your head underwater until the flames are doused or you drown. Whatever happens second.

ADRIAN S. POTTER writes both poetry and short stories, and recently won first prize in the Fifth Annual Skysaje Enterprises Poetry Contest. He is the author of the fiction chapbook Survival Notes (Červená Barva Press, 2008). Some publication credits include Inscape, I-70 Review, Foliate Oak and Whitefish Review. Additional propaganda can be found at http://adrianspotter.squarespace.com/