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Your texts drip drama . . . with intermissions . . .
intrusions . . .
impersonal enunciations . . .
free popcorn . . .
Trailing around with pockets turned out . . . submarining . . .
Can we label this happenstance? . . .
We interrupt this program for debugging, yes? . . .
The corrections elbowing their way into the everyday . . .
bathed in florescence . . . in phosphorescence . . .
in nonchalance . . . as if it were . . .
Inasmuch as it is, yes? . . .
The excitement of the express line . . . orgasmic . . .
Carpooling on a cloudy day . . . in the passing lane . . .
Passing cars on the bridge . . .
The stalled cars from your past . . .
In the back seat of the stalled cars from your past . . .
I'm trying to counterbalance things here . . .
The interference though is getting the upper hand . . .
Why bother? . . . you have to ask? . . .
You have to ask? . . .
Why excuse yourself, then, . . . when so much is at stake? . . .
Witches burned at the stake! . . .
as if we were someone else . . . penning anecdotes . . .

David Leslie Anthony

Screen Dump 241

You make a funny face . . . and know you are kidding . . .
slipping it past the others
as the car warms for the trip . . . over the bridge
and into the City . . .
with Gram taking pictures of you costumed
like everyone else
cut to hook the imagination and jumpstart the excursion
into the clubs of the good . . . the bad . . . and the ugly . . .
It's not just a game, yes? . . .
It's a passage . . . a maze of hooplas . . .
I am like them . . .
nurturing the stages of development . . . as experimenter . . .
double-blinding players . . .
hairy . . . horn-a-plentied . . .
with lips and tongue . . . fake phone numbers . . .
and more . . .
from an irretrievable uneditable unconscious . . .

Screen Dump 240

Your inner Groucho tickled, you begin unpacking your ditties
for another weekend of he said she said . . .
cataloging the emptiness of mismatched furniture
and late-night detective shows . . .
You could have told me . . . about the insignificance
begging to be jotted down . . .
I am ready for the interview . . .
Stung into disbelief . . . you choose not to follow along . . .
Good for you! . . .
Forget the trenches . . . you were not meant for trenches . . .
A certain foolishness enters the room . . .
You can't help yourself . . . as you study yourself in the mirror . . .
But I know the ending . . .
Really? You know the ending? . . . to what? . . .
All endings are pretty much the same, yes? . . .
I want to float unfettered in a hot-air balloon
high above the cities . . . and towns . . . and canals . . .
of your imagination . . .
I know where I have been . . . I know that much . . .
I have always aimed to please . . . myself, of course . . .
Et vous? . . .

Jennifer Balkan

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We are all tunnelers . . . inhabiting grocery lists . . .
flirting with former selves . . .
dispatched by voiceovers . . . into the wind and rain and darkness . . .
Is living in the moment an option . . .
or has it too been grayed-out by instrumentalists
who hold the key . . . and the score . . . to the latest overture? . . .
Recapping what led up to wherever we are . . .
poses difficulties . . . though not insurmountable . . .
It's nothing more than what we're good at . . .
Making do with the lakeside cabin of our dreams
while clinging to the hope of finding the final piece to the puzzle
that peers from the loneliness of our back room closet
where the spirits of players await the opening of the endgame . . .

Steven Meisel

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This is not a room for making spaghetti . . .
There are yurts for that sort of thing . . .
All buttoned up against the cold . . . with leggings even . . .
transferring balances . . . just because . . .
orchestrating the place settings for a birthday bash . . .
Little matter . . . the conspiratorial deadline
with players arranging themselves . . . for photo-shoots . . .
will remain chemically imbalanced . . .
You were meant to follow along? . . .
I don't think so . . .
Since when did you trouble yourself with nuances . . .
or with the tracks of Sunday schoolers? . . .
This could be a stopgap . . . a hack . . . a time for reflection . . .
living in a new warp . . . with all that time to prep . . .
and tweak your M O . . .
A tad rusty . . . but who's counting? . . .
You recall your 20s . . . with the devil-may-care costumes . . .
jotting scripts from late night tête-à-têtes
as you made your way across town in the back seat of a cab . . .

Screen Dump 237

Sentences brimmed with allusion . . . pace the halls . . .
You as subject? . . . object? . . .
I will find meaning between the lines . . .
Auditioning . . . despite the nausea . . .
A curiosity that refuses to be quenched . . . by routine . . .
En pointe . . . the indifference disappears
as you immerse yourself in the choreography . . .
Perhaps the excitement of what's supposed to matter? . . .
of what's supposed to happen? . . .
or what you hope will happen? . . .
Forgetting the roadmap in the cereal box . . .
and the acquaintances with their run-on sentences . . .

Screen Dump 236

The inopportune moment . . . when the pieces threaten
to fall into place . . . and the time machine on the windowsill
begins churning out what seems to be nonsense . . .
But isn't that what it's all about? . . .
Spectrums of memories . . . partners . . . friends . . .
gathering for a barbecue . . . in someone's backyard? . . .
Trips along the yellow brick road . . . to Neverland? . . .
Aloof in Neverland . . . despite resolutions . . . despite dreams . . .
despite the familiar resurfacing . . . again . . . and again . . .
amanuenses taking down your sputterings . . .
This and other talismans scaffolding your delusion . . .

Screen Dump 235

Some part of me has always been drawn to stories of obsession.
          - Elizabeth Ellen

Appropriating words from an old dictaphone . . .
I was asked to write this . . .
You recall the manic chatter . . . and the final moments
tinged with blinking neons
and barges slipping through narrow canals . . .
You become obsessed with dilated pupils . . .
googling the association between dilation and attraction . . .
You begin collecting photographs
of faces with dilated pupils . . .
black and white photographs . . .
Etch-a-sketching the distance between you and them . . .
the image narrating your moods . . .
Off hours, you recall the hours
spent playing Hide-and-Seek . . .
obsessing over whether the eyes
of the seeker were dilated . . .
and whether it was an advantage . . .
in the darkness . . . and after . . .
You remember studying his/her face
the expression . . . and how it changed . . .
with the story . . .
and how you began taking notes to memorialize the moment . . .
the moment that would insinuate itself . . .
again and again . . . into your obsession . . .

Paolo Roversi