Screen Dump 4

The closed-circuit TVs of the 50's spoke nonsense . . .
There were handprints on the windows . . .
And names missing from the guest list . . .
Moments were filled with traffic lights . . . and three-ring binders . . .
And The Late Show . . .
You left with a ne'er-do-well . . .
Whose hands reminded you of your father's . . .
And drew upon your inner beauty to wade through loneliness . . .
Of course you remember the maitre d' . . .
The entourage of hangers-on . . .
Everything was written down . . . everything . . .
You tried to re-shoot the scene . . .
But they mumbled their lines . . .
And couldn't be heard above the clues to today's Minute Mystery . . .

Screen Dump 3

Winked into dissolution . . .
As if it would all come together . . .
As if it held the key . . .
As if it could dance with a throat-singer . . .
But it didn't . . .
So I reread the end of The Hours  from Yes, Clarissa thinks, it's time . . .
And re-played Liberal Arts . . .
And used artisanal  in a sentence . . .
Conning myself into thinking I have more important things to do . . .
Does hunkering-down really work? . . .
Especially now with its hint of snow? . . .
Someone asked Why so serious? . . .
I wikipedia'd . . . and thought twice . . .
And tap-danced . . .
Then resumed . . .
Why play dumb? . . .
Is this a risky read . . . a PG-13? . . .
Brouhahas are like that . . .
Insinuating themselves into the lives of others . . .
Insinuating themselves into your life . . .
When you least expect it . . . or need it . . .
Despite the admonitions penciled in the margin . . .
Despite the warnings on the label . . .
Do not try this at home . . .
We've all  tried it at home . . .
How else are we able to put our foot in our mouth? . . .
One foot in front of the other . . .
Shuffling the minuscule deck as if with gloved hands . . .

Irma Haselberger

140 (or fewer) characters on . . . Flurries

the day blisters with a hint of snow
emails about dental insurance
a short story by Joyce Carol Oates

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 2

Your institution green eyes reflect the Bela Lugosi of your dreams . . .
With the flagrancy of youth . . .
Though you continue to take pot shots at clay academicians . . .
And lesser-known wannabes . . .
There's something sad about that . . .
And something to be said about that . . . but I'm not sure what . . .
Walmart is as good a place as any to start . . .
Never trust alabaster cockatoos . . .
Or blue-light specials . . .
Or, for that matter, people named Iridescent, or Iri, for short . . .
I did . . . several times . . .
Trying to make the most of it . . .
But I thought I was invited for that reason . . .
So I dove in . . . over my head . . .
A roomful of talent minus one . . .
The made-for-TV villain was the voice of pastiche . . .
Dancing his/her amendments . . .
I've been mining prose for revelations . . . since day one . . .
Engulfed in pretension . . .
Picking and choosing from both sides of the menu . . .
What matters . . . really . . . is . . . what matters . . .
Be well, do good work, and give it a rest . . .

Bela Lugosi

140 (or fewer) characters on . . . After Apple Picking

deer arrive

with the orange of sunset

to feed

on the drops

Unhitched Suburbanites Are Sleeping with Repo'd Subarus

Unhitched suburbanites are sleeping with repo'd Subarus
in phone booths silent and abandoned
as if they'd tried but failed to find a vacancy
in the landfills of telemarketers decked out in triple Spandex
their closings leap-frogged
their coarse-furred marmots having been reblogged,
recalled, redirected, and retrofitted with snows.

They are ready for the New You.

Your friends have been texting you blue
having mastered the requisite tongue-twisters
as evidenced by the number of gnats
circling above your brown-bagged bottle of Bacardi.

You know one when you see one.
Not a problem.

You have retooled your profile, chatting yourself up
as the other darling of three-star forensic menus.

You have weathered the plague of muscle spasms
and been nominated
for the Erectile Dysfunction Hall of Fame.
You are as ready as ready.

Do you recall tweeting the party of the first part
while Moon River fondled the wind chimes
in the SROs of your childhood composition books

or are you about to fold your card table and remove yourself
from the list of attendees?

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Fairly Good Footage

A voice in heels welcomes you with the answer.
The je ne sais quoi of close encounters, yes?
Driving through a drive-thru, you tick off ways to improve
now that you've pruned tricks from your bag
under the watchful eye of the neighborhood watch.
You can't wait to unpack the layers,
especially the earworms of vacant storefronts
featured in mock-u-mentaries.
You cameo as a walk-on in a portraiture class
thinking This is where I will find myself.
The odds appear in an email after months on the Most Wanted.
Why are the plates at the Culinary Institute so large?

Gravity Was Everywhere Back Then

Another Ordinary Morning

Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing.
          - Mark Strand

The leaves coax the light into a snow sky. A simplicity of one, costumed, belabored, fraught with delusion lingers in a dream of the shore. The voice at the door continues the story. The organs of day engage a Netflix world, spiriting you away. The cat remains noncommittal. Late at night when you lie awake, tell yourself that you love who you are, that your half-concealed life is not without promise.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow