Separation Anxiety

You present with symptoms of naiveté.
A late-night phone call. Texts. An early-morning phone call.
And, voila, you're seduced
by the immediacy of the overheard conversation
the immersive apparatus engaged
knocking the corners off the foundation.

But. But. But. But, what?
But the symmetry is off.
So? It doesn't take a Sherlock.
Why should the party of the first part party?
A minimum of two, or three, or five? You're kidding, yes?
Perhaps not. Perhaps the disingenuous are hardwired
for tolerance or at least stick-to-itiveness.

Regardless, take a hike.

The evergreens, frosted, await your passing.

May I Have a Word With You?

Your passion has yet to be downsized or frozen in amber.
I too have been away from it all
the opening dialogue an experiment in plenitude.
At least that's what I tell them.
And the loneliness? A gambit
that should you wish can be spun into silver -
not unlike the earrings -
with a tap of a magician's wand.
Reminiscences aside, you trickle forward remarkably well.

Anja Niemi

The Whole Nine Yards

Several weighed in but are still out.
As irksome as a waddling equid.
I guess things have improved
especially since the restructuring.
Circumlocution as earworm, yes?
Filling in the blanks
with nonsense syllables.
Trumping away at revisions.
Could be fun.
But will it fly, she interrupted?
Little matter.
Even buses tune in
and tweet their little hearts out.
A few endearments, please.
They sometimes do the trick,
and certainly can't hurt. Tell me
about the cute anchor
with the ink.
Wait. You want out
but you're not sure from what?
Nothing new.
Review the nominees.
We'll see what happens.
I'm sure you can't wait to get going.

Joyce Tenneson

The Befuddlement of Enjambments

I cannot make it cohere.
          - Ezra Pound

Your co-dependency index jumps off the charts.
You no longer care or feel obliged to write your own words.
Collaboration as crooked smile.
To make ends meet you take up origami
and deliver e-meals-on-wheels
to the marginalized and semi-marginalized
who will feature at Friday's open mic
along with the cigar-chomping Viennese neurologist
you freely-associate with.
He knows - or thinks he knows - the secret of the Sphinx.
For him, everything is a cigar.
It's as if there are no connections -
only superficial encumbrances
whose patina changes with the seasons
and can transport you to the Land of Oz
where the good doctor spins aphorism upon aphorism
underwritten by neurasthenia and by people like you.
Soon you will be carried to distant shores in a tiny ship.
Say nothing. This will be your 15-minutes
of a new and everlasting covenant.

Roberto Kusterle

Close Listening

          for Lola Montez's rubber tarantulas

You decide to unloose fractured narratives
stipulating headphones for audiophiles winked into submission
fearing cognitive overload will alienate thumpalongs
who - let's face it - are in it for the freebies.
All this and a Joanna Newsom look-alike.
Your Rolodex demands an upgrade
and recognition for the abstractions lining the water closet
where insiders will most likely meet bimonthly
to trade secrets.
You've heard this before, yes?
Good! That's the first of 12 steps
novitiates must maneuver
along with a moonlight tour of the outer reaches or branches.
You are now one move away from the symmetries
as fearful as feared.

Lola Montez

Lovestruck Valentine

Roses are red
Roses are red
Roses are          red
Roses          are

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Life As Speed Bump

Discovery consists . . . in having new eyes.
          - Marcel Proust

Forget the discarded profiles.

Their iterations will suck you into a maze of mirrors

reflecting your miscalculations.
You don't want to go there again, do you?

Life as speed bump, yes?
A marionette in his/her hand

costumed for the role
bemusement your mantra.

Perhaps journaling the speed bumps
the alterations and altercations

the incidentals in the remains of a day
will give you new eyes.

Perhaps it will help make the accoutrements
of your discovery

as manageable as a connect-the-dots topographic map
of a path disappearing into the woods.

Roberto Kusterle

Woman XXXV

She eats waffles

with a cartographer's

exactitude

mapping each piece

with the compass of her mouth.

I become lost

in her topography.

Mere Players

You googlemap the directions from here to there
and find seven minutes -
seven minutes that could make or break the diorama,
the other players arriving out-of-turn,
unannounced, at all hours,
sometimes with bags of groceries
which they unpack and shelve
as enthusiastically as new hires,
later flopping down
on the couch, grabbing the flicker,
channel-surfing,
leaping intuitively to the ending they must have,
these mere players,
playing their many parts,
their table-reads off the grid,
between the lines,
improvisational, winging-it,
flying by the seat of their pants,
creating havoc, scenes colliding, mounting to confusion.
And then the ungraspable somewhere.
The moment to moment.
Drafting the incense of homecoming
as you follow the directions,
follow the rights and lefts,
climb the stairs, and review your notes,
one last time, outside the locked door.

Anja Niemi

Woman XXXIV

She paints pyramids and
calls out to eat in
underlining lines
in the movie she's watching
with the color of sand.
I grab my pail and shovel.

Roberto Kusterle

Outsourcing

The ramifications snowball with indifference,
the blue-lined notebooks
fat with FAQs sideswiping you
as you again test the waters
the default set to stream.
Perhaps you should buy time at the kiosk,
the one with the the Buy One Get One
of pics of your former selves -
some then some now -
picking up fragments of what might have been.
Perhaps you should rethink your lines -
the read-through pristine yet unconvincing,
as if the bell lappers knew all along
when to retreat into the background.

Anja Niemi