From I Wouldn’t Say That Exactly
Good Luck, Mr. Goldilocks
Like air conditioning in the winter, document shredding can be a beautiful thing. In fact, thanks to my autobiographical blood, all morning in the bathroom mirror, I’ve been practicing my tightfisted happy face. I’m so handsome, I’d like to ask myself to dance, but just take a look at these bohemian teeth. I’m hoping for a suspended sentence. Fortunately, it’s not what you say that matters, it’s how you say it. Sure, I’ve made a couple of bad turns here and there, but if life is just one giant simulation, why can’t there be a happily ever after for everyone? Thank goodness the robots know us even better than we know ourselves. Good luck consists of all the bad things that don’t happen to you. And a couple of winning lottery tickets. Yesterday, when I told Miss Kitty not to worry; I’m sure things are going to turn out just right, she said, If you’re really lucky, Mr. Goldilocks, life is just one long sleepover. And no bears.
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Pointless
Whenever the planets align, I run around in figure 8’s, divided by two. It’s like dialoguing with myself in doublespeak. But who really gives a damn about the horse latitudes? I’m not a professional stuntman, so before I get in over my head, I like to take a rain check. William James wanted to create a national map of what people were dreaming, but before he could perfect his powers of suggestion, he psyched himself out. Nevertheless, he was awarded a participation trophy, despite having nightmares about his dream job. Incidentally, don’t you find it a little loud in here? Sure, it’s a locked ward, but who’s to say there isn’t a crowbar-toting locksmith among our colleagues? That’s why I’ve been psychoanalyzing myself. Not only is it cheaper if you use your own tools, but it’s easier than growing apples for the farm team. Naturally, I like to complain about things that are good for me, but shouldn’t every silver cloud have a fuzzy lining? I may be easily impressed, but I can’t help liking the way the lines line up, all in a line. Of course, no matter how hard they try, some people just can’t see the point.
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About I Wouldn’t Say That Exactly
Brad Rose’s latest book of prose poems, I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, demonstrates the author’s unparalleled virtuosity with the surreal prose poem. In Rose’s hands, this hybrid form is elevated to new heights of surprise and delight, as the seemingly disjointed claims of each poem’s speaker reveal a wild associational logic and astonishing jolts of insight. Through a combination of humor, perplexity, silliness, and gravitas, I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, entertains and fascinates. It’s manic energy, quirky observations, and raucous inventiveness deliver to the reader the ultimate literary combination of amazement, amusement, and satisfaction
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