A Bite, Not a Sting
Of course, real punishment is having to be the person you are, although frankly, it’s already none of my business. As I recite this poem to your lie detector, I notice that my mouth disperses vibrant, hard-to-pin-down air, with the flavor of a multivitamin. It’s like being ill and ugly cool. Whenever I’m seized by choreomania, I find it’s best to allege that I’m renowned for failing at next steps. Nonetheless, I tweet whatever I feel like, whenever I feel like it. You probably think that’s because Elvis impersonators are a dime a dozen. But that’s not true. It’s like that time you told me that the mosquitos were singing you an aria. “Believe me,” I said, while slapping myself in the face, “it’s for your own good.” For better and for worse, our memories are reshaped and rewritten every time we recall an event. “Don’t’ be ridiculous,” you assured me, “mosquitos don’t sting.”
The Truth About Love
Long ago, when music was rectangular, I was voted by my senior class “most likely to survive capital punishment.” Of course, there are many different kinds of love. Some are angry fun, others, a one-car funeral. Like that time we were driving across the Golden Gate Bridge and you told me that I have two different colored eyes. I realized, right then and there, we are spied upon by our own Wi-Fi. As long as I am barreling through this amnesia, I might as well mention that incident with the lesbian robots. At first, I thought it was a party trick, until you told me it was just me. How was I to know it wasn’t necessary to communicate exclusively via homophones? What did you expect? I don’t read music, although I do own all the Led Zeppelin Christmas albums. By the way, I don’t care what color they are, Fruit Loops are all an identical flavor, and I’m willing to bet some real Hollywood money to prove it, too. Yes, I was in church when that terrible weight-lifting accident happened. The barbells were so heavy, not even Jesus could lift them. But as you know, we’re always willing to forgive beauty, even if we’re never prepared to forgive love. Just as time leaks from a clock, little by little, love leaks from our lives. There is nothing we can do about it. It’s the just law of averages. Because everyone knows love is nothing like that.
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, in fiction, and a 2013 recipient of Camroc Press Review’s, Editor’s Favorite Award. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The Baltimore Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Potomac, Santa Fe Literary Review, Monkeybicycle, and other fine publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com/ His chapbook of miniature fiction, Coyotes Circle the Party Store, can be read at: https://sites.google.com/site/bradroserhpchapbook/ Audio recordings of a selection of Brad’s published poetry can be heard at: https://soundcloud.com/bradrose1