Evan Williams Surreal-Absurd Sampler

“A Note on Surrealism and Queerness:

I grew up living with my brother, who was fresh out of the Air Force and a real hulk of a man. His world was so serious, his masculinity so dependent on forms of self-deprivation, on small violences both inwardly and outwardly directed. That was my world too, really, for a long time. For years I participated in the rituals of bodybuilding, a sport whose core is a literal ripping apart of the physical self by way of rote, painful movements. Part of this was an effort to feel safe in my Queerness, though in retrospect, living in that headspace most likely did more to put my Queerness at risk than to protect it.

Where bodybuilding ended for me, writing began. I adopted what I think of as a Poetics of Silliness, which relies heavily on the Surreal. The Surreal for me is so deeply entangled with the Queer, not just because both are related to open expressions of joy, but because they each represent opportunities of relief. The Surreal is, in many ways, the exact opposite of bodybuilding. It thrives on surprise, creates its potential by undermining itself; it is never certain, never constant, and never repeats. Rather, Surrealism escapes itself toward ever-stranger forms, toward that most perfectly Surreal impulse.

I see the Surreal as both an ideal and the vehicle by which one arrives at it. It is therefore ever-accepting of the steps required to reach a point of maximal expression, while also permitting one to shed past iterations of the self toward the construction of a sturdier, more joyful future. My relationship to Queerness feels a lot like that, being able to lean on it into the future and out of the past.”

— Evan Williams

~~~

ZEN AND THE ART OF EGG MAINTENANCE

My brother and I sat on a wall and talked

when it started to snow. We wondered,

If one were craving snow, would they be hungry or thirsty?

We went sledding and I asked to be buried like tourists do on beaches,

so that I might tilt my head and make a ramp for his sled.

I left with a slight crack above my ear, and woke up on Christmas morning.

Santa brought my brother a drum set.

He headbutts the cymbal and sprouts a crack.

He wears the hi-hat so no one will see. Our fractured heads leak

in tandem at breakfast, an eggy goop, and people

think we are twins because of this simultaneity.

I’ve bought us bandanas so that people might think we are bikers instead.

We take to the road in faux leather jackets

to maintain this illusion. We do not wear helmets on our already-broken heads.

We conclude that we have come from eggs, and abstain from diner counters.

I can only assume that some time soon our heads will burst from the inside out

to reveal smaller versions of ourselves. We will need new bandanas, and to have our jackets re-sized.

I SHAVE EVERYWHERE THREE TIMES A DAY EXCEPT MY UPPER LIP

because I want to look like a sea lion. I want to look like a sea lion because everyone loves sea lions, and if I could pretend to be one then I would have an excuse to balance a ball on the tip of my nose. I want to balance a ball on the tip of my nose because that is a skill very few creatures have, and skills that very few creatures have are lucrative if marketed well.

I go to a market after shaving, to learn how to market well. All I find are fish. I eat some with the bones and all. The fishmongers clap for me and are amazed I do not choke. I think that maybe my shaving is turning me into a sea lion at last. I stay at the market all day, to practice not choking. The next day I return, and the next, and the next too. Soon I grow fat like a sea lion.

I go to the park and watch the dogs, to learn how to bark. A dog’s bark and a sea lion’s bark are so similar that one must have copied the other. I practice my barking at the park, with the dogs, and they look at me funny. I shave one, to see if a sea lion is underneath.

I go to the ocean, where I submerge myself at intervals. I practice my fish swallowing. A couple appears and takes photos of me, practicing my fish swallowing on a medium fish. I practice shaving with sharp rocks and I talk to the other sea lions. None of them balance balls on their noses. They look at me funny when I say words like “lucrative” or “marketing,” so I bark at them instead. When I bark, they do not look at me funny.

SILVER

I dropped out of mechanic school because I couldn’t remember what a carburetor did. All I could think about were pears. So many varieties.

I told my partner. I confessed that inside of me is a small orchard growing pears. Inside, I am full of pears. My breath smells like silver. The orchard is working on a new pear, a silver pear.

My partner and I have a fight. It is about mechanic school, but it is mostly about my body. If I had a mechanic-body maybe he would be happy. Mechanic-men grow apples inside, and their breath smells like gold. He won’t admit that he is an apple man.

I sigh a silver sigh and lie on the bed. I name all the apples I can think to name. I am an apple man I am an apple man I am an apple-orchard-gold-breath-breathing-mechanic-bodied-man.

He says that I am lying.

I jump to my feet and make noises in a starkrimson-rage that sound like a whirring fan belt. Bosc! Bosc! It is my favorite curse word. I shout it like the horn of a car. I go beneath the bed and pretend I am a mechanic at work.

My partner joins me beneath the bed. He kisses me and siphons my silver breath, inhales and inhales and inflates like a balloon. His eyes are a moonglow as a stem grows between the tips of our tongues. Our bottom halves make a whole and round out. He stops: we are silver.

THE PEARL-EYED MONSTER

I loudly shout bang to simulate the noise of a firing gun. Our couch has turned clamshell, but still we sit. Would that I could listen to you listening. The focus of observational blood flow. The pearl-eyed monster enters. He is covered in seaweed from the stairwell. There is my clamshell, he says, and we move against the wall very slowly.

AMOS

Amos is a man I met in a hot tub. Famous. Famous Amos in a hot tub with me. This makes me famous. Amos says so, in the hot tub where we are both famous. Amos has cookie shorts. Chocolate chip, I think, or raisin. Raisin cookie shorts for Mr. Amos in the hot tub. We are in Hawaii. I can’t remember if I mentioned that. Famous people are more common in places like Hawaii. Maybe I should omit this detail. Or alter it.

Amos is a man I met in a hot tub. Famous. Famous Amos in a hot tub with me. This makes me famous. Amos says so, in the hot tub where we are both famous. Amos has cookie shorts. Chocolate chip, I think, or raisin. Raisin cookie shorts for Mr. Amos in the hot tub. The hot tub in Arkansas. Arkansas where few famous people are found at leisure. Arkansas, so unfamous as to be infamous for its unfamousness. Mr. Amos and I, famous, in the Arkansan hot tub. “Do you want some cookies?” he asks.

THE TREE WHO, BY MISTAKE, GREW A SAUSAGE

after Paul Legault

On a street in a town there was a tree who, by mistake, grew a sausage instead of a leaf.

“I was thinking about breakfast, I have never had breakfast,” said the tree to the press.

“Is the meat synthetic?” said the press to the tree, taking a photo.

The tree became shy and grew a leaf over its sausage. “Now I am as I am supposed to be,” said the tree to the tree.

Said the sidewalk to the tree, “Tree, I am thinking about breakfast even though I have never had it.”

The tree understood that it should drop its sausage, that that would be kind; it mulled this over.

Meanwhile, the town leaders gathered in the meeting place to discuss the sausage.

Mayor: Breakfast is for humans!

Sheriff: There are no laws.

Judge: Gavel noise.

Sheriff: Did you say “gavel noise?”

Mayor: He has no gavel.

Judge: And no breakfast, where is my breakfast?

Town: The judge is not human, the law is inhumane!

Mayor: Governing noise.

Sheriff: Pistol noise.

Town: Town noise.

The tree, deciding to be kind, dropped its sausage to the sidewalk where it landed in a crack and was subsumed.

“Thank you for the breakfast,” said the sidewalk, “I had never had breakfast, and now I have.”

RAINBOW CRY

A man plopped down in the end of a rainbow and began to cry. A council of leprechauns gathered to decide what this meant. One approached the man and gently hugged him. Inside the end of the rainbow, the leprechaun too began to cry. The others on the council joined one by one until the end of the rainbow held a circle of men, crying and hugging. Every time you blink, someone new has joined.

~~~

ZEN AND THE ART OF EGG MAINTENANCE was previously published by DIAGRAM, I SHAVE EVERYWHERE THREE TIMES A DAY EXCEPT MY UPPER LIP was previously published by HAD, SILVER was previously published by Pleiades, & AMOS was previously published by X-R-A-Y Lit.

~~~

EVAN WILLIAMS is a Chicago-based poet interested in surrealism, masculinity, and the natural world. They are a co-founder of the temporary prose poetry journal, Obliterat, and the author of the chapbook Claustrophobia, Surprise! (HAD Chaps). More of Evan's work can be found in DIAGRAM, Pleiades, and Bennington Review, among others. You can find more on their website at tallmansgarden.com.