Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

rush hour

fighting my way
through the crowd at Grand Central
I see how very many people
there are in the world. you have to
know exactly where you’re going
and be determined to brook
no delays, to make it
when there are so many other
salmon swimming against
the current.

it’s like that with love, I think.
there are a million girls out there
who are prettier
than me. there are a million boys out there
who could keep me company,
if I wanted any. but there’s no one
exactly like me, and no one
exactly like you. does it
really matter? my love will be
all-consuming or it will be
bullshit. life’s too short
for half measures.

to the bartender at my second favorite venue, whose name may be Ben

when you left the garden
toting those cases of beer,
somehow accidentally-on-purpose
the door got closed and
he and I were suddenly locked out,
together, alone.

I was downright
thrilled. there was something magical
in the air that night, and I
wanted to drink it in,
silvery and heady as
midnight dew in the tiny cups
of night-blooming flowers.
the sky felt like
there should be a full moon,
though I’m pretty sure
there wasn’t.

Continue reading to the bartender at my second favorite venue, whose name may be Ben

Roll Call: Anne

Anne
is the 14 year old girl who went away
to a new summer camp one year
and decided to change her name, to see
if the reason the other girls
at school and at previous camps
didn’t like her was because of her
weird name, if it somehow
made her act weird. her experiment kind of
worked.

she named herself after
Anne of Green Gables,
of course, and insisted on the
extra “e” as the only correct
spelling, even though her own
aunt is named Ann. (she felt guilty
about that, of course, but not
enough to refrain from doing it.)

Continue reading Roll Call: Anne

Roll Call: Page

Page
is the exhausted mother
who got no sleep for the first 6 months
after I was born because
I had colic and cried constantly.

people who believe
in reincarnation say
that if a baby has colic it is because
two souls are fighting to be reborn
in the same tiny vessel
and when the colic stops it means
one of them has won. I wonder
who won mine?

Page just wants
to be left alone. she doesn’t want
to take care of these brats
with no help from
her husband. she misses
her own mother
every day, though they can never
be reunited. she’s a self-made martyr
who constantly wants attention
for her selflessness.

Roll Call: Bucky

Bucky
is the three year old who ran
into the street and made
my mother chase her,
who dragged that same mother –
extremely pregnant with
my sister – up and down the stairs
of all the brownstones
on the street. she’s
the one who wants just exactly
what she wants
and will brook no
opposition, even from
herself. she was the child
who picked up everything she saw,
and studied it very closely,
trying to find out all the details
about how it was made
and what it did, observing,
forming hypotheses. one time she
was picking up bugs
around the pool at
that summer house my parents
were staying at and she
picked up a bee, which promptly
stung her. she says
it was worth it. that bee had such
velvety golden fur with
bold black stripes, and the wings
were so cunningly
crafted. she’s a naturalist, an engineer and
a brave explorer at heart.

Roll Call: Catherine

Catherine
is the glamorous, depressed,
chain-smoking artist,
a fatalist, very sarcastic
and funny but always
with that edge that can be used
to cut herself. she’s Dorothy Parker
but she doesn’t even care.
nothing can touch her
ineffable sadness.
that’s what makes her
so very cool. a goth and a hipster
before they existed, she’s too laconic
to even say any more
at this juncture, except to note that
rumors of her death
are pretty damn accurate,
because she dies inside
every day.

run out

you’ve seen it
at least thrice now.
how and when
I run out of track. how my train
of thoughts just can’t
go any further. the spirit is willing
but the vessel is so weak.
I don’t want to
leave you, but I must retire.
when I’m off the rails for too long
everything stops
making sense,
myself most of all. even you
can’t help me sleep
when you’re reduced to a message
on a screen. the wind whistles
like a steam engine
around my little attic room.
stop the world, I gotta get off.
Morpheus – not to be confused with
his elder sister –
is calling my name.

clocks

I’m sorry
that I interrupt so very often
in conversation.
if anyone takes more than
two seconds
to think about their contribution
to the discourse, I feel compelled
to speak for them, thinking I can
read their minds
and guess what they
are going to say. I know
it’s wrong and rude
and everyone hates it
but I can’t seem
to stop myself from doing it.

Continue reading clocks

the window

it’s been open
for some time now.
we both know it.

but. just so you know,
it won’t be
forever.

your five year plan
is about four years too long
for me. life’s too short
to wait that long
to be happy.

I’m starting to
believe that I deserve
to be happy. not for
nothing, but you do
too. neither of us
is the worst. why
are we punishing ourselves?

I feel in my heart
that we could be happy
together. I know
feelings aren’t facts,
but I’d rather try
and love each other while
we’re both still alive
than forever wonder
what could have been.

let’s not
stall and dither
and let the feeling die
and wither on the vine.
let’s drink our wine
and get while the getting’s
good. and if not,
please get
gone.