four poems

by Brad Rose

Cages

Not sure whether public executions are still tax deductible, but like the wealthy so often remind us, somebody has to come in last.  Each of us travels a million and a half miles per day around the Sun without realizing it. Many are too busy taking a victory lap to notice that some people look forward to a funeral. Of course, six feet under isn’t exactly the whole nine yards, but who’s counting? Say, you look like someone who can keep a secret: Did you know that you can feed uncooked flesh to the animals, any time you’d like. Go ahead, try it.

Wait. Not those animals. Just the ones in cages.

I Found You, as if by Echolocation

I put on the nervous mating music. Despite my indescribable t-shirt and low-cut high-top boots, I think I may need a little more va-va-voom. I always try to look both ways before crossing the Arctic, even though the birds, especially the penguins, admire my icy stare. Of course, one day, I’d love to have my picture included in the Bible, but who wouldn’t?  Sometimes, I find it hard to know how long I should be sorry, although when push comes to shove, I prefer to start each day with dessert. Maybe something a little bit crispy, crunchy, and peanut brickle-ish. I know I’m a little light on details here, but whenever my unconscious does the driving, I give it the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been certified as a fully trained sawtooth lumberjack, so while camping, I don’t mind even a smidge about barbecuing my own clothes. Meanwhile, I hope you don’t mind me saying so: I like the cut of your jib, Mister.

Clown Fate

There’s no official diagnosis for my condition. Whether I’m supine or prone, I’m always smiling. Thanks to one Big Bang or another, I seem to be in two time zones, simultaneously. Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep or to become a better procrastinator? Yesterday, at the car wash, I outnumbered myself by two-to-one, so I rolled down all the windows and let in the double-crossing rain. With all due respect, I ask you, can imagining a better future really make it come true? Yesterday, I checked in to the Happy Clown Hotel. With shoes as big as these, what choice did I have? 

Sisyphus Cachinnating

Like the soft petals of the scissor’s blades, the dead complain of insomnia. Maybe it’s due to the caffeine? Admittedly, their pajamas are hot and itchy, but when you awake, are you the same person you were when you went to sleep? Lately, I’ve been doing all the bad things that are good for me. With a little concentration, you can too, if only you expand your mindlessness. We don’t all need to be on the same page, you know, especially if you’re like me, constantly battling false equivalents. Of course, it’s all Greek to me, but thanks to the gravity of the situation, what goes up, must come down. We must imagine Sisyphus, light-headed, giggling.   

Photo of Brad Rose

BIO: Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of seven collections of poetry and flash fiction: I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly,  WordInEdgeWise,  Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain,  Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. His book of prose poems, Or Words to that Effect, is forthcoming. Eight times nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and three times nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: The American Journal of Poetry, The Los Angeles Times, Baltimore Review, New York Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Puerto del Sol, Clockhouse, Folio, Best Microfiction (2019), Action Spectacle, Right Hand Pointing, and other journals and anthologies. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com  Selected audio readings:  http://bradrosepoetry.com/audio-readings/