Winter 2009 - THE POTOMAC

Three Poems
   Ryn Gargulinski

Ode To A Puke Gold Couch

Oh, If Cushions Could Talk
I met you
back in
Brooklyn at a
Salvation Army that no
longer exists we've had grand
times since then my

surprise that you fit
in my newyorkcramped apartment –
our naps near the window as the
city pigeons cooed you then made it to

Clovis in a moving van where they
ripped off one leg and tried to
tell me you were already broken and I
had thrown in your leg to the van's
dank floor when no one was
looking our trek then to

Tucumcari that broke a bone in your
spine when you were piled high with
boxes in a trailer made for horses by a
man who called me dahlin' rainy

Gaquet came next a meditation
room in the heart of the redwoods where you sat
simple and quiet and held my cousin as he collapsed,
fully clothed, after he helped me move our

fine time in Brookings, in a haunted
farmhouse that meant to kill the dog had him
cowered in terror those strange noises from
the attic where a man once died you saw a

a bat then, my love, when it flew in the window and
hurled itself at every wall, had a view of the
ocean with its waving screams -- we've moved since to

Tucson in two cozy homes, one with doorways
you barely fit through evoking wrath in all
who touched you even my mother calls you
ugly and the dog, he claws with vigor at your
pillows as if they were eyes -- but I

love you still, despite your
strong intent at garishness and often
imagine you as an infant in a home
decked dapper in 70s dιcor, plush gold
lampshades with avocado, as you
perch by a purple shag rug, in a thick
coat of heavy duty plastic, as was the
hideous rage of the day.

It Always Rains In Caseville

Everything can
suck – if you have the
right mind set just
add a scoop of
negative a
mad dash of
hate – the starlight's

too bright the
ocean waves too
raucous the
sun is too
yellow the
grass much too
green – you can

even kill the
joy of a
bubble bath – by
bemoaning that the
water's much too


I see the
moon & the
moon sees
me when I
don't see
the moon it still
sees me like
God, or your
mother, or the
cashier when you
try to lift some gum – or that
nosy old lady in Brooklyn who
peeked with a scowl from her
window shade as if ready to
shoot me with her eyeballs – yet
smiled like a puppy when I waved.

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