by Mike Boyle
Worn in like a glove
several braces broken
& propped up with pillows
stuffing spilling out
of broken creases
let’s call it 20 yr couch
although it’s been 19
never put legs on the
thing, and who knows
where they
went
guess it was ’92
in another apartment with
thin walls
it seemed to be a homo
sexual apartment building
I’d be in the bathtub
& through the wall, hear
oh, yes, suck my cock
hear another man
grunting
downstairs were the lesbians
who played pop music loud
so I couldn’t hear them
doing what they did
I think one of them, the
fem, was undecided about
the lifestyle
she once gave me a shovel
during a blinding snowstorm
said, sheesh
because I had nothing
continually showed up
unprepared
the couch showed up
in the next place, deeper in
the ghetto
the couch & matching
loveseat
it seemed some personal
resignation, buying things
because I’d been living out
of a suitcase for so long
& living out of a suitcase
is open, furniture is
closed
closed for business
nothing but poems
& crazy paintings
& bohobait recordings
in that place
drunk much of the
time
I once looked out the
window & saw a car on
fire
I laughed, went to the
refrigerator, got another
beer
I tore the collage I’d been
making off the wall
took it out back
pinned it to clothesline
sprayed lacquer till it
dripped, &, in fuck it
gesture, emptied some
other spray paint on it
but not too much
while hearing balcony
afternoon screams
I went to look out front
while the shit dried
someone putting out car
fire with garden hose
& across the street
that blonde sunbathing
on the sidewalk like it
was some beach