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Brad Rose: Mr. Wittgenstein Writes to Ms. Stein

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. Mr Wittgenstein Writes to Ms. Stein. I called you many times, but you didn’t answer. This has left me no alternative, but to write you now, in order to reach you by other means. Of course, it is as difficult to say precisely what one means, as it is to mean precisely what one says. Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent . What can one say about this? What can it mean to say that one must be silent? Appeared in Fall, 2012 Off the Coast. A Girl Like You.

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Brad Rose: The Next Thing You Know

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. The Next Thing You Know. Everything, its own invention, happens eventually, although sometimes not at all: the music of fog, cannibal piñata, razor blade hula hoops. Have you noticed that if you talk about time, it slows? If you talk about love, it stops? Appeared at Camroc Press Review, 2013. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). 160;At YouTube:   Ken Plans a Trip to Toys R Us      . Audio: Tehachapi Seven Eleven. The Next Thing You Know. March Snow At Arlington. Boston Lite...

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Brad Rose: March Snow At Arlington

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. March Snow At Arlington. The slow air, snow quiet,. Salt-white flecks, descending. Into this world’s vacancy. Into the stilled mouths of the dead. I’m waiting here, for the lost,. The slumbering slain,. To storm their way home;. The sand of their desert,. The snow of their death. I see now, beneath this earth,. In its obverse darkness,. A line of children, single-file,. Each child smartly dressed,. For the first day of school. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Santa Fe Li...

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Brad Rose: A Stabbing

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. Changed my prints, moved eleven times, learned to blend in with the crowd. But there’s always something coming, no matter how good you get at looking over your shoulder. In my front pocket, I worry the rosary of two copper-tipped bullets. At 42. St, a man with a scar scrawled across his forehead approaches. As he nears, his fog-gray eyes meet mine. I'm dead certain I can hear him ticking. Don’t be ridiculous. I reassure myself, " bombs don’t tick. A Girl Like You.

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Brad Rose: Audio: A Passenger

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. Listen to: A Passenger. Urges prowl and posture. Digging a deeper ditch. Through your delicate frame. You are seven miles of oblivion,. Secrets too large to detect,. Darker than swallowed mountains. Nerves, a cul de sac,. Stitches jittering in a pale paradise,. Something is almost left of your heart. Without an enemy, you’d disappear. Like a list, you write yourself down. So you won’t forget. Dire candy, too many dead to remember,. Accidents don’t just happen. Brad ...

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Brad Rose: Audio: Burnt Ghosts

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. Listen to: Burnt Ghosts. Carbon dark, invisible as fish in the rain,. What good are our tattoos? No one can see them. Disconnected phone numbers,. Who would ever call us? Frictionless, flame-smooth,. One degree above freezing,. We weigh less than ourselves. It can’t be explained. Dark matter, unseen as salt on snow. At the door, you can’t quite tell if we are coming or going. We pause for a posthumous cigarette. And watch the smoke rise in reverse,. A Girl Like You.

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Brad Rose: Pink X-Ray

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. No lights on,. I know where everything is. Nevertheless, I hold my breath,. Anticipating a reeling emergency,. But it’s just a feeling. Some people fear almost everything. I am a professional. I know what I’m doing. Bullets of hot water,. Steam sketching a cloud,. Soap scumbling my face and hands,. I am a cleansed ghost,. Shining in the pink dark. Only my x-ray charm. And infallible sense of direction. Prevent me from swirling. Down the giddy vortex. A Girl Like You.

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Brad Rose: Mug Shot Photographer

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Poetry and Unbelievably Brief Fiction. Full-face and profile, rumpled and blank,. They glare into the middle distance,. Some with new mistakes’ fresh pink scars,. Others with the pimples of innocence. Eyes, blue as a bruise or brown as dirt,. Their faces, shallow, wild places,. Like a bed where an animal might have slept. Drunk hair spikes toward the florescent ceiling,. Locker-room scent of fear and resignation,. They slouch against the yardstick’s measure,. As I gauge their height, assay their stature.