A Genus of People
within a snow globe
grew a drought
this world
in which we were bred,
was never sustainable.
yet
here we are,
filling in the cracks of the clay
with the juice
of our skinny bodies,
fertilizing
the best miniature versions of ourselves.
each version
nothing more than a
bite sized piece
of
dehydrated meat.
we are
what we always will be,
just a collection of stewards
starving for a piece of light,
farming
for an impossible harvest.
When Dogs Are Awake
i study my dogs
and i’m convinced
they have nothing
to bark about.
the brindle,
just stands at the edge
of the gray composite steps,
and yells at the warped wooden fence
about something
that only he could ever comprehend.
the tan,
just looks into my eyes,
always sad,
just wanting a few empty pets,
if he can get them.
it’s 12:48 in the morning,
and we are outside on the back deck.
i just want them to go to bed
before i can grab those final few breaths
before i go to bed,
where i can finally be free
of everything that keeps me shackled
to this earth,
before the sun decides to rise.
- Brad Burjan
Medium rare
the blood
and fat
from the sirloin
stains the wooden cutting board.
the muscle
of the cow
rests for one last time.
the remains were massaged
and rubbed
with good salt
and some old black pepper.
i press the flesh,
just to check the firmness
of this animal’s death.
i lick the juice of the meat
off my right index finger,
just as it feels safe
to reach for the knife.
Conversation After the Funeral
let’s make this awkward.
let’s pretend
that someone cares.
let’s build a raft
that will haul us to nowhere.
someone, please,
just give us a fucking drink,
so we can pretend
that we are having a constructive conversation.
hurry,
the boat is losing air,
and the lifejackets
are made of lead.
in these situations
we should never had
left the paddles
in a place where
no one would be able to
find them.
- Brad Burjan
© Rossella BLUE Mocerino: Pentaptych The Gaze
Exit
i wake up
and there is an absence of light.
i stretch my eyes
and blink.
i’m not naked,
but i’m alone on the couch.
i stand,
afraid to go back to sleep.
reaching for the brushed nickel
of the midnight door,
i pour myself another drink
and proceed to enter.
- Brad Burjan