Poetry: Brad Rose
In Media Res
Everything on this planet fails fails in the middle even death your life is death’s failure but it’s not too late you can rescue death you can go to death’s school, learn death’s lessons don’t worry study look, already you are between floors, a mezzanine you’re almost nothing inside you, there is a kind of beauty it’s not that kind of beauty stand still listen to the snow listen closer people read your thoughts you’re only a rumor a thousand days of snow music about music everyone wants to like you, but they don’t don’t worry, you will become “A” and “not A” most planets remain unnamed hurry, you must start forgetting nature adores a vacuum that outfit, by the way, is perfect on you your body is a story—sentences what comes next? when accidents happen, are they invisible or see-through? it’s not something you should worry about trust me, your secrets are safe with me there’s nothing to worry about you are a story word-for-word right up until the end
I want to get out of the car. And why shouldn’t I? It’s parked, isn’t it? Outside a house. An abandoned house. I like abandoned houses. I like to look at them. This one sends me a silent message. It’s tired. Tired of being in this world. Fixed to the earth, it’s tired of this house-world. This one wants to get plastic surgery, become a theme park, move to Florida. Hey, that reminds me. Maybe I’ll look you up. Yeah, I’m going to look you up. Are you still in the world? Do you have a house? I saw King Tut’s sarcophagus, once. In a museum. Gold, calm, still. Face of a girl. Nothing inside. Like a dream of deep space. Did you know that sleep is the third leading cause of death? Even if you don’t like to think about it—even when you’re driving through a tunnel—sleep is death. King Tut looked quiet as a river. Asleep, calm, dreaming, with his eyes wide open. Something seemed to float there, just above his quiet stare. I’ll bet if he uncrossed his arms, he could have reached out, touched it. But the weight of that gold weighed heavy on Tut. He lay there, steady, motionless. He wasn’t going anywhere. I wonder if he was tired? Tired of staring. Tired of dreaming. When I get out of this car, I’m going to go inside that house. I’m going to look around. Maybe, see what emptiness looks like. From the inside. Maybe, look out the house’s windows. Just look out the windows, think about all those rooms with no one in them. No one dreaming. I’ll bet it’s quiet in there. Quiet and empty. Like a dream. Like a god.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is a sociologist, and author of a collection of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015). Two new books of poems, Momentary Turbulence and WordInEdgeWise are forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press.
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