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"Night has dropped its black cloak onto the city
and there's no decent restaurant open anywhere . . ."
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                    Meditation on Meditation

                                   by Adrian S. Potter

                                   Night has dropped its black cloak onto the city

                                   and there’s no decent restaurant open anywhere

                                   so I’m sitting alone in a small, decrepit diner

                                   with a couple arguing in the back booth

                                   and my eggs greasy, bacon undercooked,

                                   trying to write a poem about my late father,

                                   shamelessly redrawing him in my mind as a different person

                                   but being careful, because we must speak gently of the dead

                                   knowing that they listen for their names to be mentioned.

                                   It all makes me wonder how God, in his omnipotent glory,

                                   can bear to remember everything at once:

                                   the unsung desire of the check-out clerk,

                                   the relentless twang of traffic on the turnpike,

                                   the nightly news and its numbing parade of human suffering,

                                   the requests by the dirtiest of souls in need of cleansing.

                                   Soon I stop trying to list my dad’s faults in verse,

                                   realizing there are things we’re simply meant to forget,

                                   moments that are supposed to rinse off

                                   like the guilt of a one-night stand.

                                   This is how reality falls apart,

                                   disintegrates to dust, and starts up again

                                   within the course of an ordinary hour,

                                   while people like me keep searching

                                   for a blessed peace that seems final, but isn’t.

                                                                          _______

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Meet Adrian S. Potter


I begin most creative sessions without a notion of what I’m crafting.  Since I write both verse and prose, the line separating them often becomes obscure.  “Meditation on Meditation” started as a flash fiction piece.  Since there was no true plot, I gradually converted it into a prose poem, and then a free verse poem.  This process wasn’t derived from any textbook guidance, but it’s a tactic that has served me well.  Decent poems can grow from a descriptive paragraph that’s trapped inside a failed short story; similarly strong fiction can sometimes be birthed by a vivid line in a scrapped sonnet.  I am a believer of writing as a vehicle for catharsis, confession, and change.  In other words, you won’t find any odes to butterflies or cheesy fairytales authored by me.  My inspirations are varied; I can’t pinpoint what defines my manically changing style.  I’m definitely stirred by classic African-American writers such as Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and Zora Neale Hurston.  I’ve also been influenced by emerging small press poets and short fiction authors.  I have much to learn about writing, so I read all I can in order to notice what works (and what doesn’t).   


I’m also highly impacted by music, whether it’s hip hop, jazz, R & B, blues, or occasionally even rock.  I often listen to music while brainstorming and editing, which is in conflict with the traditional approach of working in silence.  Usually I can read one of my poems or stories and recall that its “rhythm” was fostered by the furious refrain of a Tupac song, a melancholy Miles Davis solo, or a bland guitar riff from the latest overplayed band on the radio. 

 

Oh yeah, I almost forgot my shameless plugs.  My first fiction chapbook, Survival Notes, is forthcoming through Červená Barva Press.  I will have poetry in future editions of The Arabesques Review, Cherry Bleeds, the I-70 Review, and Prairie Poetry.

Additional propaganda can be found at http://adrianspotter.squarespace.com/.   

Be good and keep writing – a brilliant idea is just a wasted thought until you do something with it.

If Love is a Big City, Lately I've Considered Relocating
by Adrian S. Potter

When she whispers lust into another man's ear at the bar, my mind
becomes a commuter train: screeching stops, graffiti-tagged doors 

and, inside, a flickering fluorescence.  Meanwhile, in the alleys
behind my sleep-deprived eyes, thoughts scatter like transients

at the sound of a police siren.  I would've loved to take her
on a road trip where headwinds bully cars on rural highways

and we could imagine hope residing in the static between AM stations. 
Now there's an entire nation full of motels where we'll never sleep -

together, at least.  Not to mention nightclubs where we'll never dance
until closing time and diners where we'll never stumble in searching

for something to quell our booze-induced hunger.  So be it.  This city
is filled with constellations of starry-eyed fools orbiting people they claim

are their world, only to find themselves pulled into parallel universes
where they do things they'd never consider doing, normally.  I recognize

the symptoms, pack up everything and think about hightailing it
out of town.  Ignore my cell phone's cranky ring, force her to leave

a litany of excuses in the space between the voice mail's beep
and her tentative goodbye.  Goodbye, love.  I'm moving on.

                                                       _______

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Adrian S. Potter, Revisited

A baccalaureate in engineering and graduate schooling in business keep me grounded in what can be documented, studied, and compared - above all, dissatisfied with superficial explanations.  I believe this motivates much of my writing. 

This past spring I spent more time reading and critiquing poetry instead of writing. Why? Because I had the honor of judging a contest for the first time, the 2009 Shine Journal Poetry Contest.  The entries were impressive and choosing a winner was challenging work. I learned so much serving as a judge and getting a chance to be on the "other side" of the whole literary contest rigmarole. I enjoyed the experience and believe it's helped my development as a poet.

I'm incessantly messing with my style, and "If Love is a Big City, Lately I've Considered Relocating" is a derivative of this tinkering.  Lately I've meandered from the conventional narrative of my previous work, drifting toward something less linear, more disjointed.  I take some from the imagists, a bit from the confessionalists, stir in personal angst and allow the words to rub together until they produce friction, or maybe fire.  Add liquor, music, and squeeze in a hint of cynicism.  Voila.

My short fiction chapbook, Survival Notes, is available through Červená Barva Press.  I will have poems appearing in upcoming issues of Front Range, 95Notes, and Exact Change Only.  Additional propaganda about my writing can be found at http://adrianspotter.squarespace.com/, along with other random posts that chronicle my lame existence.