SONNET TO A RANCID URN-EMBROIDERED SOFA

If I were on this sofa, say, to fuck
Another human being or to read
A gorgeous book, could I by that mere act
Redeem the noisome stuff upholstered here?
Might this sofa some salvation fear
In comforting a butt untimely cracked
Or pillowing a brain inclined to feed
Or would it still be free to simply suck?
The urns embroidered here, have they the luck
To hold embroidered ashes, myrrh or mead?
Or are they merely pointless; or in fact,
Are they not urns at all, but faces leering?
Answer to these questions? Yes, it's sad:
An object can be absolutely bad.

DOUGLAS ANTHONY COOPER

Dysmedia

Twenty-four years ago, my father would have relaxed on a sofa like this. Of everyone in my family, only he could have napped and dreamed against the dazzle of a wildflowers-on-lattice pattern, and after he woke, twenty bucks says he would have covered it with a plain green sheet to protect it from the frequent Kool-Aid accidents of rampant grandchildren, or coffee spills from nine-year old me (as a child, I loved Brim).

Twenty-four years ago, he never got the chance.

We were sofa-shopping on the second floor of Montgomery Ward when we found my father sitting on such a sofa. He “aahhed,” sinking into it, stroked the fabric like a pet. This was a man whose favorite color was goldenrod, and who forever reminded the Pizza Hut waiter to make our pizza “thick and chewy, thick and chewy.” We knew the graveness of our situation: in our family, the one with no taste was the one with the money.

A salesman approached. He put his knee on the arm of the sofa, touting its textures—“So velvety!”—and color—"Goldenrod!"—its ingenious design—“Three cushions, four cushions. You choose."—and best of all, its price—marked down already, plus an additional 20% off. As he and my father talked, I longed for sofas from TV soap opera penthouses and Levitz catalogs, sky blue and plush, geometrical and sleek.

Days or weeks later, it came: a $1200 sectional comprised of more sections than I would be able to remember, plus two ottomans we’d one day sell for twenty bucks apiece. On his Navy pension and Social Security checks, it was more than my father could ever afford; my brother—19 years old and working full-time—was the one who had chosen it, the one who had paid. Now, at last, there was someone in the family with money and taste.

We didn’t know at the time that this would be “the living room couch,” a place to sit only on special occasions and in the presence of guests; we would have to nap and lounge about elsewhere, in other rooms. But for the rest of that afternoon, we would arrange and rearrange the sectional into L and C and even G formations, laughing and reminiscing about the near-disaster of the sofa that almost was, all of us together except for my father, who had gone somewhere else to sit.

LYSLEY TENORIO

Casey came back from summer school one day and his parents had their bags packed. They were going to a hotel across town. They hadn’t told him they were having the house painted. Casey got upset and they fought. His mother shouted at him loud and close, spraying him with spittle: “You goddamned fuckhead piece of turd!" His father shrugged. Casey decided he’d rather stay on the enclosed porch for the next week. On the day they painted that, he would sleep in the garage. The next afternoon, a couple of guys in crinkly white jumpsuits invaded, moved the furniture into the centers of all the rooms and coated the walls with colors like Toffee Crunch and Quaking Grass. Sleeping on the porch frustrated Casey, but he always stuck to his principles, even when it made him look foolish. His gangly legs could barely fit on the sofa, and the house didn't have air conditioning. That Friday, the temperature broke the 1949 city record. Casey woke up hung over on Saturday, his naked limbs rubbery-slick with sweat and tangled with the legs of a girl he barely remembered meeting. Someone's cousin from Tuscon. Trying to get more comfortable without waking her, he flopped over and fell off the couch on his butt. A car pulled into the driveway, but he didn't hear it.

JAMES HANNAHAM

FARTING COUCH

My tenants have a green vinyl sofa to give away. It’s in great shape and unbelievably durable.

Since it's vinyl and everything wipes clean, one can only imagine sitting naked on this thing while farting since the splatters will wipe up with no problem. You can even dive in to a messy love making session without the worry of pesky little pecker tracks left behind. They should come off easily.

Many people have concerns when taking a second-hand sofa from strangers since you never know how many bare asses and other body parts have used it previously. Since everything wipes up, it can easily be sanitized for your hine parts to sit comfortably farting away.

ANONYMOUS from Craigslist.org - Baltimore