by Karl Koweski
cuck of the wok
I’ve suffered through this
recurring dream for
the last several nights
where my wife initiates
an affair with
a fancy hibachi chef
forcing me to challenge
the egg-spinning bastard
to a vicious knife fight
in the parking lot
of the local Shoguns.
now, I’m not the sort
to place undue importance
on the symbolism
of dreams, yet
I can’t help but wonder
what the hell’s wrong with me?
it’s been well over
five years since I’ve even
witnessed the creation
of an onion volcano.
does my subconscious
truly believe my soul mate’s
love could be so
easily swerved by
some shrimp-slinging jackass
in a hat resembling some sort
of albino atomic explosion
capable of etching
the shape of a heart
with the innards of
an egg split on the
edge of a spatula?
I suppose an astute
student of human foibles
might opine that these
dreams are simply
the residual guilt
I’m feeling from my
ham-fisted attempts
to seduce the afternoon
Huddle House waitress
with the dog bite scars
across the left side
of her jawline,
but I don’t know…
a hibachi chef
seems a fairly specific
choice not to contain
some element of prophecy.
clown car existence
life is a monkey pile of clowns.
one absurdity stacked
upon another absurdity
on top another
until all you can see
is cracked greasepaint
and garish fright wigs.
all you can feel
are the oversized
patent leather clown shoes
repeatedly
kicking you in the groin,
each agonizing strike
accompanied by
the honking of a silly horn.
society caters
to the ridiculous.
it’s all maniacal laughter
and cartoon violence,
every exaggerated
action conveys
a desperate sense
of forced compliance.
we’re all a part
of the circus, now,
cavorting to
an audience of none.
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