Screen Dump 211

Your dreams of curating an exhibit of shopping carts . . .
ooze seduction . . .
an overdosing on blue pigment . . .
a candying of the afternoon . . .
shoplifted . . . from performance spaces . . .
where dust refuses to settle . . .
Persons of interest . . . hiding in the wooden horses . . .
parading through the streets . . .
await the phases of your tongue which . . .
like the phases of the moon . . .
are well-versed in telemetry and round-robin competition . . .
reducing so-called experts . . . to blubbering blunderers . . .
paper-trailing their oblong lives . . .
with highlighted aftermaths . . .
as your delectability seeps through the cacophony . . .
bewildering those whose pages jockey for translation . . .

while the moon again engages 20 questions . . .

Andrew Yee

Screen Dump 210

You should have been carded
instead of fitted with full-body armor
as you spasmed awake . . .
his/her hands explicating your microcosms . . .
You began a journal . . .
while lilacs last in  the dooryard bloomed . . .
smoothing out the edges of sitcoms . . .
your glass in the mirror defying your losses
which soon increased exponentially
with the shapes and colors of the rooms
whose ceilings you'd spec'd for restoration
as you half-listened to nursery rhymes . . .
Your family and friends gathered
for deepest sympathies
but you were elsewhere . . .
tallying spiders in the trash bags
that befriended you
throughout your crusade phase . . .
You often overdosed
on the bald spots of left fielders
as they tongued third base . . .
This too became grist for your journal
dictated while your left hand
maneuvered the yellow Cobra
repainted red by migrant workers
who knelt before copies of your field notes
while regurgitating alma maters
and telephone numbers
from restroom stalls . . .
Concision drove you
to out-of-the-way movie houses . . .
You loved indies
and edgy outerwear
and the five o'clock shadows
that caressed your inner sanctum . . .
Independent studies became your mantra . . .
How often did you picture the Argonauts
as you mimicked
your favorite silent screen stars
who time and again stiffed you for the last call? . . .

Screen Dump 209

Illusory at best . . . but then . . . why not? . . .
The moments . . . peering through the glass . . . journal in hand . . .
When everything . . . and everyone . . .
What do you mean . . . save it for the judge? . . .
I have no intention of implementing a full-court press . . .
And . . . quite frankly . . . I don't care what the life coach said . . .
He too is just going through the motions . . .
He too knows full well that there are bigger fish to fry . . .
With the day turning wintry . . . let's try to recapture the play
as it was . . . or, rather, as we remember it . . .
Yes, we've lapsed . . . but that's what makes it interesting, yes? . . .

Craig McDean

Screen Dump 208

With you taken by digital fluff
I've decided to stop obsessing over . . . the fit and finish
of bodies in motion
and instead map the terrain of humdrum . . .
risking sweet confusion
with a tongueless loafer
in residence under the daybed . . .
idly strumming a guitar
in a Spanish cafe . . . with apps . . . no less . . .
Why wrinkle at the thought of dawdling
over the saggy moments
that will soon overtake us? . . .
Perhaps the days will turn into fresh loaves of sourdough? . . .
Something we can laugh about, anyway, yes? . . .

Wendy Bevan

Today or Yesterday

Today or yesterday
I took the 6:55 train to New York City.
I bought the ticket online
packed my backpack with a bottle of water
a new book of essays on Anne Carson
a book of poems titled
I Want to Make You Safe by Amy King
who teaches poetry
at Nassau Community College
and had John Ashbery
for a teacher at Brooklyn College
my Kindle Paperwhite
a yellow pad
a 1.3mm mechanical pencil (I like fat leads)
and a provolone and tomato sandwich
on sourdough.
I got there early.
The train was already there.
I took a seat on the river side of the car
facing forward toward New York City.
I put my backpack on the seat next to me
to discourage anyone from sitting there.
It worked!
I looked out the window at Albany
as the train left the station.
I was heading to the Guggenheim
to see the posthumous exhibit
of On Kawara whose artistic life
according to the April 2015 issue
of Art in America
was anchored
by the simple labor of painting
the dates of the days he lived through.
He began in 1966 when he was 33
and continued until his death in 2014 -
a painting a day for almost 50 years
including 3,000 paintings
of the dates on which they were made:
white sans serif text on red, blue, or gray
in eight sizes: from 8x10" to 5x7'
one selling in 2014
for over four million dollars.
Somewhere in the middle of an essay
on Anne Carson I fell asleep
and woke as we pulled into Penn Station.
It was a beautiful day.
I decided to walk the three-and-a half miles
up Madison Avenue to the Guggenheim.

On Kawara

Screen Dump 207

Again . . . you are in the back seat . . . with a redacted script
counting the exits . . . the entrances . . . the players and their parts . . .

Your OCD-fueled insistence . . . awaits Throwback Thursday

with its alternate interpretations . . . its alternate positions . . .

What would happen for example . . . if you encouraged others
to shed their masks . . . their gambits . . . their dreamscapes? . . .

What would happen if you opened yourself . . . to the Seven Levels?. . .

Would the candy store still hold its sweetness? . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 206

Connecting the dots of the day
magic markers bleed through the paper
the corners . . . unsafe at any speed . . .
Geese . . . honk approval
of coolheaded air traffic controllers . . .
Too many books soundtracking your life
too many pictures, yes? . . .
Reviewing the PowerPoints in your head . . .
The slides . . . and their seductive asides . . .
Too much? . . .
Moments . . . when all data are dumped
with the sunrise cajoling
and walking through a field
you find huge beasts . . . shadowing the sun . . .

Rachel McAdams in To the Wonder (2012)

Screen Dump 205

. . . fiercely wanting, as we all do, just a little more of life?
          - Mary Oliver

That's the funny thing about relinquish . . .
The Etch-A-Sketch world we inhabit
is improvisational
a table-read for a sitcom
wading through early morning pools
across mountains . . . and rivers
taking elements of calm with our coffee
before the exit interview
at a strange station . . .
You spend the day painting . . . en plein air
palette loaded with muted pigments
capturing . . . interpretations of your dreams
scripts . . . to be staged . . .
This is what you did . . .
This is what you wanted to do . . .
This is what you were meant to do . . .
We all have answers
some better than others
well, maybe not better . . . different, yes?
with tag lines that sometimes grab us . . .
and hold us . . . gently rocking us . . . in the moment
forgetting the edge
letting the body love . . . what it loves . . .

Today

The world . . . calls to you like the wild geese, . . .
          - Mary Oliver

to celebrate
I went . . . to the woods . . .
some snow still
the creek's gurgle
the trees
and then above . . . wild geese
return . . .
harsh and exciting . . .

Mary Oliver

Screen Dump 204

Your fixation on ancient obelisks . . . is a pinched nerve
demanding a steroid injection
a flippancy that derails dime-a-dozeners . . .
And now you're sweating the stylistic devices of S. Freud
and the probe of this poem
and the probe of something else not yet identified
finding yourself in the deli section
worrying enjambments . . . the accrual of lines
the orchestration of loneliness . . .
You're trying to score, yes? . . .
Trotting out the notion
that the poet creates and alleviates loneliness . . .
I think you're losing readers
with your otherness
with your self-conscious selfie . . .
They think they know what you're thinking . . .
I don't think they know . . .
What do you think? . . .
Let them continue . . . to talk to themselves
and propose their (unsought) intimacy . . .
The spin cycle is almost over, yes? . . .
Trying to figure us out? . . .
But inconsistency is our forte . . . our mise en scène . . .
Beginning with the line How should a person be? . . .
The nosedive . . . yes . . . is bound to happen . . .
It will give us something to believe in
if only for the moment . . . parlaying streaming options
holding us . . . stroking us . . . telling us to remain seated
for the entire white-knuckle construct
with complimentary mini-carafes of something mint-flavored . . .

Corpse Bride (2005)

Screen Dump 203

That experts disagree . . . threw you for a infinite loop . . .
Discovering something . . . then forgetting it . . .
A tollbooth in the middle of this line
making it impossible to determine if you are unhappy or sublime
compounded by the desperate obliqueness of the matter-at-hand . . .
I mean . . . Really? . . .
And those bystanders . . . texting like mad . . . How could they? . . .
Then to top it off . . . a diagnostic category crashes the party
and upsets the apple cart
oblivious to the nuances of those in the know . . .
Listen . . . Why don't we blow this joint . . .
and tab ourselves into Neverland . . . or Whateverland? . . .
C'mon . . . Did you think you could sustain the effort? . . .
What with the baggage that has obliterated your selfie
and colored your days with muted Hallmarkian ramifications? . . .

Ahmet Polat