Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Screen Dump 310

But it doesn't have to mean . . .

For example? . . .

Goethe . . . the German Shakespeare . . . the poet of affinity . . .

a lively color but one devoid of gladness . . .

And so? . . .

Your weeping ages you . . .

I can see it in the smoke and mirrors . . .

and in the black canvas of your next project . . .

The prestidigitator's attempt to forestall the inevitable . . .

irrespective of the curfew dictated by the peanut gallery . . .

Why your favorite book? . . .

Your favorite author? . . .

Why now? . . .

This morning's talk through the woods . . .

past the kitties' burial site . . .

how your favorite colors relate to your favorite films . . .

Anything there? . . .

You tell me . . .

I mean . . . but it doesn't have to mean, yes? . . .

The fingerpainted reinterpretations of your odyssey . . .

The players . . . and their parts? . . .

Your intrusive necessary whistling . . .

I know as well as I can . . .

Intrusions are just what the doctor ordered . . . sometimes . . .

A side order of fried green tomatoes would do well about now . . .

Bruno Dayan

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Screen Dump 309

The matter-of-fact streets of your makeshift childhood crowd with regrets over the empty candy bins in May's News, the corner store stuffed with cigars, cigarettes, comics, skin mags, soda, ice cream . . . where daily you were dispatched for a double chocolate . . . and the number . . . Done . . . and done again . . . And why not, yes? . . . It's all there . . . in the pianistic improvisations of Frederick Nietzsche . . . who . . . like all of us . . . dreamed of the paper city of Carpe Diem . . . elbowing his way through a table-read of Bela Tarr's The Turin Horse . . . a revitalization sequel to the twelve steps as leaked to NPR . . . I was asked to remind you that the marquee for the The Last Picture Show awaits your edits . . . And you're filming this for a surrogate? . . .



Saturday, September 3, 2016

Screen Dump 308

That it doesn't always work out . . .
this cup-and-saucer world of water-resistant fonts
where Harry meets Maggie
and your search for totemic images
inflates to Jungian proportions
with parking spaces
brimmed with backstory metaphors
and exotic asides -
the nuts-and-bolts of Dunkin' Donuts . . .
the spiraling down
with heel lifts calling the shots
eight ball in your hip pocket . . .
You await word from persons of interest
displaced to the farther reaches . . .
The fits and starts of unknowns . . .
The morning after the day before . . .
You continue to imagine
the beginning middle and end
of most excuses . . .
the popcorn days of your apprenticeship
tapdancing the good life
with deposits from sticky bottles
recycled from the Tour . . .
and the sparring over putting pen to paper
with eyes on the exit
transforming lockups into the lockdowns
of summer's documentation . . .
the trash Instagrammed . . . and posted . . .

Marcin Szpak