Sunday, June 25, 2017

Buttdialing Ubers and Other Sonnetized Shorts

Season One

You hawk Girl Scout cookies to linemen
patching phone lines in manholes
They pledge allegiance to the pleats in your uniform
A flâneur stumbles . . . on camera
Ill-equipped and ill-mannered
you are perfect for the job
and hired on the spot from within
Your half-life . . . is a lateral
You skip the condiment aisle
to jostle newhires . . . if for no other reason
A pawn . . . no, a night . . . in the game, yes?
Ditto Dottie!
With as much anachronism as catch-as-catch-can
Neck . . . and benecked

Season Two

You count out change from a shiny metal change counter
attached to your belt with Velcro
You score a merit badge for the likes of this
Isn’t this romantic?
An aging-out squeezebox expands and contracts
to the gesticulations of bystanders
eBay's only a day away
Forging ahead nonetheless
with less than Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels
you wait tables in reruns
buttdialing Ubers for Q&As
while running changes with after-hour noodlers
A good misstep
as innocuous as an up-close-and-personal

Season Three

I’m famished . . . how about you?
Lick and belicked . . . as you like it
A speedbump unto oneself, yes?
Isn’t it time to resume the obligatory?
Can you imagine?
Not unlike the postmodern
foisted upon minions
when no one was looking and the brownout was force-fed
And just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, yes?
Is it safe? quoth Sir Laurence . . . to the Marathon Man
Low-lying clouds should be forgiven
They know not . . . As for you?
The same is not true . . . You knew . . . around the block
and then some

Season Four

I’ll huff . . . and I’ll puff
Really? . . . That's a bit Uberish, yes?
The Uber knows all
Though stymied, you go on
Feel better when you fail better
The drones are about to trance . . . teleported to Walmart
I’ll bet you miss Blue Light Specials
Blue Light Specials "R" Us!
As if we were belched into the nosebleed section
Runners on first and third . . . here’s the pitch
swung on . . . and the hills are alive with the sound of silence
Simon and Garfunkel? Aren't they're close-mouthed?
Wittgenstein as Party-Pooper
If you can’t talk about it . . . Bollocks!

Season Five

The flight left in two hours
Then you accidentally uncorked plagiarism
As if to say There, I’ve done it again!
Full-fledged-in-your-face-buttdialing
I feel I should commit myself
to something . . . or someone
Happenstance as whoopee cushion
as pocket billiards
with all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Bespoken . . . ain’t that the truth?
with a hey, diddle, diddle and a cache of Little Golden Books
breaching security for the hell of it
Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell . . . And then?
He called for his bong . . . and he called for his bowl

Season Six

They're choreographing drive-bys . . . on trikes
and talking with Jacob's Pillow about next steps
You listen to the rhythm of the falling rain
telling you just what a fool you've been
Hey, that's OK! . . . we're all just passing out
Besides, the light is about to change
Insignificance piles up on the night stand
most days
Orchestrating tweets
You end up backpedaling for all the wrong reasons
Soon to a major motion picture . . . guaranteed
to stop post-nasal drip and other post-apocalypse nits
You're good to go
French Press or full press?

Season Seven

You can have both
Clickety-clack
and the days become a railroad apartment
with you as conductor
of Mahler's Seventh
Buttdialing Mahler's Seventh
Does a table-read have to be cold?
All the world's a chessboard
and you have all the right moves
Triumphant! . . . He/she was triumphant!
Measure upon measure . . . as if out with the bathwater
Purposefully negligent
Now why in the world would you call for backup?
Continue reading the main story

Geisha Davis

Friday, June 23, 2017

Screen Dump 371

A willingness to look silly stalks you
with kinky imaginations . . . banister games . .  .
late-night tête-à-têtes . . .
while you . . . on hidden camera . . .
backpedal . . . into an off-season valentine
shopping trip to designer outlets . . .
A soft-spoken train wreck meanders
into wish-fulfillment
with instructional video in Jungian tongue . . .
The morning reboots . . .
jousts . . . the colors of some flag . . .
Two can play solitaire, yes? . . .
You are this . . . that . . . this . . .
and that . . . nurturing a crudeness into nothing
less than a bespoke cringing one-act . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Friday, June 16, 2017

Screen Dump 370

Love loves to love love.
          - James Joyce, Ulysses

You misquote yourself . . . again . . . finding solace
in the non sequitur . . .
in the interplay among players . . .
among onlookers
who . . . could they have it another way . . .
would not . . . tapping their fingers
to your breathing
as you . . . awaken with asking
the morning again . . . and again . . . and again . . .
a transubstantiation . . .
of the temporal . . . the insignificant . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Paging (Through) Dr. Williams

(reposted from Sunday, May 29, 2011)

Red-faced
balding
in faded scrubs,
he walks
his hound
and waits
while she pees
nonchalantly
on the red
wheelbarrow,
sending
the white
chickens
scurrying
in a flurry
of feathers.
I pass
noisily
in my rusted-
out sub-
compact,
munching
on the sweet
cold plums
I took
from the fridge
when no one
was looking.