The Chef

what lays upon the kitchen bench
is perfectly normal to us
a decorative fruit display

a metallic pan
frying chunks of flesh
hacked from the body
cut from a carcass
or a corpse
disguised and devoured

the slaughterhouse supervisor
interviewed and unaware
of the secret filming
denied anything untoward

though the reporter
with a hidden camera in his backpack
scenes too gruesome to broadcast

hind tendons slashed
to make controlling easier
a knife in the eye
to twist the head closer
to the butcher’s knife

and there it lays
delicately sliced
upon the kitchen bench

soon to become
one with our bodies
and us to become
one with
tortured flesh


bandits took from the little village
all they wanted
they rummaged
for coin and crops and
forced from women
as they took them

they killed the men
that resisted them
leaving their bodies
as a bloody warning

years passed like this
then one day one bandit
hit upon an idea
a looting systemisation

and from that day
they rode into town
just once each year

on the first day of spring
they took
all they wanted
freely given by the villagers
in exchange for peace

a tax
to the predator
now a parasite
living on the labor
of the industrious

The Woman in the Hat

She’d not expected to be detected
This early autumn morning
Alone among the sparrow chirps
But I was there, still yawning

She didn’t sway nor stumble
Toward the park she bounced
Floral silk pink nighty
My presence unannounced

Perched atop her hefty frame
Like a star adorns a tree
A monumental cowboy hat
A sparkling pink marquee

Somebody’s great grandmother
I’m guessing ninety two
Escapee from a nearby home
Who bellowed out Wahoo!