[My meat turns into dust as I recline] (from “The Surreal Sonnets” series)

My meat turns into dust as I recline,
The ham, the steak, the pork, the chicken too,
Not dry as dust, but dust – so white and fine;
When I awake, there is a residue.
My meat is now a powder on the floor,
And empty are the hooks that held it fast.
I bang my fists into the freezer door.
My days as bloody butcher – are they passed?
My son he finds me there, and he asks me,
“Why is our inventory now all snow?”
“Because it’s wintertime,” I say with glee,
Pretending to be happy. “Now let’s go!”
      If your meat turns into dust, do what you can –
      Take your son’s hand and make a meat snowman!

The other day my workmate Joan was talking to another workmate who sits across from my cube. I was engrossed in my work so I really wasn’t following the conversation, but I thought I heard Joan say “My meat turns into dust,” and immediately whirled around and said, “Did you just say, ‘My meat turns into dust?’ I need to write that down.” Most people – most sensible people – would have just written it down and ignored it. But not me. I just had to use it somehow.

Laser Sight Tattoo Dream Sonnet (from “The Surreal Sonnets” series)

Red beams upon my chest in a nightmare
which burn into my skin a strange tattoo –
two turtles making love on a highchair,
while underneath, a figure crawling – you!

I know that I can’t put on any clothes
(your face will smear and I’ll be much worse off).
I hide the image with a giant nose
that bursts out of my mouth with a hard cough.

I wait for night to leave home in this state.
I slither through the city by side streets.
A patrol catches me. I shiver, wait.
With red beams on my chest, as hope retreats,

a cop with your voice coming from the glow
says, “You can drop the nose now, we all know.”

The Ball of Legs

illustration - rowboat

Some new tracks in the sand by Potter’s Mount,
Four toes, then five, then six, then back to four,
Each alternating step, a different count,
They end under the lifeguards’ boat – no more.

I turn to scan the shore; I am alone,
But curious – my hidden quarry begs.
I overturn the boat. There, lying prone,
No human thing – a ball of twenty legs.

It scurries quickly past me to the dunes.
Then diving from the sky a demon bird,
Which plucks it, flies with it across the moon,
Those whirring legs – the loudest scream I’ve heard.

I contemplate this natural mystery
Under the boat – lest more foul birds seek me.

from The Surreal Sonnets Series…

  1. The Dreaming Chest
  2. Icelus Calling
  3. Cracks in the Walls

Cracks in the Walls (from “The Surreal Sonnet Series”)

Our windows open to a wall of brick
With windows of its own deep in its grooves.
We see a pulsing motion, we are sick,
For waving from each window, thirteen hooves!

What demons live inside these walls, behind
Each brick, a horror lurking in each rut,
A silent teeming madness or our mind,
And so the window we begin to shut,

But something grabs our eye and we look back,
And what we see – we shudder, legs grow weak –
Each hoof is now a hairy plumber’s crack.
In unison they all begin to speak,

“You can awake, the fog of dreams will clear,
but in a nagging way, we’ll still be here.”