The Truth about Santa
Over the holiday weekend, I ingested a few careless stimulants and a couple of imperfect party favors. Fortunately, I’d pre-memorized everything twice, in case next time around, I forgot to do first things first. Then I listened to some easy listening punk radio on internet TV. As far as I could tell, my jolt-n-bolt dancing turned out OK, although I’m not sure whether it was a pas de deux or a tête-à-tête, but it was definitely double trouble; it gave me a headache. Miss Step Astair, my foxtrot robot, whispered, If you’re not careful, Brian, stray notes can get under your skin and animate different layers of your viscera. You know, like electric fishhooks convulsing in baby bonefish. Poor Astair. Evidently, her adoptive birth parents prematurely told her the truth about Santa.
Surprises
I want to avoid being as late to this year’s New Year’s Eve party, as I was at the turn of the last millennium, so I’m building a hand-crafted time machine. It’s nearly complete. It fits in my Y2K bathtub, so the runoff suds won’t ruin the armature. I’ve nearly got the whole thing choreographed. I’ve found that Mariachi music helps to coordinate the switches, but of course, the knobs are a whole other story. When this thing hits the market, I’ll probably get the Nobel prize for time management. My fraternal brothers in the Loner’s Club are sure to regret throwing me out for violating the up-to-the-minute dress code. How was I to know that epaulettes were only worn by battle-scarred officers? I guess it didn’t help that I was opposed to rescuing abandoned puppies. Had I known that Chihuahuas are an endangered species, I would have hopped on the bandwagon and adopted a couple of strays. By the way, what time is today’s surprise timebomb scheduled to go off? Is that military or civilian time? Fantastic. Then, I won’t plan on anticipating any unexpected surprises.
A Tool for Digging or an Inverted Heart with a Short Stem at the Cusp?
Now that everyone is their own phone booth and the in-coming money is coming in low, I’m going to line up my zigzag ducks in a corporately authorized straight line. That’ll be a real zinger, won’t it? Incidentally, I think I’m being watched. And not just because of the reverse pre-paid back taxes I owe. Since my recent ghostification and illicit three-week stay in that hilarious time capsule hotel, I’ve been evading both zero gravity and heavy metals. After all, how many numbers do we really need to describe reality. The short answer is that there is no long answer. We have no choice other than to live in the ambient grey environment of the algorithms’ post-factual universe. But what are you going to do? Call a spade a spade?
About the artist
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles and lives in Boston. He is the author of eight collections of poetry and flash fiction: Or Words to that Effect, I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. Brad is also the author of seven poetry chapbooks, among them, Democracy of Secrets, An Evil Twin is Always in Good Company, and Funny You Should Ask. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com.
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Image: Carl Larsson Bathroom Scene 1909.jpg
Carl Larsson, ‘Bathroom Scene’, 1909
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