2016-07-06

Popular in Your Network
—a poem by Brad Rose

Angry flies are such beautiful animals. Like when you’re afloat on a shimmering sea and your bunkmates from the ghost conference assure you even the lame dog will one day be fed, but you can’t stop thinking, so much roiling water with nothing on itbut light.  Of course, the specifics of my participation are a closely guarded secret, but who am I to complain? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to assume a sniper’s perspective, even if you missed the swearing-in ceremony, goddamn it.  Everyone loves a trapdoor, especially those two escaped suicides who were elected Most Likely to Succeed.  But I warn you: never get caught between two trains that pass, simultaneously, like identical twins, in opposite directions.  You’ll find your eyes rapidly following these lines across the page, like chasing the southerly end of a northbound bullet, and before you know it, the pleasure will be all mine.  In fact, on this dwarf planet there is no alternative. It’s business as usual, especially when you’re left to your own devices.  Wake up early from the nightshift so you can dream it true. Death ticks relentlessly inside us.  There’s no escaping.  It’s all the rage.

Death ticks relentlessly inside us.  Wake up early from the nightshift, so you can dream it true. It’s business as usual, especially when you’re left to your own devices.  In fact, on this dwarf planet there is no alternative. You’ll find your eyes rapidly following these lines across the page, like chasing the southerly end of a northbound bullet, and before you know it, the pleasure will be all mine.  But I warn you: never get caught between two trains that pass, simultaneously, like identical twins, in opposite directions.  Everyone loves a trapdoor, especially those two escaped suicides who were elected Most Likely to Succeed.  I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to assume a sniper’s perspective, even if you missed the swearing-in ceremony, goddamn it. Of course, the specifics of my participation are a closely guarded secret, but who am I to complain?  Like when you’re afloat on a shimmering sea and your bunkmates from the ghost conference assure you even the lame dog will one day be fed, but you can’t stop thinking, so much roiling water with nothing on itbut light.


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Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015). Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize in fiction, Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: The Commonline Journal, The Los Angeles Times, Folio, decomP, The Baltimore Review, The Midwest Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, San Pedro River Review, Off the Coast,Heavy Feather Review, Posit, Third Wednesday, Boston Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, The Molotov Cocktail and other publications. Brad is the author of three electronic chapbooks, all from Right Hand Pointing: Democracy of SecretsDancing School Nerves,and Coyotes Circle the Party Store,

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