Spoiler

You see her in a mirror, in a wedding gown.
That scene from Seven Minutes in Heaven
with the trains running late
but they're going ahead with the auditions anyway
and ordering takeout.
When you least expect it, she calls
for a costume change
and it turns out to be good.
Tweaking the scene, too. Yes, this could be it.
And then you hear her begin: Evidently, . . .
Regarding the ending?
Let me get through my fish and chips first.

The Pluperfect Storm

You have your heaven, it said, go to it.
          - William Carlos Williams, The Hurricane

The White Rabbit is late, and Snow White is yellow. There's enough time on the meter for one checkmate and enough water under the bridge for one week. The Ghosts of Christmases Past are here, conferencing with the Three Bears. Goldilocks has had her roots painted for a photo op as Shepherdress of the Moment. The Energizer Bunny has snuffed out the Green Lantern and squirreled away fresh batteries and doughnuts. The books to be read are nestled all snug in their Kindle.

The Turin Horse (2011)

Insert Audiodisc 3

Begin anywhere.
          - John Cage

You seek solace in idioms and run smack into a blank stare.

The exigencies of Helvetica provide little comfort

as you consider the caveats of typographers

and the roadworthiness of long distance truckers

who are here for the free ride.

A typeface with élan will spring you from ubiquity

and into the world of graphic comics

where a curve is a curve at your beck and call

and the moon ready willing and able to deliver the latest

in fashionable footwear.

And you thought perhaps this was make-believe?

A pretend-pudding if you will?

Buying into that sort of thing could spell onomatopoeia 

and a trip to the mall rivaling Rimbaud's A Season in Hell.

The Shoes on the Models of Eastern Europe

. . . when [a person] is capable of being in uncertainties,
mysteries, doubts without any irritable reaching after fact
and reason.
          - John Keats

You're lying in the grass
studying the azure map of the sky

comparing it to the veins
on the back of your hand

which lately have been speaking to you - in tongues -
to-and-fro, to-and-fro.

Perhaps you've arrived with someone else?
Or, better, as someone else?

The tingling ebb and flow.
The trials and trails?

The excitement of then, yes?
Aha! You mean I'm excused?

No one's excused.
A few bucks. Just a few bucks,

and you'll be off and running, again.
Sort of.

What brings you here?
An election year?

Filled with unspoken conversations? And negative space?
Let us not forget the place of negative space.

And negative capability, for that matter,
which, for your edification, offers an alternative.

To what?
Your dreams of the Old Country, and its accoutered models.

Be nimble. Be quick. Jump over the dowsing stick.
Yes. Yes. And yes.

Woman XXX

She reads Rilke before counting sheep
splits wood in the afternoon
can change the oil in her pickup faster than Jiffy Lube.
I open an account at Carhartt.

Into the Arbitrary

Blender's render pipeline supports rendering to UV
texturemaps ambient occlusion, normals, displacement,
color, shadows, and full render can be baked.
          - blender.org

And you're swept into the arbitrary.
Those moments when the rational kicks in
creating the illusion of symbiosis
and you feel the connection, and think, This is good.
Walking fast. Texting. You know the deal.
Your world filling with texturemaps, . . .
and normals and shadowy displacements
fully rendered and baked.
I'm not convinced about that last part
especially now with things heating up:
He said. She said. I said. You said.
It calls for robustness with a narrow margin of error.
Tarjay had a special on those not too long ago.
We could all use a break.
From the ins and outs, the ups and downs.
You mean trancelike?
Yeah, that'll work, as well as anything, I guess.

Madame Tutli-Putli (2007)

Missing

You find sentences with missing words,
words with missing letters.
Someone texts you about a field
of orphaned puppets.
A chamber group plays the same piece
over and over
overlaying the day
with misty undertones.
Extras appear at opportune times
knowing this too is simply a run-through
for the real deal
which you've heard is being touted
at local landfills.
Instead you decide to fill in the blanks
fill in the gaps
with what you think they meant
with what you think they want to hear.

Madame Tutli-Putli (2007)

Restorative

You drag your old apartment through abandonment

imagining the surplus of activities segmenting the days

reaching back to capture the elements of then

fragmented into painful shards.

The players at the foot of your bed await direction

again overwhelmed by the onlookers

brought in to witness your de-accessioning.

The wood stove crackles with befuddlement.

It has been cued, as have others, from childhood memories.

This has happened as predicted

choreographed by backers as a concession

to the chamber group whose notes have taken to the air.

The Grateful Dead

Trillium

It's as if you've entered a dormitory of disbelief

the tunnel of days welling-up

you thumbing through images of yesterday

looking for the waterfall

impregnated with silence. This will be my escape,

you've emailed friends,

certain that this time some sort of resolution

will occur. The last time was a bust,

neither here nor there,

and you without the foggiest notion.

Not to worry, they've told you. This is quite common.

You laughed, but knew the moment

was careening toward you. The make-believe moment,

the pretend moment, the moment that most of us

have to face, even with the deck stacked.

Francesca Woodman

The Street of Crocodiles

Chet Baker's My Funny Valentine fills this day of rain. You wander through Elegy, based on Philip Roth's The Dying Animal, turn away during certain scenes, your casualness shaken. There is nothing casual about death. Someone says something about the inability to string a narrative. The inability to do what? Whatever. Call in the Script Doctor, yes? There's havoc in your bullpen, and in your playpen, and in your world. Again, you have walked out during the crucial scene. Wait, you're telling me how screwed-up Chet was? At least he had what Ray Carver had. And you, too.

The Street of Crocodiles (1986)

Woman XXIX

Silk blouse askew
hair wilding
she is Everywoman
moving
with the ease of a danseuse
along the row where I sit,
mummified.

Marcus Ohlsson

Available Upon Request

The time is past for going back.
          - A. E. Stallings

You've test-driven the tops and bottoms
weighed the pros and cons

put in for a hiatus from drifting aimlessly,
a far cry from the old days

when you were a pronoun-in-training, and
domesticity was a bargain-basement forget-me-not.

The boatman awaits.
Let's talk about your future

and the hellish commute to motherhood,
fatherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood.

Mourning inconclusively is a no-no.

Learn the lines of your face. Learn them well.

As resident cartographer of your double life,
you are within (X years of) your element.

Roberto Kusterle