Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

sacrificial rites of passage

I’m done
sacrificing myself on the altar
of those who never truly
loved me.

I cut out my heart with a knife
and gave it to you, and
you discarded it like
a dead bird you found
outside your window. okay,
I said, and turned myself down
a notch or ten.

then I crammed my hollow body
in a box and mailed it
C.O.D. to my mother,
who refused delivery.

so when it comes to
the old Aztec ways,
I’m over it. give me a
hot new death and a cool,
clean slate, maybe a
scalpel this time.
tell the gods they’ll get
their pound of flesh,
but the contents of
my skull will stay
a mystery.

solipsism

the world doesn’t really
revolve around me,
and mostly I’m glad.
that way lies madness,
something out of a sci-fi
movie when you turn on
the TV and the anchorperson
is saying your name, but only you
can hear it, and tinfoil hats,
and on the other end of that is
Kanye West.

all jokes aside,
he’s quite obnoxious and
if I were to be as egotistical
it would really be quite boring.
the world is actually far more
interesting when it’s not
all about me, I tell myself.

yes, there is a certain appeal
to the idea
of getting everyone else
to sing my praises so I can look
modest and outwardly deny
while inwardly urging them on.
the problem with that is
there are only really two ways
to make it happen: pay them,
or just become so undeniably
fabulous that they are compelled
to acknowledge my genius.
both seem like a hard row to hoe
with no guarantee of success.
I guess I’ll just carry on
being a tiny speck
in a vast uncaring universe.

what’s that? it’s not
all or nothing? I’m neither
God Empress of Dune, nor
a sandworm’s leavings?
well that doesn’t sound
nearly dramatic enough.
I’ll be both. just try
and stop me.

last wishes

you were having problems
and I said, “that can kill you,
please don’t die” and you began
to joke about dying, telling me
your last wishes. I rolled my
eyes and started upstairs.
you said, “you’re not even going
to kiss me. this could be
my last night on earth”
I turned around and said,
“my kiss does not
signify acceptance
of your death” and then
I kissed you four times
and then three more times, and then
I sniffed your mouth
like an animal does, like my cats do to me,
to see how close you were
to death. you smelled fine.
you made fun of me for it
and you’ll be sorry if that
was the last thing you
said to me before you died.
but you’ll be sorrier because
I will never forgive you for
dying on me like that, when
what ails you is so easily
remedied by modern medicine.

square peg

I used to be that girl,
the one with the knife in her heart
slowly twisting it
getting off on the pain
and the slow poisoning,
using it to make my art
because happiness seemed
in such short supply. I was angry
at life for tormenting me
and at myself for letting it,
but mostly I was wallowing
in sadness. and then
someone offered me
a way out. and I realized
that it was my choice
all along, and therefore I could
choose to feel differently.

all those things
that made me feel
like I was not good enough,
irredeemably flawed, broken,
gradually transformed
into what made me me
and seen through
different eyes, became
lovable.

if you’re out there trying
to hammer that square peg
into a round hole, just
walk away. all that energy
will come back to you threefold
once you release it
from its fruitless labor.

the word

there is a piece of data
I am not able to obtain
that would be relevant
to my interests, were it readily
available: what word
(or phrase) did a visitor search for,
to find that poem
they remembered and
wanted to read again?
of all the words
I strung together, which
were the one(s) that
spoke to them and
were unique? this is a secret
that is surely known
to some entity or
algorithm, other than
the querent themselves.
WordPress, Google, hell, I’ll even
ask Jeeves.

Continue reading the word

a hard slog

I’m trying to do my best
with what I’ve been given,
but it’s tough going.
the dyslexic chef
must be on duty again,
the one that when I say
“light on the cheese”
instead gives me double.
it’s a cheesy mess
over here, a cheesetastrophy.
I’m peeling away
a whole outer layer
of solid cheese, and finding
just more cheese under it.
if I were at home, I could
make something of this
mess, namely by adding
a lot more macaroni, but
I’m stuck. the longer I wait
the more gluey it gets.
should I give it up
or struggle womanfully
through it?

imposter syndrome

I don’t deserve
to take myself seriously.
I’m a fraud, a fool, a dilettante, a dumbass.
taking yourself seriously
is for winners.
that’s why I make sure
to make lots of faces
after I play a song.
just in case anyone thought
I was sincerely hoping
to deserve your serious
attention. I’m just anticipating
the critique that has long since
stopped coming. it now resounds
only in my own head. if I admit
all the flaws first, will I escape
the put-down?

no. there’s no point.
might as well pretend
that I don’t hate myself.
maybe if I do it long enough,
I’ll finally start
to believe it.