Big Couch Pillows

I wrap my legs around one cushion
like the barrel body of a horse –
squeeze the other mutha to my chest
as if the only course left open to me
were to wrestle its upholstery
until it buckled in remorse for all
my patchiness of sleep last night –
wedge my head into the third and try

to make it feel like bed – and wonder
if it’s age or undirected rage against
the weirdness of existing that’s persisted
in refusing me the outlet of the inlets,
rivulets and tributaries into which I do
delight in somnolently pushing my canoe
from waking life’s embarcadero:
oh, I know that there’s no separation

really: this stiff steely rack of facts that
passes for “reality” is quite as much
a shifty sham as spreading Morpheus'
drugged jam on bedtime bread: a matter
of degree, one must agree, between
one brand of consciousness
and any other. But oh, I miss the warm
embrace and taste of buttery affection

that one relishes from indirection –
sweet relaxing through to that true swoony
alpha state which proffers dreams:
those bloomy creamy cloudy billows
to the kiss of which the soft
irrationality of big couch pillows
might just bring me round. Come on,
you big fat babies: take me down.



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