Last night, from fear that I might be faking my imposter syndrome, I dreamt I was having an imitation nightmare. No matter what you do, you have to do something. At least my bottom line is growing topsy-turvy, and I’m learning how to stand up for myself while lying down. Someday, I’d like to change things up a bit – maybe with an edgy, blunt, layered look – but I’m a chip off the old block (and my teeth are much too short). Of course, it’s none of my damn business, so I’m letting bygones be bygones. On another note, as soon as I return from taking my mastiff, Id Charise, for her midnight walk, I’m going to look into building a luxury apocalypse bunker. It’s always wholesome to acquire real-world skills in the online crypto-sphere. Like Sigmund Freud said, once you’ve unleashed your animal instincts, it may be difficult to sidestep your hidden savage footprints; but if you sleep in late, while wearing a horsehair shirt, no one will notice the massive paw prints leading directly toward your wide-open front door. Bon appétit.
After the faux pas with the orangutan, I was summarily disinvited. How was I to know he was a dignitary from the embassy? His dune buggy didn’t even have diplomatic license plates. Hey, those are terrific spats you’re wearing. They make me want to don a top hat and open a vintage bank account. I know the economy is going all to Hell, but at least now we can earn extra credit points while curtailing our discretionary spending. As a matter of fact, my financial advisor, Pumpernickel Stillson, tells me that a wise investor can still increase the number of laughs per second, if he (or she) invests handsomely in Venusian earthquake insurance and takes copious amounts of multicolored Ativan. Stillson isn’t just one of those corporate-friendly family anesthetists. He has an advanced degree in hazard mitigation and self-discovery. He’s just like a real pro. By the way, Neanderthal families took trips to the beaches of Portugal around 80,000 years ago. Yeah, they wore sassy surf trunks and hung ten over the nose of their longboards. Despite the sunscreen, some got quite tan.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles and now lives in Boston. He is the author of seven collections of poetry and flash fiction: I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, WordInEdgeWise, Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. His book of prose poems, Or Words to That Effect, is forthcoming. Eight times nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and three times nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Los Angeles Times, Red Ogre Review, Baltimore Review, New York Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Puerto del Sol, Clockhouse, Folio, Best Microfiction (2019), Action Spectacle, Right Hand Pointing, and other journals and anthologies.
His website and blog, along with selected readings, can be found at bradrosepoetry.com.