Two Poems
Brad Rose
Pointless
Whenever the planets align, I run around in figure 8’s, divided by two. It’s like dialoguing with myself in doublespeak. But who really gives a damn about the horse latitudes? I’m not a professional stuntman, so before I get in over my head, I like to take a rain check. Henry James wanted to create a national map of what people were dreaming, but before he could perfect his powers of suggestion, he psyched himself out. Nevertheless, he was awarded a participation trophy despite having nightmares about his dream job. Incidentally, don’t you find it a little loud in here? Sure, it’s a locked ward, but who’s to say there isn’t a crowbar-toting locksmith among our colleagues? That’s why I’ve been psychoanalyzing myself. Not only is it cheaper if you use your own tools, but it’s easier than growing apples for the farm team. Naturally, I like to complain about things that are good for me, but shouldn’t every silver cloud have a fuzzy lining? I may be easily impressed, but I can’t help liking the way the lines line up, all in a line. Of course, no matter how hard they try, some people just can’t see the point.
Never Too Late
Deserted on a desert island, you can be your own boss, especially if you’re all lawyered up, like everybody else. No apologies necessary. Just let your conscience be your guide. Of course, it helps to be a monomaniacal recluse who likes spending your days filling in the blanks, then it’s almost Zen-like. I don’t know if there are any Japanese restaurants in Japan, but if there are, I’m sure they’re better looking than the average American citizen. Fortunately, their clocks are organized in alphabetical time, which is similar to ours, only with more letters. Then it’s back to square one, just like always. In the long run, everything is just around the corner. Naturally, wherever you are, the food is terrible. That’s why, before the rescue party arrives, I’m going to barbeque the parrot and sink the life boat. Like they say, it’s never too late to follow your dreams, Matey.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles and lives in Boston. He is the author of five collections of poetry and flash fiction: Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain., Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. His poetry collection, WordInEdgeWise is forthcoming. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com