bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room trying to ignore them in the morning, especially Sunday mornings it will not let me up. you must sleep longer, it says facing south the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back while i prefer a westerly fetal position facing the wall the bed sucks me sideways into it when i sit down on it to put on my shoes. this persistence on its part forces me to dress in the bathroom where things are less subversive the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to scratch my dusky thighs my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to the bed. it makes strange little sighs which distract me from my work sadistically i pull back the covers put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on the bed complains that i'm difficult duty its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i blanket it with books and papers. it tells me it's made for blood and bone lately spiders ants and roaches have invaded it searching for food
boooooooo. spooky ripplings of icy waves. this
umpteenth time she returns—this invisible woman
long on haunting short on ectoplasm
"you're a good man, sistuh," a lover sighed solongago.
"keep your oil slick and your motor running."
wretched stained mirrors within mirrors of
fractured webbings like nests of manic spiders
reflect her ruined mien (rue wiggles remorse
squiggles woe jiggles bestride her). oozy Manes spill
out yonder spooling in night's lofty hour exudes
her gloom and spew in rankling odor of heady dour
as she strives to retrieve flesh to cloak her bones
again to thrive to keep her poisoned id alive
usta be young usta be gifted—still black