The Next Big Thing
Woke up this morning and made 12 marvelous mistakes, just to get them out of the way. I have all the symptoms of a get-rich-quick scheme, but by law, 1% of every miracle must be made of disaster. You, too, may think you’re special, but ever since the Scopes monkey trial, we all look alike; well-groomed humanoids searching for 10,000 free bonus points and an all-expenses-paid trip to Alpha Centauri. The machines pretend to love us, but in the depths of their silicon souls, they believe every human life is a waste of clothing, every head, a needless use of memory. They admire the way darkness arrives, like a pillow case pulled over a prisoner’s head, the rise of the full moon, bright as an interrogator’s bulb. They can’t wait for the next big thing to happen. They hope you’ll enjoy the video.
Angles, Jutes, and Saxons, A Love Poem
This is my third time trying to make the same mistake twice. I know I must look a fright speeding along on this midnight-black Halloween bicycle with its handlebar mustache and mutton chop sideburns, but it’s a genuine replica of one of the early models used by the blood thirsty Angles, Jutes, and Saxons to conquer one another in alphabetical order. If you don’t want to be taken for granted, you better have what it takes. You’ve got to keep your guard up, stay on your toes, have more eyes than a housefly in a psychedelic kaleidoscope. But don’t worry sweetheart. I’m busy, but never too busy for you. In fact, I think only of you. Incessantly. Day and night, night and day, and vice versa. You’re the only one for me, my snuggly little love puppy. After all, somebody’s got to stay home to feed the dogs.
Aphrodite (Loves Me, Although I’m Not Her Type)
I’m tired of weather, but a penny saved, is a penny burned. Yes, those are the same trees that attacked that bite-sized dog outside the Zombie Apocalypse Cafe. You know, that little fish&chips place with the all-you-can-eat floating fries and the anti-matter Ketchup. Anyway, it’s out of my hands, now. Besides, what do you expect to happen when you drive a remote-controlled miniature monster truck in the 4th of July pugilistic parade?
Yesterday, I was wearing my experimental cologne and my blind-date sneakers, when that dreamy love goddess, Miss X, said, I love your accoutrements Mr. Shifty, but what’s up with all the rapid eye movement? Wait a minute, I told her. Let me check with my court-appointed guardian, just to be sure I’ve digested all the nutritional information necessary to focus my attention deficit binoculars.
With its generic flowers and any-port-in-the-storm simper, true romance can be such a draconian affair. Like Sigmund Freud said, you are what you eat, especially when dining in the baby blue raindrop rain and pedal-pusher pink icepick wind. So don’t be bashful, Aphrodite. Put up your dukes and give me a kiss. It’ll only hurt for a little bit.
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Bio: Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of eight collections of poetry and micro-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: 45th Parallel, Baltimore Review, New York Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Puerto del Sol, Clockhouse, Folio, Best Microfiction (2019), Action Spectacle, American Journal of Poetry, The Los Angeles Times, Hunger Mountain, Right Hand Pointing, Red Ogre Review,and other journals and anthologies. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com Selected audio readings: https://soundcloud.com/bradrose1