My brother’s latest communiqué—
part flash fiction, part Ted Kaczynski— 
sits between pages 127 and 128 
in Issac Asimov’s Foundation, 
a book we discussed as teens. 
I’ve read the letter eighteen 
times—me, a Talmudic scholar 
searching for the codex tucked 
between subject and verb, 
only to wonder if I’m forecasting 
the familial stock market 
via entrails of a sacrificed squirrel. 

There is no cure, 
just the three-wave sets 
of sanity, then mayhem—
the time he hit a state 
trooper who had stopped 
to help him walk off 
the Long Island Expressway. 

We write these screenplays 
of genes gone bad, through 
haiku of connection 
and isolation—the dance 
finally ending with, 
till death do us part. 

Bio: Gary Grossman