2016-02-17

True Religion
—prose poem by Brad Rose

Madam X stopped laughing. Down at the Dirty Laundry, amid the SWAT-ness of it all, they’d run out LOL. I thought, That’s funny, it doesn’t look like a Wednesday night, but my mid-life crisis had just started to gain momentum, causing a serious rethink of my career in miniature golf.  Of course, this was not my first time at the existential rodeo, but ever since the collision, I don’t trust my wristwatch.  Not worth a damn.  The sign in the butcher shop window read ‘BIG WIG SALE’, so I collected my thoughts, and re-positioned my lei. My parents had warned me about this. Don’t swim in Mystery Lake, they said.  But what did they know? They couldn’t tell whether I was lovesick or jet lagged, even on those days when I wouldn’t let go of my hairless cat, Anonymous.  Jesus said we have nothing to worry about, we have an after-lifetime guarantee. Who am I to disagree with God’s only child?  But when I joined the tiny house movement, everyone sneered, That’s so California, as if I had bought a lavender Cadillac or chipped a piece of terrazzo from Raymond Chandler’s glittering star on Hollywood Blvd.   So, I told them that I’d rented a four-bedroom apartment at the Venus De Milo Arms. “But, Milo, what about all that swank?” they sneered.  I just smiled my power-hungry smile and looked lovingly in the direction of my freshly painted lawn.  Like Richard Nixon, I was completely confident there was no evidence of evidence-tampering.  Besides, everyone knows it all started with just one fish, one loaf.


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Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. His book of poetry and micro fiction, Pink X-Ray, is available from Big Table Publishing.

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