Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Screen Dump 340

The plausible deniability . . . wait, that's a bit too strong . . .
The plausible desirability? . . . no, no . . .
OK, waking to a snowstorm . . .
Another iPhone day chomping at the catch-as-catch-can . . .
Chomping or champing? . . .
Google it . . .
This will in no way be altered or elevated to make it more
conventionally literary . . .
Little matter . . .
I am at my best when I am at my best, yes? . . .
You are at your best with obfuscation . . .
Undiminished . . . he/she wanted to shout . . . I am undiminished . . .
by the inopportune . . .
by the sharp questions being hurled at me . . .
by the light of the silvery silence . . .
Walk with me . . . take a number . . .
How many times . . . how often . . . when did you begin
to feel like this? . . .
Excuse me? . . .
OK, you reek of hyperbolism . . .
Huh? . . .
You exaggerate . . . embellish . . . the idea
that your experience . . . oh, forget it . . .
But who among us does not? . . .
Among us? . . .
You know what I mean . . .
It's part of the bigger picture, I mean, poem, yes? . . .
Are you on the heels of . . . or on the coattails of? . . .
Please stop doing that . . .
Doing what? . . .
Regressing to one of your tried-and-true motifs . . .
like when walking along a roadbed . . .
Yes? . . .
You sense the locomotive . . . and wish for corrections . . .
the corrections you weathered in fourth grade
reading a graphic novel . . . on a snow day . . .


Monday, January 30, 2017

Screen Dump 339

The unbearable lightness of you sporting a bowler
(à la Lena Olin?) . . . slipping through an incognito window . . .
The notion that what goes around . . .
goes around an infinite number of times . . .
cameoed . . . cinemascoped . . .
as if Super-8s were the new now . . .
You sidestep the warp . . . and buy time
on the dotted line . . .
the nearness suffocating (as always?)
the decades-old memory of lovemaking
on a bunk bed . . . deconstructed . . .
with you pining for an inspection sticker . . .
a Möbius strip ensuring non-orientableness . . .
maintaining the mystery . . . for the before-after crowd . . .
rainbowed and enigmatic . . .
The naiveté of post-Internet security thugs
libraried . . . in the 800 stacks . . .
Purging the past with a keystroke, yes? . . .
There's always a room of one's own for everyone on this tug
chuffing its way through the Isles of Langerhans . . .
All you need is faith
To hear the diesels humming . . .

News that's fit to 3D print . . .

Lena Olin in The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988)


Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Screen Dump 338

There seems to be a disparity . . . the images fragmented . . .
the lighting off . . .
and now you're squinting . . . at the camera . . .
trying to clarify the choreography of the odyssey . . .
He/she presented with a revised script . . .
and a smattering of masks . . .
You balk at the masks . . . and sketch an alternative . . .
The dialogue begins . . . off-cue . . .
and does its best to preempt the confusion
which is fogging the lenses . . .
The scene is re-shot with filters . . .
a waste of time . . . nothing seems to be working today . . .
Perhaps the reason is buried in the footnotes . . .
along with your memorandum of understanding . . .
How ill-equipped (unprepared?) . . .
especially now with an albatross as metaphor . . .
In this poem you are all artifice . . . the language frayed . . .
the letters of introduction misfiled . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Screen Dump 337

Most of the time I don’t run and hide.
          - Bob Dylan

You seed the illusion
comfortable with the aloofness you've affected
your undeniable self awaiting word
wind chimes buffering fragmented hours . . .
You page through
taking notes
the photos yellowed and brittle
the footnotes tiresome
pages missing or hidden . . .
Why go there? . . .
Why not? . . . It all fits . . .
Or so you'd like to think . . .
But there are elements of happiness
of enchantment
of times spent with eyes wide shut
composing lines that . . .
That what? . . .
That were never delivered, I guess . . .
Aha! . . .
I could have followed the thread, you know . . .
And ended up where? . . .
Not sure . . . But not here . . .
And then? . . .
Look, most of the time not unlike the rest of us
I just try to soldier on . . .

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Friday, January 20, 2017

Screen Dump 336

Apparently, you were comatose all those years . . .
a marionette to nimble fingers . . .
an automaton dispensing emoticons willy-nilly . . .
off-shore laundering muddying the movements
color-coded from your days
in the dorm hustling Monopoly . . .
The hidden room behind the grandfather clock
maps your seductions with wide eye-shadowed eyes . . .
the undertaking inevitable
as you surrender yourself
to the lusts of strangers
initializing tick sheets in the sun room
while picking lint from shirtsleeves . . .
Surprised? . . . And now, ladies and gentlemen . . .
the darkside . . . the underside . . . the blindside . . .
the other side of then . . .
the other side of now . . .
lip-syncing Regina Spektor's Hero:
He never ever saw it coming at all . . .
Wait! Can we stop with this outpouring of theater or theatre
this close encounter of the un-kind
this semiotic overload
this de-con-struc-tion
this rewinding of the tape
this ripping of musical addenda? . . .
You bought into the notion of restorative solitude
a power higher than the unremitting void
environmentally friendlier than dishwashing detergent . . .
You are doing your part . . .
Correction . . . You have done your part . . . And now? . . .

Francesca Woodman

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Screen Dump 335

How does it feel . . . with no direction home? . . .
          - Bob Dylan

As if boarding a tram in an end zone of irregular verbs . . .
You . . . clothed in the outlandish . . . just to be oppositional? . . .
How many were there? . . .
No idea . . .

You mistake indelible for inedible
and jump into a brief novel of waiting
your Etch-A-Sketch sapping the body of eroticism
courts and rejects intertextual references . . .

No black and white idiom here . . .
the moments between objects and events . . . invisible . . .
You're invisible now . . .
you've got no secrets to conceal . . .*

Pocketing variations of enigma
flexing with the urgency of an unorthodox kind of desire . . .
you begin negotiating angles . . .
raging against outliers . . .

The ultimatum as pre-emptor . . .
as mystery tramp . . .
Genre-bending as gender ploy
skipping the discomfort . . . just when understudies arrive . . .

This is how it played out . . . in the dream . . .
how it devolved . . .
when all else seemed suburban
and you resurfaced as if at an impasse . . .

*Bob Dylan, Like A Rolling Stone

Francesca Woodman

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Screen Dump 334

[audio]

Of course you remember those days, yes? . . .
soundtracked by Jaco's unfettered unfretted bass . . .
Can you spell Word of Mouth? . . .
Looping back to a mind of winter's pink skies
and the remnants of past players
infiltrating your portal
when 1 + 1 was an imaginary number
that laddered its way to the top of your Wish List
where Utopians sported recoilless Doc Martens
in colors to tweet home about . . .
There was no need . . .
no worms drilling into your OS . . .
Your play station was your life . . .
You were warned . . . acoustically . . .
Dylan's gray-sleeved The Times They Are A-Changin' . . .
as you made your way to the corner mini-mart
for Ed's toast (taste?) of the town . . .
circumnavigating the razor-fenced delusions
that profited everyone . . . and no one . . .
while vacuum tubes leaked
the words of poets who had signed off
on beta versions . . . bringing home the bacon
that would one-way-ticket them to an MRI
just when their buckshot ducks were all lined up
and the ovens were ready for the next mitochondrion . . .
Uber Drivers of the World deserve a break today . . .
A Room of One's Own . . .
Do you have an ARoOO? . . .
Of course you do! . . .

There's no telling . . . Yes, please go on . . .
rejuvenated . . . and rejuvenated . . . and rejuvenated
Come . . . You Master(bator)s of War . . .
stepping in and out of a series of dreams . . .
autopiloting plants from bulbs
commonplace bargaining chips YouTubing
your audition for a seat in the orchestra pit . . .
the pendulum swinging
back and forth . . . back and forth . . .
to Vincent's head on the body of a fly
in the flick's parting shot . . .
You was dumbstruck by the Creature from the Black Lagoon
and the mysteries of Julie Adam's white one-piece
that filled the screen
and your head
especially the scenes in the cave
on some backlot no doubt
which led to the bowels of the Paris Opera House
where the Phantom keyboarded
phantasmagoric seductions for Christine for over 27 years
besting Cats as the longest-running Broadway show . . .
Those were the days my friend
unfolding one after another
with suits papering the A Train
which morphed into The Polar Express
for most . . . if not all . . .
Little matter though . . . Little matter . . .

Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)

Friday, January 6, 2017

Screen Dump 333

[audio]

This way or no way.
          - David Bowie, Lazarus

Tell-tale hearts tell all on morning talk shows

slotted with errant knights and distressed damsels . . .

wakeup calls . . . ignored . . .

Mavens . . . encrusted with sobriquets

enter roundabouts at speeds

unsafe for Bollywood trailers . . .

and you . . . without reprieve . . .

reminisce through the third chapter and beyond . . .

plotlines folded into money belts . . .

The absurd drama . . . at one remove . . .

anthologized . . .

repeated . . . repealed . . . for the better? . . .

What does this tell you? . . .

about him . . . about her . . . about him and her? . . .

About Eleanor Rigby? . . .

Where do they all come from? . . .

upstaging the Simon and Garfunkels of the millennium . . .

bookended . . . whispering in our ears . . .

anguishing over troubled water . . .

storefronts retrofitted for the now . . .

the without . . . and then some . . .

thinking back wistfully . . .

for however long it takes . . . to count out the coins

and assume the role of lead . . .

The deadline passed . . .

The language poets of Abyssinia . . . silenced . . .

demand a recount . . .

while shooters . . . at 20 paces . . .

with chips in their brains . . . and chips on their shoulders . . .

randomize death . . .

Like Bowie's Lazarus . . . Everybody knows me now . . .

David Bowie, "Lazarus"