Screen Dump 362

Your Likert-type scale with its even number of anchors renders fence-sitting impossible . . . Not that anyone cares . . . Auditions for Player-of-the-Month continue . . . The constant gardener . . . The reassignment of persons places things . . . You are reassigned  . . . elsewhere . . . You apply for a sabbatical . . . to study ins-and-outs . . . redactions . . . Expungements like a good neighbor . . . The bus stations of your odyssey morph into empty rooms . . . Mannequins appear . . . and color-code themselves . . . to fit in . . . Implied otherness . . . is not an oft-used phrase . . . Quickly, the storm of texts arrives . . . uninvited . . . Reading the odd numbered chapters . . . evenly spaced . . . is one way to go . . . Questions from past players . . . hoping to score . . . choke your answering machine . . . Your mother appears and orders a chunk of suet for gołąbki . . . Porcelain-skinned Angela, the store owner's wife, reaches across the counter . . . with a piece of fruit . . . The window showcases bound, hanging cheeses . . . their sharpness . . . the entrapment of memory . . . squeezing through the fence . . . dealing . . . or not . . . A Proustian moment as joie de vivre . . .

Diandra Forrest

Screen Dump 361

. . . not trying has become the whole point.
          - Maggie Nelson, Bluets

Trafficking in hidden agendas with day-glo paint misses the point . . .
Restorative innocence quells the spirit . . .
and makes playing modal à la Bill Evans an eye-patch drama
as if licking the clothing off the fresco'd figures
on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel . . .
awakening the bloom of lilacs . . .
tweaking photos to edit the story
you want Facebook friends to commit to memory . . .
Hamming it up . . . 20, 30, 40 years ago . . .
Your co-ham now gone, yes? . . .
his smile . . . an afterthought . . .
Why now the disambiguation
of shouldering the burden as we stumble along with
the happiness? . . . sadness? . . . indifference? . . .
of posting the past? . . .
I am just past pedaling . . . appropriating deep-throat lyrics
for an avatar aging out of a forgotten storyboard . . .
Not trying has become the whole point . . . and nothing but, yes?. . .

Screen Dump 360

Auditioning for the part of valet on the street
of unparked cars
you spin tales of wild nights . . . wild nights . . .
silencing intimaions of parochialism . . .
taking back memories of back seats
on bridges seen at dawn
from windows in apartments of unknown comics
whose eye contact is part of their shtick . . .
One-liners dressed to the nines . . .
on stages set exponentially . . . in powers of ten
by the enormously well-read
clutch one-way tickets
to what some call Palookaville . . .
just off the boardwalk in Atlantic City . . .
a city tied to your DNA with lemons
ripe for squeezing beneath camo'd trench coats . . .
Are you still struggling with clarity? . . .

Katarzyna Dembrowska

A Piece of Nothing

(reposted from Friday, September 21, 2012)

That's all there was to it. No more than a solemn waking to brevity.
          - Mark Strand

And then, again, you decide to look at the sketches of domes in cities you've never visited, and probably never will, the domes having insinuated themselves into your reading and into your life. You don't even know the names of the cities and towns but they're pleasant to look at, and spark images of travel. There are moments when the armchair you're sitting in by the window overlooking the park seems to lift off and float above the canals in the cities. You strike up conversations with strangers in languages you don't even know. This could be a wish, or a piece of nothing, connecting you to the world.

Screen Dump 359

Of course there are other matters . . . but that's for later . . .
Right now I'm not sure . . . where . . .
If anything you can continue with pin spotting . . .
A minor miracle has come to the fore
and with it several outlandishments . . .
There's always room for more, someone said . . . I'm sure . . .
Look . . . you're the one for this . . .
The clandestine underpins will go undocumented . . .
and unnoticed . . . for the most part . . .
It's someone else's bailiwick, anyway . . .
someone else's Pilates routine . . .
Just the other day, in fact, if I'm not mistaken . . .
Indeed, you've been snapping pics for decades . . .
as unparalleled moments monopolized your unique features . . .

Kate Barry

Screen Dump 358

You are ticketed for going all the way on a one-way street
in Chapter 18 of Finnegans Wake
channeling Here Comes Everybody . . .
a borderline personality . . . happy only when pissed . . .
You hail an Uber and begin recording . . .
hurrying nothing into memory . . .
backstory pushing through the glass ceiling
dumping you into a seance
with Emily Dickinson . . . voiceover'd by Terrence Davies . . .
Why do passersby do that? . . .
Do what? . . .
Insert sleeved DVDs . . . barcode windowed . . .
into envelopes for return? . . .
No idea . . . closure, maybe? . . .
afraid to leave something undone? . . .
You spend too much time in an atelier
taking the wheel from court-appointed best-selling
ceramicist Edmund de Waal . . .
Even the Silk Road to clubs in Staten Island
has traps, pitted as it is with indiscretions . . .
and jabberwocky . . .
But I do so like to grope . . .
Yes, . . . and? . . .
And I cameoed in Chapter 3 of Psychopathology for Dummies . . .
giving head notes to a phrenology prof . . .
I aced the course . . .
You need to take a few days off . . .

Mary-Averatt Seelya in Finnegans Wake (circa 1970)

Screen Dump 357

Again, the denominator rears its hazy head . . .
A toxic flamboyance . . . waving a pinwheel . . . approaches the stage . . .
where lines will be drawn with mechanical pencils
by mannequins in see-through outerwear . . .
The problem of translation, yes? . . .
Zeroing-out the counters . . . that sort of thing . . .
while just above the fill-line you spot the missing pieces . . .
the missing persons . . . and play through the midpoint
with nothing in mind but the failed endgame . . .

Katarzyna Dembrowska

Screen Dump 356

Plotting the next stage of your odyssey
jump-starts ring-tailed fantasies from your days
in the driver's seat when you squiggled
for all you were worth . . . minus shipping . . .
Rent-A-Mime remains an option, yes? . . .
Spit-shining Crocs on those days when your tinnitus
chimes in may bring relief to those signed up
for your tour into the heart of darkness . . .
which continues to beat more than
one hundred thousand times a day . . .
in an ongoing quest for the eternal sunshine
of the ambient mind . . . where partying morphs
into a stone-faced commitment
on the deck of the Nellie and you toggle
understudies . . . trading tasty tidbits
for the something-or-other of strangers in full view . . .

Katarzyna Dembrowska

Screen Dump 355

Moments like these when you feel adrift:
you're here; you're not here . . .
your life . . . a novella . . . or flash fiction . . .
soundtracked by dissonance
as if beguiled by harpies
in the palms of pallbearers . . .
You wake with the urge to use
the phrase in the know . . .
As misdirection, perhaps? . . .
Consolation? . . .
You enter the fray
disabling the tried and true
with the words of oglers
vying for redacting . . . and blueness . . . again . . .
Which would you rather be? . . .

Screen Dump 354

The day . . . overcast and strangely industrial . . .
armpit saddlebags
with full-blown cholesterophobia . . .
tipping the go-between to encapsulate time and attendance . . .
rehearsing the commonplace
three standard deviations above the mean . . .
Have I been duped into thinking there will be another? . . .
All this posthumous posturing, pshaw . . .
Back then, I suppose it mattered . . .
But now with deadbeats in ascendance, forget it . . .
An octopus-in-training inking nonsense syllables
itching with false promises . . . Instagrammed with time-outs . . .
insinuating itself into the best of times
when no one is looking . . .
How so, you ask? . . .
I am filled with the music of DakhaBrakha
a Ukrainian group I first heard on an NPR Tiny Desk Concert . . .
The preferred costume of flâneurs? . . .
Flannel shirts of course flapping on clotheslines . . .
Could be the beginning of a novella . . .
where readers cut to the chase . . . and regret doing so . . .
Reading between the lines . . . you backstroke beyond the breakers
as if in a scene from Beneath the 12-Mile Reef . . .
CinemaScoped and soundtracked with a little help from Terry Riley's In C . . .
And now, ladies and gentlemen, the last line . . .
the one-trick pony has vanished . . .
with just enough time on the clock for some to call it a miracle . . .

Screen Dump 353

I've been Kerouwhacked!
          - Anon

A fly in my eminent domain . . .
or a cockroach . . . or a pole-sitter . . . or dog-walker for that matter . . .
I suppose it would take a village, yes? . . .
Kiosks awash with how-tos . . . and instructions
for un-dancing . . . tipping the valet
who tripped on his way back to the Wayback Machine
with lines from Proof:
Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X.
Let X equal the cold.
It is cold in December.
Gwyneth Paltrow trading eights with Hannibal Lector . . .
Armpit hair be damned . . .
it all boils down to goop, yes? . . .
He/she got Kerouwhacked brainstorming . . .
or barnstorming . . .
or talking through the walk-through or walkabout or walkout . . .
The steps of a proof are murky.
The steps of a proof are snarky.
The steps of a proof are nestled all snug in their beds.
Let X equal their beds.
And then someone took a shine to someone
and that someone opened it up to someone else
and now someone will have to take the hit . . .
Always looking the other way . . .
as if a periscope popped up in the Middle Ages . . .
your middle ages . . . when your juke joints
began stiffening with a creaking
that shook you awake at 3 AM
to speed dial your doc
who was on the third hole . . . teeing off . . .
thinking about Lexi,
his daughter's jodhpur'd friend from riding class
but first, do no harm . . .
You're not waiting for the phoniness to end, are you? . . .
Please tell me you're not . . .
Please tell me you've handed in the assignment
and that you're OK with the seating chart
and with Einstein's definition of insanity
instagrammed by iGens or Y2Kers or GenZs or whatever they're called . . .
many of whom sport Muffy's Lean Cuisine gap-toothed grin
after she was bad-touched by Dilbert,
the animated crossing guard . . .
super heavyweight Xboxer . . . regular contributor to Emojipedia . . .
awaiting the release of his feel-good single,
I Just Wanted to be Friended on Facebook . . .
And now what? . . . The neighborhood clown
has just trotted out his/her yoga mat
and is about to contort in full view of a selfie stick
which have been shown to transmit STDs
when you ignore your mother's warning
to never leave the house without wearing clean underwear . . .

Walking the Cat

(reposted from Wednesday, February 16, 2011)

[audio]

He prefers to spend his days lazed
in the stuffy arms of a chair by the window
where he can keep an emerald eye
peeled for caricatures in the street.
His pleasures are unparalleled
though this morning he carried on
about the hot cereal being anything but.
Later, despite the coming snow
he insisted on our usual walk -
the side streets troubled by student drivers
at ten and two, the vacant lot flecked
with white. We stopped for a paper
which pleased him to no end, knowing
it would eventually wind up in his box.
He doesn't seem to mind old news.
On the way home he mentioned
the snow blower which I should have
had serviced in the fall, and his wish
to return to his pastime of compiling lists
of restaurants with take-out sushi
at reasonable prices for friends and acquaintances.
But you know how that goes.

Tara and Corleone

Screen Dump 352

It's here somewhere . . . it has to be . . . I just know it . . .
Wind chimes . . . catching the blizzard's tail . . .
and you . . . journaling your odyssey . . . now in its nth year . . .
worrying the lines . . . that deepen
with every footnote . . .
nostalgic for the look you had
at the beginning of the New Millennium . . . aka Y2K . . .
Do you regard past playaphiles with a smile? . . .
Should you? . . . You're asking me? . . .
You paid the price for their best behavior . . .
You made the best call . . .
We all make the best call . . . in the moment, yes? . . .
when roads diverge . . .
and the photo-montage of smiling faces . . .
Smiling Faces Sometimes . . .
Smiling Faces Sometimes . . . pretend . . .
The Temptations, yes? . . . Psychedelic Soul . . .
The Wayback Machine . . . back to the '70s . . .
If they can do it . . . I can do it . . .
with Jack in the Beanstalk's goose laying golden
eggs on your face . . . after-hours clubbing
seals . . . awaiting their ship . . .
brimmed with henna intimacy . . .
and the dead silence of phony phone numbers . . .
Who knew? . . . Certainly not you? . . .
Then the stumbling began . . .
the eyeliner underlined with stilettos
and role confusion . . .
Erik - son of Erik - Erikson's Moratorium . . . and the hiatus . . .
I retreat . . . into my children . . .
I am my children . . .
I become my children . . .
I become untouchable . . .
I accept my sentence . . .
my paragraph . . . the entire book . . .
a cautionary, confessional tale of two people . . . me . . .

Patti Smith

Screen Dump 351

A cautionary tale of the imagination propels a cold plunge
into night which ends with back alley anonymous embraces
down a stairwell . . . into the street . . .
notebook jotting your cross-country gambit . . .
The morning after faced head-on
with words-of-the-day about false eyelashes . . .
and the misunderstandings . . . of playing the part . . .
Yet it did indeed feel good . . . almost . . .
filtering as a go-between
hinged on recording the latest in Odyssey Tales . . .
in which faceless extras being fed fried chicken
audition for the part of a modern day Caligula . . .
bipolarism notwithstanding . . . the meds suffice . . .
charting clang associations
and that darn thread through the labyrinth . . .
I am circus . . .
I am three-ring circus . . .
I am four- five- . . . six-ring circus . . .
careful, of course, in the derangement . . .
The requisite basic disorientation
and the need to temporarily unshackle the mind
from ordinary semantic logic . . .
There is absolutely nothing fortuitous about this . . . or that . . .

Eugenio Recuenco

Screen Dump 350

Tripping on bad soft-core porn
you are hurled into impenetrable writing
full of postmodern gewgaws
and whirligigs . . .
a room lined with waxy lemonwood paneling
deep in the bowels
of an unheard of snow day . . .
I don't think I like where this is headed . . .
I'm dog-tired from shoveling
and misunderstood besides . . .
OK, we'll back it off a bit
and cut to the symbols
of the unconscious:
a heyday of Freudian slips
and Jungian archtypes
with your tendency to pigeonhole
taking a back seat in a rusted-out stretch limo
pinned by first-timers . . .
The driver is hosting an open mic
reading his/her latest installment from an
uncooperative smartphone . . .
and we're here on the cusp of ordering-out . . .

Screen Dump 349

New and a bit alarming . . .
          - Beauty and the Beast (2017)

The bloated script toggles your erotic other . . .
as if at a meeting of sorts with a chameleon-like character
who never was . . . and never will be . . .
pushing a Something-of-the-Month Club app
celebrating the opening of the New NY Bridge . . .
Scalpers run lines down blind alleys . . .
Friends with benefits bottleneck stage doors . . .
The millennium's magic beans, yes? . . .
A portal to The Time Before the Time That Was . . .
cryptic codes choke galley proofs thick with odyssey . . .
costumes . . . understudies . . . extras . . .
liner notes nuanced
with clues to your whereabouts . . .
last seen being whited-out by sheets of snow . . .

Bruno Aveillan

Screen Dump 348

The thought of Klein's patented riff on ultramarine
and the high romance of pursuit
saturate your jealousy of time despite a high wind advisory . . .
Gym rats crowd onto a blue continuum with feigned defeat
pained by the thought of your strange repetitions . . .
their ineptitude straining the windows with halftime images . . .
You were climactically rebuffed, yes? . . .
but who's to say why? . . . Certainly not page-turners
who know the morbidity of sand
slipping in and out of costume and into the role of street
only to be shunted off into a siding . . .
You, not unlike many, are mired in the phrase bald-face lies . . .
its etymology as elusive as imaginary numbers
skipping beats to the turntable's scratching . . .
An obsession with interludes will soon spell relief . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Screen Dump 347

You were kept up at night by Joan Mitchell's Les Bluets . . .
A book on the terrace . . . at the entrance to Monet's cottage . . .
now a pile of pages . . .
ghost-knowledge . . . a mark of erudition . . .
passing the plate . . .
like Beckett's Film starring Buster Keaton . . .
who remained confused . . . throughout . . .
asking Beckett if he had eaten Welsh rarebit . . .
freely improvising the lines . . . the melody dictates rhythm
and shared admiration
of facticity and the poetization of form . . .
What are you talking about? . . .
Not quite sure . . . but little matter . . .
especially now . . . toeing the high wire . . .
though costumed we are recognizable . . . spooning a hard conceit . . .

Samuel Beckett and Buster Keaton

Screen Dump 346

Under a fermata . . . as if the book's deckle edge . . .
With amplification your silence will inhabit
the margins of this poem
not unlike a ripening of sorts . . .
perhaps indifferent-seeming . . . at first . . .
then a buttoning-up against the cold . . .
You have become unsuited for tangentials . . .
play-acting . . . breathing in . . . breathing out . . .
trying to convince yourself
and the other (named after the main character)
that this is the language of lost things . . .
that this too is the way it is . . . as good as it gets? . . .
tagged . . . archived . . .
to be studied . . . continued . . . forgotten . . .
He/she enters you . . . becomes you . . .
The odyssey as virgule . . .
Your first tea . . . miles away . . . down the hill . . .

Francesca Woodman

Screen Dump 345

A fairer House than Prose.
          - Emily Dickinson

Instead the twitching vocabulary blinds us
with its patina . . . demanding entry . . .
You have experienced this yourself . . .
[see Journal entry #365]
Without reassurance then . . .
How we manage to traverse March Madness
on a snowy March day . . .
your bad ear tap dancing to Keats's Impossible Music . . .
flirting with segues . . .
past players working an audience . . .
Meditation as foreplay, yes? . . .
You haven't refreshed the pages, that's why . . .
There's a blueness to it . . .
hypnotic . . . despite the trepidation of icosahedrons . . .
20 questions? . . .
And why the cormorants? . . .
Instead of rewinding . . . try resetting . . .
It doesn't matter . . . the directions are misleading . . .
off-putting . . . thick with errors . . .
Of course, he/she wants to re-up . . .
Relegated to inefficiency . . .
the oversight of an overnight of the 10th order . . .
Recheck the code . . .
You embody the Pleasure Principle . . .
skim Freud . . . flag Jung . . .
You deny insensitivity, yes? . . .
arguing instead the pressure points of the body . . .
Little wonder the insinuations . . .
The algorithms wax geometric on your eyelids
providing a welcome respite to food shopping . . .
I can only imagine . . .
Unclothed . . . wrinkle-proof . . .
escaping into the figurative
as if a swell carried you across the jetty
on an overcast day . . . brimmed with extras . . .
Regard the script, please . . .
You were well-versed given your days at the manhole . . .
with its triangulation of
hand . . . mouth . . . womanhole . . .
Is that it? . . .
Shape-changing . . . and leaving before the sun . . .
not unlike a vampire . . .
Reason #3 for why your mother told you . . .
If the sitcom rolls in, be noncommittal . . .
the honester you'll become . . .
These elements will magically take flight
as if from your scrapbook . . . minus 18 minutes . . .
where someone reminded you to hedge your bets . . .
And, of course, the buoyancy . . .
You insist numbness, but that wasn't it, was it? . . .
as you sucked on your lower lip
waiting for the Windows 10 Update . . .
You were lavish in your arrogance
and partied-on until the bubbles were pried open . . .
your odyssey threatening to be something other
than what it was? . . . is? . . .
You continue to catch the wave of enjambment . . .
fresh from Neverland . . .
prancing ostentatiously . . .
and this is good . . .
indented on the next line to show that the break
is the result of space limitations
not the actualization of the self . . .
which tries mightily to crash the servers of past players
who insist the seduction of bass lines . . . not baselines . . .
for no reason other than buy-backs . . .
a pumping segue to the requisite . . .
your meter hashtagged as a dream sequence
intuiting its possibility via ekphrastic verse . . .
laid out on a picnic table astride cobs of corn . . .
Of course, there will be afterthoughts . . . as always . . .
a celebration of the "I" and the "you"
straddled with nary a homestretch . . .

Emily Dickinson

Screen Dump 344

That the room is spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . .
Unhouse your face . . . and begin . . .
Time bookends itself . . .
You have made-do . . . and made-off
with the likes of nobody . . .
Evidence bespeaks versatility . . .
I have been verily amused by your analytics . . .
and antics . . .
Intentionality 'R' Us, yes? . . .
Arrange the chimes farther down the row . . .
You have crossed yourself
past the row houses
seemingly at ease with the accoutrements
being examined and codified
in the makeshift alcove . . .
Of course I remember the locomotive works
qua casino . . . where the slots
found a home . . . and await the starting gong . . .
Isn't it as if you were pre-empted? . . .
It wasn't written that way . . .
I don't know how it was written
but I know it wasn't written that way . . .
A switch must have occurred . . .
and flipped . . .
Nonetheless, you will be less remarked upon
astonishingly mild-mannered
with a ripple-effect to unfurl your socks
in full color
in full view
in full payment
in retrospect . . .
His/her latest novel plays upon dot matrices . . .
It's a Fulbright . . .
Imagine the centrifuge . . .
and the particle accelerator
gathering dust
especially in that moment of anticipated reactions . . .
The Law of Anticipated Reactions . . .
Perchance to dream? . . .
And yet a smidgen, perhaps? . . .
While you're up, could you please flip
the complications . . . of that encounter . . .
when the reds, whites, and blues partied hard? . . .
Trust me, it wasn't allegorical . . .
There was no dispensation involved . . .
further, happenstance was not called upon . . .
You would think the obvious
but the outcome surprisingly took on
a broader issue
and made its way . . . tail between its legs . . .
to the photomontage
as if nothing had happened . . .
We were caught off-guard . . .
All of us . . .
And it was a good thing to be in good company . . .
We got the story straight . . .
with the attendant ifs, ands, and buts . . .
Things can get muddy . . . as you well know . . .
especially with the threat of climate change
and Holly Golightly . . .
You do remember Cat, yes? . . .
The knitsch was knotted . . .
We were about ourselves
with five minutes left in the quarter
and leftovers left over . . .
Please review the conscious avenue of deceit . . .
It's always there . . .
I have your back . . .
Thank you . . . and be well . . .

Audrey Hepburn and "Cat" in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961)

Screen Dump 343

Caedmon, the illiterate cowherd, learned to sing in a dream . . . The seductiveness of the transcendent impulse, yes? . . . The words sometimes coming . . . sometimes not . . . sometimes the wrong words . . . No watcher at the gate, they enter the arena and the ears of others . . . their attempt to hurdle the ho-hum foredoomed to failure . . . You steel yourself . . . against what? . . . conformity? . . . obsolescence? . . . Free-wheeling afterthoughts stampede pageviews . . . provide just enough fluidity to prime a cold winter's night . . . the moon taking on all comers . . . in all weight classes . . . The concept of an afterlife . . . so day-before-yesterday . . . Are you still there? . . . or have you retreated into the deep woods of derivation? . . . Day-trippers choke supermarkets' aisles . . . fall victim to the trumpet's dissonance . . . without the bells and whistles . . . without the enthusiasm . . . of post-coital anaerobics . . . All for naught? . . . If push comes to shove, applicants will be required to submit their soliloquies in triplicate with a Sharpie . . .

Gemma O'Brien, the "Sharpie" Lady

Screen Dump 342

Your last time out was played . . . in mime . . .
good will hunting à la if-he-can-she-can . . .

a disastrous hookup . . . where less was more . . .
and more was even less . . .

with you lost among ceiling tiles
while outside Stevens's snowman orchestrated

nothing that is not there and the nothing that is . . .
And you ask . . . Why "now" the drama? . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 341

You're a liar!
          - Tilda Swinton in Young Adam (2003)

But the expectation trumps the whimsicality, yes? . . .
Of what? . . . sleeping with someone? . . .
Ring around the rosie . . . earwormed . . .
and we're all falling down . . . the Urban Dictionary
reminding us of the Black Death
and the monkish chime . . . blurring genres . . .
as effortlessly as the banality of domesticity . . .
But I can do this now, having done time as a footnote . . .
Forget the intrusion . . . there was none . . .
But what about posed pics? . . .
Aren't they filled with lies? . . .
What are you talking about? . . .
Welcome to The Age of Lies . . .
You're kidding . . .
I'm not kidding . . .
Casual lies à la Billy Joel?
No, not casual lies . . .
Again you capture the fancy, better, the fantasy
of many . . . following a hiatus . . . of how many years? . . .
The voice in this line is unrecognizable . . .
Savoring the rush . . .
The rush, yes . . . yes . . . it's all about the rush . . .
Aware of the seamlessness of thought and action . . .
the invisibility . . .
And now? . . .
Zero-out the counters . . . and proceed with the scene . . .
He/she will attempt a comeback . . . at an open mic . . .
But what about Thomas Wolfe? . . .
Didn't he host an open mic? . . .
I don't think so . . . he was too tall . . .
besides, I don't have time to phone home right now . . .
Then make time . . .
Make time? . . . whoa, the designated optimist
has elbowed his/her way into the room . . .
Deliver the lines as written, please . . .
Pedal to the masses . . . no doubt . . . wait . . .
I'm googling as fast as I can . . . and now my eyes close
as I enter the fifth of seven levels . . .

Tilda Swinton in Young Adam (2003)

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 . . .