SurVision Magazine
An international online magazine
that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue Fifteen
JEFF FRIEDMAN
Men Missing Butts
No one knew why our butts disappeared or how to get them back. Some of us thought that we
had sat so long our butts flattened into non-existence. Others were of the opinion that they just
wasted away from disuse. And some believed that thieves stole them because bony asses had
become the new rage. A few of us hired detectives to track down our missing butts. They took
our money, but came back with nothing, not a clue to their whereabouts. Perhaps our butts had
retired to some tropical island, where they lay on a towel in the sand, soaking up the balmy rays
and growing back their bumps. For the most part, we were fine without our butts. Sitting was a
little uncomfortable, but most of us simply carried a pillow or cushion with us. We held our pants
up with tightly cinched belts and suspenders. Though we didn't have butts anymore, when
walking down the street, we still felt them behind us.
A Brief History of My Ears
My ears began as multicellular creatures crawling slowly in sand. They might have been
mistaken for oysters washed up on shore or even mussels, but there were no pearls inside the
shells of my ears. For protection, they buried themselves in sand. Even then my ears could hear
the world grinding its savage teeth. Even then they could hear the animals dying in battle or
fleeing from it. When the sea covered them, they floated for ages until they sprouted wings with
tiny hairs. Then they joined the flocks of ears rising into the sky, surveilling the earth for a home.
Over time, some settled on rocks and evolved into moss. Others landed on trees and shook like
leaves until they became leaves. Some just became the ears of the wind. And some collided with
other ears and fell to the ground unconscious, stomped on again and again. My ears dove onto
the top of my head, where they held on and fluttered like butterflies until I caught them and
cupped them to the gluey sides of my face, where they stick out like antennae. And now I can't
sleep at night because of all the noise.
Jeff Friedman is from Chicago. His latest (tenth) book of poetry and prose poetry, Ashes in Paradise (Madhat Press, 2023). His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Poetry, Poetry International, Dreaming Awake: New Contemporary Prose Poetry from the United States, Australia and the United Kingdom, New England Review, Best Microfiction 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024, SurVision, and The New Republic. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship.
