He started feeling sorry for himself
long before he had seen his reflection
in shimmery linoleum tiles
that stretched into blind corners

before the snap of magnetic doors
woke melancholy macaroni people
strapped to rolling recliners
staring past Plexiglas TV's

He wore yesterday on his shirt
a step at a time...

one two, one two

felt breaths collectively stop
when he walked the halls...

one two, one two

like watching a one legged cricket
with your hand over your mouth

As cold as this place was
his head had been on fire

slammed into paper cups
filled with pastel colored
blues and pinks and
why pills
rattled at him like a baby

He fell face first into tomorrows

slobbered on wooden spoons
for vanilla ice cream
that he said tasted like Wednesday

He would get animated
when they ran out of Wednesday
and had many rattle cup nights
****** up through a syringe

hands and thumps
pressed him up against
heavy beds of oak bolted to the floor

gloves pulled his hair
when he smelled like yelling
into plastic mattresses
the same color as his *****

and no one wants him *******
while their eyes are closed

they want to see it

they want to say things like
"we'll talk about this later"

wrap his wrists in sheep's wool, in skin
from his *******, clasped by buckles, pulled
tight enough to close his eyes

He should have **** his pants

because chocolate doesn't have a taste
and neither did feeling sorry for himself

I spent most of the 70's
Beneath a disco ball
In a Leisure suit
If that don't beat all

A kid from the country
Foot loose and free
Still makes me wonder
What that did to me

Spending my days
At Furniture Mart
Assembling recliners
While loading up cars

Making daily cash money
For night's at the bar
Dancing away
Under disco ball stars

Not really sure
Who we thought we were
Or of the purpose
The 70's served

Just a reminder of
What can go wrong
If you don't pay attention
To what's going on

Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests

Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep

Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high

Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting

Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.

Above the waves, beneath the scorching eye of summer,
I watched them bathe in the babble of accursed acquaintances.
Floating backwards, lounging on inflatable recliners,
they blew hot air about their co-worker's dietary habits.
But as they loosed their string bikini straps,
I felt wrinkles of resentment fade from my face.
They asked the time, I had no reply.
I couldn't care less whose name they'd disgraced a minute past.
Some ethics fade as easy as tan lines.

The furnished souls
Adorned with mahogany
Luxurious pieces in every corner
Eau de parfum, the finest from France
Does not allure the senses
The settees, chaise lounges and recliners
Standing there, forlorn, awaiting guests
The ornate crystal chandeliers adorn the ceilings
Trying to illuminate the gloominess
The flooring of Makrana marble on the floors
As if there is a puzzle to be solved
It looks quizzically at the incoherent footsteps
Of the infrequent visitors, not even interested
Mansion filled with embellishments
Yet there are no worthy inhabitants
The Swarovski crystal curtains, veils the outside world
That waits, without any expectations or superfluities
To furnish the soul with love




© Amitav (Radiance)

I'll be the slumpy man
caught on the clotheslines in the wind
strung out on powerlines
graced by the company of crows
and the circling buzzards
all hungry for my eyeballs

I'll be the slumpy man
hung over the sofa
draped across recliners
trying to dry out
before my braincells die out
trying to stay awake and sober

Sometimes I worry that
the only job my dad
will ever be able to
get is a buggy pusher
at Kroger.
I'm afraid he'll sit in
a recliner for a week
before anyone notices.
I know that's what
happens when people's
hearts are too full or empty
to stay in that recliner, though.
I can't be mad because
one day we'll all just
be sitting in our recliners
and then go.
I just hope I have someone
who looks for me
before I get juicy.

Jethro Tull once wrote a song "Nothing is easy"
Aint that the truth
why can't we just go to work
come home ,eat our fill,nap in our recliners
no struggle and strife
just be happy

guess that's easy

and as "Tull" said Nothing is easy

Crazy perfume you smell when the doors swing wide open.
Crazy tiny hour hands tell every manican your shopping
toaday.
You buy summer dresses 50 percent off.
You watch my world slow down because I am
hanging like a hat on hooks.
I saw John crowe Ransome buying a suite
for a friends funeral.
Still I think he just wanted to leave.
Before the mall closed toaday I wanted to
become a waxed tile.  Or even a plastic tree
next to the recliners.  ( I coudnt be anything I wanted in here)
My painted jeans arnt for sale anymore.
Because years made them fade.  
Now im inside new stores, new venues
to make happiness continue.  
Some how its all the same.
When did I shift places
because the racks seem full
of sadness.  I know where to
find mirriors even if no body
else actually wants to see
themselves reinvented again.

Reading some homework
The day seems like artwork
Has the sky ever been so blue

Three guys toss a frisbee
perilously near me
shirtless boys silhouetted in turquoise

We’ve got our shades on
We pretend not to watch em’
But we know they’re putting on a show.

We’ve got fold up recliners
and we set a timer
to move to the shade in a minute or two

But the sun seems distracted
cooler and less radioactive
dozens of students are out on the quad

The trees aren’t just standing
the breeze has them dancing
to ‘Blood in the Cut’, a song by ‘K.Flay’

On this cool, near-fall holiday
We’ll while our day away
each of us claiming a chance to relax

Now that we’re juniors, we know the facts
We get that there’s still a lot of reading to do
but we know, we can have a little fun too.
What else would you expect us to do?

I wrote poems about
How lonely I felt in this goose flesh cardigan
And you brought me bullets with recliners,
Our house full of mistrust
And anguish.

It was with a bottle we began
And with a bottle we will end.

I watch you **** on long, gnarled fingers
With short, clipped nails
No color.
You pull them out of your mouth
One at a time
with a subtle but emphatic pop
One
Two
Three and
Four
'Round and 'round
Thumbs perhaps, but pinkies never
Other times you juice
the corner or a small white washcloth
with your saliva

I watch you look at the window
Unwavering in your attention
Focused straight ahead,
Your chair is turned
so that e can all sit together
In the common room.

Dad wants to leave
As soon as we've arrived
He'd say something wildly odd
to what
had been
his wife of fifty years, like
'What's up?'
or
'Howryadoin'?'
Something impossibly dumb
As if he would've
ever said such a thing
To you
In Real Life.
Now pandering for some predestined response
Or a cozy yet bewildered
glance of surprise
or perhaps a
vague
familiar
girlish
smile
The one you wore when he first met you.
But we both know that those days are
long gone.

I watch you as you face
The bright Valley sunshine
The yellowing grass
The trimmed hedges
The cement blocks that maintain
these locked-down
Premises.
But what do you see?
Were there any little birds,
As I no longer can remember?

Do the multitudes
that comprise a random cosmos
approximated by optimistic formulae
Although imperceptible to Dad and I,
Dance just for you?
Does it share with you
sweet confidences and miracles?
Promises and Reassurances!
I'd like to think that,
but I have my doubts
Your face
Your eyes
Show no such delight.

There as a time when you were always
delighted
And too, there was a time when you wanted
to escape
with a sly
"So where are we all going next?"

Dad grows more uncomfortable
But its alright
I can sit here by your side
I tell him
45 more minutes
I wear a watch
for just this sort of thing
although he's ready to bolt
This Disease
His Love
A Mystery before him
Despite his Science,
Gone.

Me?
I'm fine
For I have lost nothing.
I look around the common room
The patients are set up
Round like a clock.

At 11pm lay the catatonic
Flat
Staring motionless
faces up
to the ceiling
In recliners. Peaceful.
Accepting.

At 1pm are those who can still sit at a table
with minimal supervision and eat
or read a four color full bleed spread in
a fashion magazine upside down
Just like in the old days.

At 4pm sit the difficult, flighty ones
with aides to feed and wipe their faces
of soggy gruel and fruit pulp
Obstinate
Rude
Incorrigible
And prone to choking.

At 6:30 the piano sits alone against a far wall
Abandoned yet prepared
Not slighted in the least.
Do you believe that angels can swarm?

We three sit together at the 9pm table
your other companions silent
Not playing cards or Sudoku
Nor reminiscing about a forgotten past
By way of some forgotten language
Inevitably, they will disappear
with no explanation
never returning
And the new ones will take their places
days later
Silent still
Always silent
In our little
Corner.

The clock, it moves like fateful musical chairs.
It has an intelligence
It is a system of management.
The designations, a terrible prognosis
encircling like a snake
towards your final hour
Which may be after 4 or perhaps 11?
This is a Map of Demise.

What turned you into a 9pm
because your weren't always?
We arrived at this table from some place else
Although from where I'm not at all sure anymore
It seems they moved you around a lot
And I have been watching you closely.
I fear that the hour hand
is not your ally.
The minutes hand, neither.
I look out the window with you.
And I wonder when the time will come
For you to rest in the white naugahyde recliners
Motionless and
Unbothered.
Accepting.
But I do not expect you
to make it past
this hour.
Would someone tell me please
what does it really mean to be
a 9pm on this clock?

I made up a list
Of what I like to do
Then went out for a job
That matched my point of view

Since I like to lay around
In the position of lazy
I figured  a furniture store
Wouldn't be too far off crazy

So I reclined the recliners
And slept in the beds
Got comfy on the couches
Because it's what I do best

I figured they'd call me
When they saw how qualified
I was at doing nothing
In this know nothing life

The next thing on my list
Was my fondness for food
So I hit up a buffet
With an executive work attitude

I piled my plate high
To show off my mad skills
Quite the balancing act
As not a drop did I spill

When I asked for a job
They told me to get out
I guess it's rude to interview
With food in your mouth

Last on the list
Was my love for T.V.
So I head to Best Buy
To see if they would hire me

They had so many stations
I sat there all day
Flipping through channels
Forgetting the reason I came

This day of job hunting
Has worn me quite thin don't you know
So back home I sit around
And call it all self employed

blasphemy
to regard America as ****
I am shot by words
those bullets
living in a country

inept
******* blind
look and tell me
that we're not ******
happiness will make you deaf

people still won't see
the gunshots in their living rooms
ripping away at their sofas
their recliners they die in
sorry used all the glue

for my head to the television
I march into this institution
you tell me we don't need ******* change?
these riots
sparks to this fire

change
please never stop ******* with this higher power
it's us
it's who we are
peasants

monarchy
communism
anarchism
Jesus (**** him)
this land is stained with blood

I am grass
let me work
Sandburg
stop working
it won't stop

there is no harmony
Sandburg
you're dead
the optimism-- deafening
shut the **** up

god will not save me now
I am above that ****
glistening in the sun
do you hear America singing?
the same song since the dawn of time

we walk as dead men
we walk as dead women

who needs a car when we can buyy three recliners at that price  man get reall

Its a lovely day, love the smell of ****** in the morning
Its all okay, dank copped in my palm every mornin
No more paydays everything's stopped but Im not mourning
Its another friday aint that somethin outside its pouring
Inside its smoking baking home-cooking

Homies and I all ready to die
Shorty said lets all get high
Sevenfourtyseven time to fly
No worries no more suit and tie
I like ta party not to pry

Its a lovely day, Love the view of Cali Palms in the morning
And its all okay, me and the crew on one since the mornin
Aint working anyway nothing to stop us we soaring
Its another friday aint that somethin a drink I'm pourin
Inside its smoking baking home-cooking

Party favors in designer flavors
Stop n savor on recliners
Pop life savers in  highwaters
Trashed proper I teeter totter
Smashed party rocker

Double shot of *** drink harder than a privateer  
Backwoods, blunt smokin like a famous rapper
Outta wraps roll with hunnids whole lotta paper
All outta drugs call the plug for more favors
All about a good time its all we're after

Homies and I all ready to die
Shorty said lets all get high
Sevenfourtyseven time to fly
No worries no more suit and tie
I like ta party not to pry

The lindens are lining the promenade
how we wish we were seventeen again
their branches arching ever skyward
framing Vincent's starry manifold
swallowing every thought and sound
each caveat, each dolce far niente
now fading and then pulsing with the
rising and ebbing of rhythmic tides
how serious this business of life is;
our limbs intertwine as we scramble
shaking sand from between our toes
we sit on wicker recliners and imbibe
beverages that splash down so loudly
with the crashing of frolicking waves