Beef

Now, this story has little to do

with cutting beef.

But, I,

in point of fact,

was doing so.

Standing upon a wheel,

a wooden wheel,

with a mountainous amount of raw beef

laid out before me, and a sword in one hand.

And, because I was starving,

in the other, slivers

of raw beef

I greedily stuffed

into my mouth.

"I can't... seem to get enough,"

say I, chewing

a huge cud of cow flesh.

And maybe the old woman is there,

(on bended knees.)

But I can only see her back, and she is scrubbing the floor in this dirty, dirty kitchen, or whatever.

(The beef is growing huge, looping intestines made of liverwurst. Braunschweiger.)

As eating raw beef

is not an omen that portends

well, we'll leave it right there.

(Outside, somewhere, in that fantastic way in dreams wherein an individal can "bi-locate", I am standing with a friend whom I'll call "Mac," a tall rawboned man dressed like something that crawled from a cockpit during WW2.)

The sun beams down on his face,

and his adulation seems reserved

chiefly for me.

Zipping above,

like a too-loud bumblebee

held aloft

by ribbon

and canvas

and glue,

the Old Man

is set to come zipping

down

into the field,

as tall grass waves like delicate

fingers in the gentle,

almost still wind.

"It's like a dune buggy with wings," says Mac. He hefts a pair of binoculars to his rawboned face.

(And the late afternoon sun dips down to orange. And all slips into infinite space and time.)