PUNK POETRY: Sleeping on the Couch Again by Tim Goodwin

I: Sleep

Sleeping on the couch, again

and again and again, over and over

'til the end of eternity, or at least

until all the sheep have been accounted

for, and Mr. Sandman has hung up

his cap and gown. I'll be there:

The renegade insomniac backpack

warrior, stars as my map

and streetlights like inkblots

spilling across canvas; Jackson

Pollock ain't got shit on urban

hellscapes. From sweaty leather

upholstery in Arizona to a fold-out

futon in New Jersey, every couch

holds a history. I've been there listening

at 3 A.M. (the witches' hour): Whispers

of a story in every stain

and echoes of a memory

in every rusty creak 

of well-worn springs.

Inhale deep: The dust

and dander, smoke and

mold. Light breeze from

the window. This couch

has lived.

Exhale and let go.

You've been there before,

You'll be there again.

There's nothing but time

from here 'til eternity. 

II: Dream

Back in the beginning

there were nights

where I would sleep

on the couch for the fun

of it. Chips and soda

all-nighters, Nintendo

glow throwing shadows

over scattered cards and

magazines. Sleeping bags

abandoned, sprawled out,

cradled and embraced by

summer haze. That was my 

favorite

couch

and I wish it could be home again,

but nothing's ever really felt like home

since Mom sold the home 

five years ago. I don't know,

maybe I'm being romantic, melodramatic,

or trying to argue semantics, but I'm torn

between two cliches; some say

"Home isn't a place, it's a feeling,"

but others tell me "You can never really 

go home again." Maybe the truth is halfway 

between, like a lucid dream: a living

memory influenced by unconscious

desires and waking intentions. I can fly

in these dreams, but the ghosts in the

gutter still scream; the haunted choir,

the remnant shadows, electrochemical

no-face fractal phantoms. The dream

ends as it began: Instead

of flying, I am falling.

III: Wake

Years later and the nightmare

is long since over. Everything fades,

like the stains on the couch. 

This couch is ancient, but

comfy. Big enough for both 

of us. Warm and soft,

buried in blankets and

pillows. We drifted off 

to the rhythmic patter 

of raindrops on the roof.

I know it's 

not much, but

for you,

this couch 

can stretch

from here 

'til eternity.

I hope you sleep well.

--Tim Goodwin