My couch still whispers
the trailing ends of a few
of your sentences and I
can hear them from my
bed in the next room.
I've tried to block them
out but hands and pillows
and quilts can only do
so much and eventually
the words seep into my
dreams and make me
believe that this will all
work itself out in time.
I need new furniture.

One day this building will become old and shabby
with peeling wallpaper, ratty carpeting, and cracking plaster.
One day the only option besides the wrecking ball will be
to sit and wait to die.
To crumble and decay,
to rust and fall to pieces.
Termites will find homes in the banisters,
moths will eat at the books left behin
by the pillaging teenagers that steal the furniture.
Chesterfields and repaired ottomans
will show up in the neighbourhood,
refurbished and reupholstered, saved for mother’s day.
No one was going to use them otherwise.
Better they don’t go to waste.
The old piano with the cracked keys
will slouch alone in the empty sitting room,
savouring what little memories weren’t scraped from this carcass
like the last of the peanut butter from it’s jar.
One day this building will disappear,
making a grave of it’s foundations.

You've got a flat screen mounted
on your kitchen wall with zip
ties and chewing gum.
There's an ashtray by your left
wrist, and a tattoo on your right
of a midnight street light sunshine
shine
down
on a reupholstered love seat,
only used twice: once for the Eisenhowers,
once for last weekend watching Seinfeld
reruns, putting out Sonomas and *** talk
on the twill-like cushions in that dank
basement apartment w/ poster'd brick
walls.
Slayer, Sinatra, Sabbath, Springsteen,
a Space Cowboy, and something Sanskrit
above your box-springless mattress
about the cosmos spitting hellfire
next month because we didn't sacrifice
crumpled dollars yesterday, or Clinton
in the '90s. There are masses of humans paying
for the market collapse that sent 800,000
oranges rolling into the street, cold.
God-fearing couples are abstaining from ***
to save their souls from the ******
Rapture. Cable cords are being unplugged
in the middle of A Christmas Story so people
can hang themselves from church steeples
to avoid ruining their Chuck Taylor Loafer
Tennis Shoes in the molten **** suffocating
saplings and parking meters. Christ'll save
the righteous ones, the ones strung up closest
to the bell tower.

The parish hall radio says salvation's
only as good as a new haircut.
And that we should all pick up the warped
acoustic guitar in the cellar, and try
to form barre chords with our swollen
knuckles and arthritic wrists now
because punk music will be dead tomorrow.
Hell, the postman will be dead tomorrow,
and every little postcard, paycheck, and print
coupon he's carrying will be dead, too.

There is an ashtray by your left wrist,
and a tattoo on your right.

Conspiracies and your rants
From underneath the table

She’s disappointed
Abandoned can she be saved?
Thirty and still home

A dim future haunts the youth
Be alive or practical

Talents are wasted
Reality forgets us
And we avoid it

Spitefully you stole our things
To try to remember us

Little creatures crawl
The family heirloom broke
Dreary white lilacs

The denim pants don’t fit
Stop, the step is giving out

Horses side by side
You had reupholstered the chairs
Ticking metronome

I've got this idea
Not much more than a feeling, really

There's a kid, sunken into a dark green couch
It's old.
It's been reupholstered more times than anyone cares to remember
But its comfortable, so no one cares
He's hardly moving
Its hard to see what hes thinking, his expression a blank slate
His face is glowing with the rays of the sun, soaking in through a picture window
It paints the wood paneled den with hues of burning orange

The heat kicks in, and warm air creeps out from beneath the floor and swirls above the **** carpet, faded and worn

He  just sits there, staring out the window

Outside, the grass has lost its color and now lays like a blanket over the frozen ground
All along the bases of leafless oak trees and amid their skeletal branches, squirrels roam freely, filling the cooling air with soft chatter

Birds as well, perched amid the darkened branches
Standing, watching the world turn

The shadows create a perfect contrast, growing as the sun sets
Dark fingers that reach out to pull the world into the quiet arms of encroaching night

The wildlife seems unconcerned as they wander aimlessly, sating any curiosity that arises without a care

He wants to join them
He wants to be just as free
But the room is warm
And the couch is soft
So he sits
And watches the world turn

You pulled me in your dry cracked skin
with callouses so big they needed a glove-
compartment. Filled the cup with cherry wine. It was
my PICC line. And I laid there with nothing

to do. I barely could move because I was
attached to it. It was inserted in my veins. You thought
this was required, for my benefit. I was sent home
still attached to it. But it made me sick. It left

me cold. I needed a person to hold,
not a line. A line was words that I wrote. It was
a sheet of music for me to share. It
wasn’t meant for sole distribution You took on that,

with your circus flare and body works, even when
I wasn’t there. You did it through the line. And when
I ripped if off the blood shot out. I was drained and ghastly. Look
at how much it cost me. The bruise is still there

reupholstered as a chair. But I’m not. The umbilical cord
is tossed. I’m still writing lines, yet not attached to one. I said
I was done with it. I’m free. I’ve movement. I still miss
being hooked-up. But I’m better off

Paella ingredients for Tuesday w/Hernando de T

   velvet + jewelry sale
      
♣ Polish Ferdinand's scepter

Finance conquest of territories for glory of Catholic Spain

>Get throne reupholstered

♚ Subjugate inhabitants of the New World & locate gold for Imperial crown

Leeching appointment with physician ♦ BRING ROSARY ♦!!

♝Talk to Toledo archbishop RE: burning heretics (next Sunday)

♥ Get Ferdinand’s ermine robes from cleaners  ♥ ♥  

> Smite Moorish Saracens/drive out of Spain (if time before nxt weeknd)

when you called. Had my
mouth wide open but –
no words at all.
Felt like an unloaded gun
Useless as one

My head was a canvas –
stark, barren naked
Felt as I was stripped
like a couch being reupholstered

The gun again –
Loaded, but not in its holster