Screen Dump 104

Alterations aside, the ambiance begs furniture music . . .
The idea here is to replay the hand . . .
return to the scene, the line, the moment . . .
rearrange the room . . .
ride out claustrophobia . . . slouching towards foreclosure . . .
wannabes in hot pursuit . . .
Incidentally, the place settings are chomping at the bit . . .
Ring up the neighborhood grammarian . . .
For reassurance, yes? . . .
Did you expect less? . . .
OK, it's not a bona fide trip to Bountiful . . .
but pretty close . . .
Besides, you have relegated yourself . . .
to the path of least resistance . . .
and now lost souls . . . are lining up . . . for direction . . .
and free grub . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 103

Recalcitrant memories flood the boardwalk . . .
You opt for a facelift . . .
channeling Charles The Hammer Martel at the Battle of Tours . . .
Don't forget the Cuisinart . . . he said reportedly . . .
And that has made all the difference . . .
The whole food stamp thing . . .
You could have at least prepped me for the EBT . . .
I spilled my guts to the court jester . . .
A mannequin born out of wedlock living on food stamps in an old shoe . . .
Just when it was all about to come together . . . it didn't . . .
These things happen . . . I was told . . . in fourth grade . . .
Reach out and touch someone . . . and make nice . . .
Does good grammar really matter? . . . I mean really matter? . . .
Mind over matter matters little, she said . . .
Then pulled the ripcord for the bigger picture . . .
I was inside-out and upside-down through most of it . . .

Jennifer B. Thoreson

Screen Dump 102

You are a coming attraction . . . hoping for a roundabout . . .
planning your (weekend) getaway . . .
We were into cops and robbers . . . filling gaps in our education . . .
with cans of Reddi-wip . . .
Your trio sang ditties from the Great American Songbook . . .
I made my way through the throng . . .
and around 25 or 6 to 4 . . .
I was lucky enough to score an Eskimo Bar open 24/7 . . .
I believed in you up to the last umlaut . . .
then pride floored it . . . and sped away with nary a nanosecond to spare . . .
You majored in internal affairs . . .
kissing thunderstorms in lingerie ads . . .
tracking forgotten boxcars in sidings . . .
while threatening upheavals in coping mechanisms . . .
International trysts left you speechless at deli counters . . .
You had trouble with branding . . .
No big deal, maestro! . . .
There's a time and place for such levity . . . I'm told . . .

Jennifer B. Thoreson

Screen Dump 101

Your pics of random lives . . . were scanned . . . and planted . . .
in the garden of earthy delights . . .
The fornicators at the gates . . . were ticketed . . .
for presumption . . . for irreverence . . . for smoking in a smoke-free zone . . .
You became a stop sign . . . then a traffic signal . . .
You were written up and out of the series . . .
It was a time of rewrites . . . and inadvertent cups of black coffee . . .
Illegibility was offered . . . in good faith . . .
Rutherford, New Jersey took its toll . . .
Your next portfolio will feature a full-speed-ahead full-bodied conceit . . .
filled with ooh la la's . . . and unlimited seconds . . .

Jennifer B. Thoreson

Screen Dump 100

You pluck days from oblivion . . . some maddeningly repetitive . . .
memorializing them . . . as space . . . full of time . . .
The canvas's thick stretchers . . . tombstone-like . . .
In the painting's silence . . . the noisy tumult of history . . .
Reflecting the language and grammar . . . of cardboard communities . . .
You insist on arm-wrestling with dumb reality . . .
ticking off insignificant others . . . who played a role . . .
in your counter-intelligence phase . . .
The clock sweating the hours . . . jarring yet welcoming . . .
A portal . . . into the moment . . . escaping as a fraying automaton . . .

Daria Werbowy

Screen Dump 99

You begin to tire of the School of General Studies . . .
Read . . . Fill your head . . . Write . . . Rewrite . . .
An amalgam of personas . . .
Frightfully accommodating . . .
As if on a stifling mid-August afternoon . . .
A window onto a palazzo . . . clogged with mannequins . . .
waiting for Q&As . . .
Later, a cache of memories dumps . . .
The next will be 10 furlongs . . . in brightly-colored silks . . .
Have you placed your bet? . . .
You know what the bookmakers are saying . . .
Take in the latest exhibit . . .
The facades . . . in abundance . . . people-watching . . .
Carl (Jung) would be tickled . . .
You can always tap (or lap) dance . . . to engage passersby . . .
Some have grown old . . . unrecognizable . . .
The Lexicon of the Ancients . . . and then some . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 98

Your memoir . . . stalks me . . . disrupts REM sleep . . .
Going on and on . . . and on . . .
Scaffolding giving way . . .
Exposing the true north of your words . . .
Why smooth out the edges? . . .
They were part of it, yes? . . .
The tranquil dance of images . . . paid your way . . .
The trombonist in the wings . . . keys them in . . . resurrects them . . .
refuses the chart . . .
You as hooker . . . in purple pumps . . . replaying the scene. . .
Why the reference to Holden? . . .

Ondria Hardin

Screen Dump 97

The street noise . . . like starched centipedes . . .
Legs! . . . Legs! . . . Legs! . . .
Wait . . . then wait again . . . haunted by the strange . . .
You bleach yourself on the ground floor . . .
Enter the infinite loop of a roundabout . . .
Editing as you go . . . a former doll factory looms . . .
Auditioning torsos . . .
If the shoe fits, yes? . . .
There will be moments . . . with the opening bars of Night Train . . .
No one is running out to sign the next betrayal . . .
As much as you would like to think . . .
about weekend getaways . . .
Perhaps your prayers (?) are making a dent . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 96

Skywriting with hammertoes . . . into the wee-wee hours . . .
Committing hara-kiri . . . to memory . . .
The stew . . . burning a hole . . . in your Face(book) . . .
Blackened rubble adding panache . . .
to the neighborhood . . .
choked with overnight bags, lycras, energy drinks . . .
What better way to spend a day . . . sexting inked gym rats? . . .
A pick-up game of Pick-Up Sticks mystifies some . . .
excepting those negotiating to deprive you . . . of your past . . .
with its incessant meandering . . . and Last Tango . . .

Tim Walker

Screen Dump 95

You're writing a fictional memoir . . . about yourself . . .
Rigorously honest traffic in the street below . . . wants in . . .
There are enough characters for everyone . . .
And they know who they are . . .
floating along on your stream of consciousness . . .
playing tag team hide-and-seek . . .
You begin misquoting yourself . . . a game of mirrors . . .
and discover elements of style . . .
earmarked for bronzing . . .
The excitement of the scrum carries you back to the old neighborhood . . .
Philip Seymour Hoffman's Synecdoche . . .
the soundstage a drug deal gone south . . .
A humorless pharmacist - a woman - will be implicated . . .
Her pink sundress texts passersby . . .
who couldn't care less about the outcome of this poem . . .

Tim Walker

69 Lines Randomly Selected from the 1,822 Lines in the 128 Poems
Composed in my 69th Year Using the Random Integer Generator at
random.org on my 69th Birthday over 3000 Miles from Tintern Abbey

. . . thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence.
          - William Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

The brush loaded with the hidden rooms . . .
An angry pit bull playing a ukulele . . . beneath your window . . .
I'm about to implode . . . from your latest fashion foray! . . .
Whispering sweet nothings in your bad ear . . .
The word on the street is a memory . . .
in Heti's How Should a Person Be? . . .
Your house slowly slipping away . . .
Or the thought of you . . . in red? . . .
As if it could dance with a throat-singer . . .
Costumed for easy access . . .
Next time . . . follow the script . . . to the letter, as it were . . .
Teeming with comebacks . . . however tardy? . . .
costumed . . . with baguette . . . and vino . . .
What better cinema than the conjugation of opposites? . . .
Pumping iron . . . with fast foodies . . .
The graininess . . . the stolen glances . . .
eager to test their insanity . . .
for those without a voice . . .
Your refrigerator hit the road . . . weeks ago . . .
A Glass cover by Nico Muhly . . .
Buying into the quintessential mismatch . . .
And you return to your former self . . . backing in through the door . . .
Making a fool of yourself . . . again? . . .
Too funny . . .
Toy Story 5? . . .
Becoming unhinged . . . swinging back and forth . . . back and forth . . .
Diagramming sentences . . . guilty of youth . . .
Drawing a business card . . . from the middle of the deck . . .
to avoid the bottleneck at the bridge . . .
He's livid! . . .
at an inopportune time . . .
At least in your electra glide in blue eyes . . .
The building codes are like Mary Magdalene . . .
in the SROs of your childhood composition books . . .
and into the next phase of your intrepid indelible life . . .
Why bother hitching a ride back home? . . .
A seapia dreamscape . . .
Segue to the interview . . . of you . . . by you . . .
on your propensity for clipping coupons . . .
The muses step up to the plate . . .
Items bought online perfunctorily . . .
The Second Unit Director's comic book appeal . . . heating up . . .
The instructions said nothing, yes? . . .
Letting your hair down as an antidote for befuddlement . . .
Just play along, yes? . . .
for custom turntables . . . and such . . .
Or how your lips . . .
Insinuating themselves into your life . . .
name-tagged and color-coded . . .
and other merit badge arraignments . . .
paying the Joker . . . for box-lunch time-outs . . .
can and will be used against you . . .
their angularities the kind that sell . . .
You were always good . . .
You know the feeling . . .
You seem to have seen past the obvious . . .
Or the passage of time? . . .
(Wouldn't want to leave them out, now would we?) . . .
of touching base . . .
influencing the grid . . .
Next to impossible? . . . Not! . . .
The closed-circuit TVs of the 50s spoke nonsense . . .
Why pump brown-baggers with your sing-song voiceovers? . . .
Emails edge into the rangefinder . . .
into a story of recovery . . .
appropriated when no one was looking . . . from the local library à gogo . . .
The rewrite, darker than riddles, upends you . . .
of earmarked loners . . .
I feel compelled to keep reading . . . from here . . .

Tintern Abbey

Screen Dump 94

We all have moments of eighth-grade-slow-dance-stiffness . . .
The tram . . . in a lucrative dreamscape . . .
Here but not here, yes? . . .
Tap dancing in and around words . . .
The players . . . and their steps . . . receding . . .
A Motel 6 accepts applications . . . for the post position . . .
Trying to recapture something lost . . . on the page, the screen, the canvas . . .
Something lost . . . somewhere . . .
And you . . . hammering, drilling, patching . . .
One gets exhausted with repairs . . . begins to dismantle the illusion . . .

Sarah Moon