william erickson Surreal-Absurd Sampler
“I like to say the same things over and over—but spelled different. Have you noticed? Everything has so many ways, and I’ve no way to hold all those ways inside. And I’ve no right to hold them there either. They’re your ways and their ways and the piano’s ways, too. I guess what I mean is that there is reality and there is REALITY, and reality is all full of facts and usefulness and how to get stuff done. And REALITY is just music, the soft-serve machine at dad’s wake, all the little waves of the sea saying goodbye when they know they’ll be back. The Surreal is a side door to the actual world, you know. You open it up and there’s this confusing sense of the correctness of things that in reality are all wrong, and I think it’s because all the things point in so many directions at once, so suddenly you’re laughing a little at the saddest part of the funeral. How can you try to understand things if not by exploding them and hovering around in all the bits and pieces you’ve made and what a mess it is is it even worth cleaning?”
— william erickson
~~~
Satin Sheets
Night is night, and everyone slouches dust from a desk chair. Me, I get in bed with science and science makes my toes exhaust pipes. All day everyday, one long peer review. Then bedtime comes and I breathe with whales for lungs, bees' eyes blooming from my fingertips. One question no one can answer. Why is seeing such a bottomless phobia?
Coenzyme
A place of unbelievable simplicity rises up from the sea. The birds twit. The laws apply. All day Sunday diners advertise their breakfast menus. Imagine holding any object like the soldier holds the small white handkerchief, letting pity slip like sea ice to your stomach. But then the war is over, and all art retreats into the dim aesthetic reticule of Friday date nights. A child walks into the science exhibition with his father's fist-sized heart. The wings beat above the waves, the waves beat back.
BBC
A young man lifts his hands to the sun and the sun becomes honey. He opens his mouth to the moon and the moon becomes breath mints. The young man listens to the sea and the sea becomes Ss and Os. There are more things that become things than time to describe. The young man quietly dies and the news becomes lamplight.
Portrait of a Swimmer
I drew the wrong picture.
I did
bent mountain
big earth with a neck
yr jewelry tethers
dark ponds of birds.
Portrait of a Cockscomb
Distance, the subtle machine
laws bouquets of doubt
that lace into weather.
Nature alone, catalogues
and small containers
we fill with blue,
with red.
Portrait of a Chord Progression
I weather more ears.
I paste them to trunk
and suitcase,
to maple jar, permanent bell sounds
tremor and quiet.
a dog on the flagpole
points out throats
in the distance.
airplane, aeroplane, skyscraper.
I deliver a breakfast of lips,
listen to trick cats
hurdling flashlights.
Alice, yr bulbed ribs.
yr bulbed bulbs.
nothing carryable
but all sensation
that horrible prick.
she had pretty nations
and made bone
nickels.
~~~
william erickson is a poet from Vancouver, WA. His writing can be found in in Sixth Finch, West Branch, Ghost City, The Biscuit Hill, and elsewhere. He is the recent author of the chapbook Sandbox, out now with Bottlecap Press. william's debut full-length collection is due early 2024 from April Gloaming. He lives with his partner and two pups in an old house across a busy street from a large tree. You can find more at awkwardlypenned.com.
