five poems
by Brad Rose
In Over My Head
After receiving the secret transmissions, I quit taking my medication. Tomorrow, I’m going to read the transcripts from my auxiliary brain, the one with the decentralized nodes and the randomly orbiting ideations. I wouldn’t want the vicious cycles squaring off against the square roots again, like they did last time, during crop-circle season. Who knows where thoughts really come from, anyway? I’ve never been to Loredo, Texas.
Yesterday, in invisible ink, I wrote a few things in my see-through notebook. I tried to read them this morning, under blue light. Blue is the world’s favorite color because it reminds people that they should be careful around water, especially lakes and rivers and oceans. Nobody wants to drown themselves. Of course, I’m not worried. I’ve got a pair of those rope-colored Satanic water wings, you know, the kind that you tie around your neck, like a noose. Like the Bible says, we’re all going to be punished for each other’s sins. Even so, I’d hate to get in over my head.
Questions Persist
I thought they were kidding, but evidently, you’ve got to line up the words in the right order. Those are the rules. I lodged a complaint with the Director of Intelligence at the Fairytale Truth Commission, and made a plea for clemency, but so far, all I’ve received is a dog-eared copy of the book, Make Better Excuses, and a formal request from the President of the Itsy-Bitsy corporation asking me to name my poison. Fortunately, I look a lot taller in person than I do on TV. To be honest, I’m often a little groggy and my gigantically manic antics leave a lot to be desired, but I’ve had two haircuts—one for each of side of my head—and combed my eyebrows into a cul-de-sac, so that wherever I am, I feel right at home. Incidentally, how do you like your snakes? Rare, medium, or well? Of course, they don’t have to be in that order, as long as they provide a tasty slice of life and keep you just outside your comfort zone. Ramone says that whenever you dance with a viper, you should be sure to wear your heart on your sleeve. He says that if all else fails, you can always grab a quick bite from the tasting menu. Ramone has a smile like fast-frozen ant food and a certain je ne sais quoi that makes him irresistible to invertebrates, but I have a few questions. Somehow, though, I don’t think I’m going to get them answered.
Mum’s the Word
Am I the only one around here eager to dance the Hully Gully? I’m no expert; that’s for sure, but remember, a dentist invented the electric chair. Incidentally, don’t pay any attention to that upbeat noise. It’s just the usual neighborhood gunfire. It makes it a lot easier to complete your sleep calisthenics unimpeded by any nagging worries about your future. Needless to say, nothing says Enter Here quite like a newly posted No Trespassing sign. Of course, I’m not currently a practicing mortician, but to my left, I see the dead, and to my right, the pre-deceased. Six of one, a half dozen of the other. In the latter case, I’m liable to be drafted by the secret police who are always recruiting new informants. As for me, mum’s the word.
Clarity
Do you moisturize? Yes, there’s some combat involved, but you can’t expect to attend the dinosaur races without raising a little ruckus. I’ve found that selling my blood, even if only a few gallons at a time, adds extra dollars to my investment portfolio. Whenever emergency strikes, the best way to return to equilibrium is to follow bald men in hats. They’re usually very experienced in delaying gratification and, therefore, under-recognized experts at avoiding disaster. Naturally, good luck can’t protect everyone, so I’m willing to cash in my extra-credit points and look the other way. One of these days, though, whether we deserve it or not, we’re all going to get what we deserve. Like a role of the dice, it’s a forgone conclusion. You’ll recall what happened to the Tetradactyls. Am I’m making myself clear?
Fish Out of Water
Third time I’ve second guessed myself about working double overtime, but sometimes, as an identical twin, I just can’t help putting two and two together, especially when I’ve taken more than half a pay cut. Frankly, I don’t see a future in it. Fortunately, my mindset, although extra-small, is astonishingly well-groomed. In fact, at last night’s mini-extravaganza, I received a hand-carved, left-handed participation trophy. It’s a beauty; an authentic replica of the Oscar. It’s astonishing what a skilled whittler can do with just a bar of soap and a six-inch switchblade.
One of these days, I’m going to be a roaring success. It’ll just take a little time and a boost to my middlebrow IQ. I have ideas I haven’t even thought of yet. In fact, I’d already be famous if I hadn’t stumbled over my flugelhorn at the welcome home party at the state correctional facility. No, it wasn’t the embarrassment that nearly killed me, so much as it was everybody laughing at me. If I’d been them, and I’d discovered a fish out of water wearing a choreographed wig, I’d have given him a drink. Pronto.
Photo of Brad Rose
BIO: Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of eight collections of poetry and flash fiction: Or Words to that Effect, I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, WordInEdgeWise, Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: Baltimore Review, New York Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Puerto del Sol, Clockhouse, Folio, Best Microfiction (2019), The Gorko Gazette, The Los Angeles Times, and other journals and anthologies. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com