Siphoning Gasoline 



Like Texas from 1836 to 1845, I am my own country. Now, there’s no way back. Last week, in art class, I got an “A” for drawing a blank. The instructor said, It’s like air packed with radio waves, Malcolm. Voices, voices everywhere, but without a radio, the viewer can’t hear them. Since then, I’ve learned you can never have too many antennae. Electromagnetic waves travel at the speed of light, but their invisible frequency depends on what your brain looks like on the inside. That’s where I’m based—in the lonely silence of things, like a lamb staring at the sea. With the ocean’s lonesome water buoyed by a crowd of waves, the only solution is the administration of fire. I close my eyes, and picture a fire truck burning in the lopsided rain. The hushed petals of flame, another country, closer to me than I am to myself. 


Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California and lives in Boston. His book of poetry and fiction is Pink X-Ray (Big Table, 2015) and his latest e-chapbook is Democracy of Secrets ( Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, The Baltimore Review, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, Boston Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: