What is a man amidst a couch?
He is man
speckled
with boredom,
inspired only by idle promises
to himself, from himself (he hasn't visited his friend Jim
since he made his New Year's resolution, you know).

Also,
he is a greenhouse gaseous sunbeam,
floating always right above the clouds but
never passing through.

Sweet fantasy.
Sweet, sweet phantasmorgasmic
during-glow; surely it's true
that "Weary before,
worse after," is the way of the world.

Maybe a man's eyes turn to glue
and his brain to paper-mache;
his fingers deem a personality unworthy
out of intermittent, absent-minded rudeness.

A man's thumbs may build
quantum-theory kingdoms
where skies are crystallized and then
erased in a flash of lightning--
hear his roaring
echo with the thunder.

His Big Brother says to him,
"Submit, submit,
'cause no one gives a shit!"
damn, ass, whore, cock,
pussy, bastard, f(bleep),
guns, gangs, hatred, spite, revenge, then
imminent violence (bleep),
lewd, crude, tasteless, vulgar, nude (bleep);
because it's not at all
appropriate in this pacifistic family setting.

I need a moment.
I'm contemplating.

Well,
it sucks to that man's ass-mar--it's chronic--
but I'm telling you he missed
the allusions.

Thankfully,
a poet amidst a couch
is not a man,
but this:
he is ensnared by the
most whimsical of bards,
and he is
(occasionally)
inspired.