Screen Dump 202

Dissecting the sameness . . . of long terms
the insinuations . . . despite the firewall
the momentary lapses
followed by naive mea maxima culpas . . .
How the morning begins with eyes above cups of coffee
stalls over croissants
jump-starts . . . in the afternoon
with a double-header . . .
Then a special delivery . . . on a hot fragrant night
reading between the lines
your imagination filling the gaps
because you need (love?) . . . closure, yes? . . .
You retreat to seascapes
to the sound of the surf
the waves licking the sand
below small coastal villages
wedged into the hills . . . of your short stories . . .
And the ambient gestures . . . of an intimate bistro
glasses of pinot noir
talking up the pleasures of silk . . . the fury of connections . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 201

You deal euphemism . . . and slip past security . . .
the music half-house . . . clouding the drone . . .
wandering with couldn't care less on inked sleeves
as if encapsulated messages
were selling for junk . . . on the street . . .
Indigents switch ingredients
for compassion's busboys . . . all this secondary
to the concentration on gesture . . .
the humor disguised as a fatalist's witty rue . . .
You jot notes . . . for transcription . . . amid the static
of traffic lights . . . OCDing night's follies . . .
too wired . . . too close . . . to close . . .
rethinking alternatives . . . even when he/she soft focuses
the context . . . with promises . . . of other worlds . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 200

You have choreographed the phrase in perpetuity
and now hold questions for ransom
their depth and dimension reminders of your years
of indentured servitude . . . feeding lines to woebegones
exiting the stage . . . waiting to be wrung out . . .
You have nailed the moves . . . and more
playing subjectivity to anomaly
unmellowed by time . . . and the river
your dance . . . a study in mirror-image
taking no prisoners . . . comparing pleasures
with those who have come . . . and gone . . . and come again
bearing words . . . best appreciated in silence . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 199

You appear in a crack in the surface of the code . . .
and pick through vinyls . . .
sandbox memories of players . . .
in baseball caps . . . worn backwards . . .
auditioning for a seat in the eye of the beholder . . .
the difference between here(s) . . .
between his/her reply to your suggestion . . .
changed the rules . . .
notwithstanding their superfluousness . . .
and . . . again . . . you are . . . on the brink . . .
waiting for an arm to reach out of the sky . . .
the sky that David Bowie enshrined . . .
while teasing . . . metonymic memories . . .
of Penetration Dialogues . . .
You can't imagine, yes? . . .
Holding forth with insignificant others . . .
waiting at a bus stop . . .
leaking delusions of travel . . .
promising a destination . . .
Not one to hold anything against anyone . . .
You roll the dice . . . for today . . .
channeling Caesar in the Rubicon . . .
and tap your fingers . . . until the craving passes . . .
Is this how you want it to be written up? . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 198

No regrets, then . . . hunkering days . . . here in this backwater . . .
Reviewing your Norman Conquests . . . journaling happenstance . . .
Playing croquet with paper-thin walls . . .
Voices retreating behind Acts of Contrition . . .
You signed on for the tour, yes? . . .
Everyone's dreams . . . everyone else's . . .
You may as well order takeout
fire up Netflix
and hire a driver for the rented dump truck
that cameoed in your tween fantasies
when he/she invited you to a Monopoly sleepover
and began with unbearable lightness
that plowed through 233 pages
before you passed Go . . .
Perhaps the desire to fictionalize your life, a bit? . . .
As when we suicide ourselves for survival . . .
in what some call a Kierkegaardian Third Remove . . .
Your dreams are now 100 years old . . . and counting . . .

Paulina Otylie Surys

Screen Dump 197

The days . . . like paper . . . curl at the edges . . .
This is a paper day! . . . This is a paper town! . . .
The bandoneon . . . paper . . .
The restaurant . . . paper . . .
The wait staff . . . paper . . .
How we'd grab lunch . . . at KFC . . . aka The Dead Colonel's . . .
on our way back to the office . . . black-eyed Susan . . . shadowing . . .
The red taillights mutter something . . .
Participles in tow . . .
You begin with a tale of entrapment . . .
Your voice . . . incantatory . . .
The communal voice jarring in its intimacy . . .
Please spare me your vivid imagination . . .
Now you're going on about papyrological evidence . . .
Yes, of course I remember Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Mummy's Tomb . . .
Do I detect an insurgency in your voice? . . .
Are you sure you want to go there . . .
now that the bargain basement blatherers have come and gone . . .
retreating with their wash-and-wears to their nomadic hideaways . . .
GPS'd with a .01 level of confidence? . . .
Are these events queued? . . .
I'm in a subjunctive mood . . .
I'm ready for ready-mades . . .
I need to cull a few more fragments . . . from slush piles . . .
It's all about evading artifice . . . isn't it? . . .
I mean that's where we will surely find authenticity . . .
out back . . . having a smoke . . .
with Jim Jarmusch's Only Lovers Left Alive . . .
Forget the blithering obits . . . with their avid avids . . .
and their connect-the-dots sensibility . . .
The trouble you identified . . . is off . . . and running . . .
The interim chair . . . with his/her new do . . . had it down pat . . .
as evidenced by the doors . . .
opening and closing in time to Mary had a little lamb . . .
The fleece . . . connective tissue . . .
The after-hours mix the what-ifs . . . with the whatevers . . .
The clock forgetting where it is . . .
You pick up your story from the top . . . with you on top . . .
plotting the quickest route . . . between here . . . and not here . . .
the bags of groceries . . . in the trunk . . . moldering . . .
the bags . . . under your eye-shadowed eyes . . .
playing hangman . . . in the back seat . . . with the whomevers . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 196

Time to page forward . . . scanning . . .
hoping that perchance you missed it . . .
the invitation . . .
the extended hand . . .
the quiet word . . .
This talk of elliptical relationships . . .
of the difference between suspend . . . and pause
at the end of your sentences . . .
As if time were irrelevant . . .
As if the profusion of peculiarities
was enough to circumvent the dull day-to-day . . .
And now you're clearing your throat . . .
Preparing for what? . . . An ultimatum? . . .
How often have you spun around
only to find yourself in the same place
the same people . . . the same you? . . .
As perfunctorily, yes? . . .
He wanted a profusion . . . No! . . . No! . . . No! . . .
She wanted a profusion . . .
Noise, please . . . and chatter . . .
You are poised to go the distance . . .
We all are poised to go the distance
however . . . whenever . . . wherever . . .
The pieces themselves . . . and their wonderful integrity . . .
Your complete . . . and independent life . . .
Hanging on scraps of conversation . . .
Tell me . . . again . . . about detachment . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 195

If you had been on top of things . . . as is typical . . .
you could have set them straight . . .
or at least hooked them up with . . . executive assistants . . .
charged with emailing releases . . .
to focus groups . . . convalescing from bum knees . . .
and other such inconveniences . . .
When did concatenation become a hassle? . . .
Everything mashed-up . . . mashed-together . . .
with few downloadable eBooks . . .
which though burdensome to some . . .
occasionally spell things out . . . in black and white . . .
A landscape . . . of fading inconsequentials . . .
will soon appear in your viewfinder . . .

Tiiu Kuik

Screen Dump 194

You are about to open . . . as the Once and Future Queen . . .
in an off-off-Broadway production . . . of Goshawk: The Movie . . .
a regression line . . . a line of best fit . . .
for your short-shorter-shortest story . . . of alchemy and falconry . . .
The word on the street is that you consulted with Merlin . . .
that you got free tickets . . . and limes . . .
and that the two of you . . . threw back a few . . . talking old times . . .
In the heat of the moment, the scroll wilted, yes? . . .
But the Method stepped in . . .
What about the burned-out pizza man . . .
and the other character actors on your To-Do-Me List . . .
that you kept waving in our faces at the ribbon-cutting? . . .
Yes, the temps have been off-putting . . . I'll give you that . . .
sparking images of sandy beaches . . . and envelope stuffing . . .
Perhaps we should call their agency . . . and return . . .
to your Binky Days . . . which you unknowingly opened the door to . . .
with an inadvertent speed-dial . . .

Binky Daze

Screen Dump 193

Haunting data dumps for identity thefts . . .
Assigning numbers . . . to players in your fantasies . . .
whose epidemic of namelessness . . .
crowds out sleep . . . and the counting of sheep . . .
You are among strangers . . . fun, yes? . . .
The freedom . . . to be . . . or not to be . . .
to do . . . or not to do . . .
The new you . . . costumed in shades of gray . . .
inhabiting the margins of blurry-eyed websites . . .
teasing coders and first-person shooters . . .
with objects of desire and launch dates . . .
and fleeting moments . . . of screen-capture . . .
Kiosks double as security checks . . .
with clickable protocols . . . and farm fresh fruit . . .
for those wasting time in the waiting line . . .
Surely this will morph into an eponymous best seller . . .

The Zero Theorem

Screen Dump 192

I've got Blue Light Specials on the brain
and telepathic cats
whose ho-hum antics flip some of the days of my life
forestalling the inevitable
with voluminous digs
and elephant handlers from bedraggled circuses
whose answers to five of the BIG TEN questions
tell the rest of the story
a story that begins with loose ends in the uninformed Midwest
when arcades were all the rage . . .
They were all the rage, yes? . . .
and sodbusters busted sod for pennies . . . and promises
and free passes to Miss Kitty's . . .
I thought I knew what you were talking about
but I was wrong . . .
Maybe it's me but now you're wandering the basilica
bemoaning the fate of urban survivalists
and their camo'd beneficiaries
who took to the streets . . . once too often . . .
and now . . . barbarians are storming the gate
with rainchecks . . . and apps from midways
of sepia'd carnivals
brimming with aging-out clowns bumping bulbous noses
with trapeze artists . . . left hanging . . .
Did you think you could look them in the eye
and not see your selfie? . . .
The selfie you Photoshopped . . . while the audience slept
and magicians emeriti sprang from top hats
with a velocity that Feynman himself
would have chuckled over . . . while banging his bongos
faster than spawns on speed
costumed as amphibians auditioning for a remake
of Creature from the Black Lagoon
which incidentally was the first flick I saw in a theater
with my mother . . . and bag of popcorn . . .
You haven't been yourself lately . . .
I'm not sure who you are
and trying to figure out who you are
is costing too much time . . .
I had planned to begin the new year with warm-ups
and adult education classes
and independent living
but now with warm weather flooding the transom
I'm ready to attempt another channel crossing
or collect misfit canisters at the Himalayan base camp
rubbing shoulders with the polloi
for pocket change . . . and wheelwright dibs . . .
The other day, for example, I had a senior moment . . .
not quite Still Alice . . . by a long shot . . .
but . . . nonetheless . . . a junior-senior moment
and I was off . . . channel surfing
for lost causes . . . and incidentals that could . . .
maybe . . . possibly . . . hopefully . . . tingle . . .
with a tax shelter to die for . . .
Is it really all in the cards? . . .
Or have I too been misled . . . into a kindergarten
populated with multiple personalities? . . .
Now wouldn't that be the stuff for an HBO microseries? . . .
Little consolation here . . . or anywhere, for that matter . . .

Olivia Frolich