Screen Dump 418

You cardio in a sea of idiolects . . . diagramming interior monologues . . .
The right stuff is within reach of  the polyvocality of recyclers

taking recyclables to a redemption center . . . Suffice it to say what? . . .
A dead zone exchanges inanimates feeding quarters to blown-glass avatars

while questioning the preparation instructions jotted down in haste . . .
Your pockets bulge confusion . . . and continue as secular entities . . .

A go-between oozing cheap cologne you rarely go into the yard
where the sundial does time . . . every once in a while . . . Of course,

this is all from Stage 1 players who smoke the endgame with lush abandon
tsking you for dealing a bag of KFC extra hot wings at the head shop . . .

The aluminum block from the melted-down cans of your childhood
triggers something . . . perhaps the shortest straw exiled just out of sight . . .

Eugenio Recuenco

Screen Dump 417

And now you're gung-ho about the suffix esque . . .
immersing yourself . . . in the other . . .
the pieces coming together effortlessly . . . bumping you up
to the next level of engagement . . .
soundtracked by the brain's 40 Hz hum . . .
That the criteria remain unmet is irrelevant . . .
That the costumes are ill-fitting . . . incidental . . .
The slippery slope slipperier as you misplace your self . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 416

To lose yourself in the pages of a softcover . . .
the pages of a graphic novel . . .

to lose yourself in the action of a graphic novel . . .
in the one two three of a graphic novel . . .

between the stacks . . . in the sanctuary of a bookstore . . .
the sanctuary of books . . . of words . . .

someone somewhere is talking to you . . .
trying to insinuate himself/herself into your life . . .

into the graphic novel of your life . . .
into the who what when where why of your life . . .

Again . . . the same voice . . .
but different from the black and white . . .

You try to follow its dotted line . . .
along the canal . . .

leading out of here . . . wherever here is . . .
leading to unmapped areas . . . imaginary areas . . .

A patron . . . patron saint? . . . talks revitalization . . .
somewhere . . . here? . . . where points

are made by those easily led
into the dawn of a new day . . . another day . . .

beginning mid-chapter
with sun . . . then sleet . . . then snow . . .

The playbook turns on its heel spurring motion-
sickness for those taxiing . . . you among them . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 415

The day unfolds flat with allegations prompting you to engage Death
in a game of mumbly-peg, channeling Scrooge with the tiresome
But does it have to be? . . .
The barleycorned life and times of, yes? . . .
Will the plug be pulled? . . .
Will it morph into an Oscar Week? . . . an Oscar Wilde? . . .
Will your knight advance to the podium
your head choked with streaming videos of the good old days . . .
some of which were indeed good enough
to fetch an Oscar . . . had they been nominated? . . .
You ride the crest of here/not-here
filling the concave mirror in the Fun House with mothballed
dress-down-Friday costumes and brittle unkept promises . . .
your entourage feeding your rock-and-roll role . . .
But the center - as expected? - doesn't hold and
I don't give a damn is a wet towel tossed into the ring at the end of the ninth
when amid the full catastrophe you are ticketed for rambling . . .
for drifting off-pointe at the barre . . .
with a bullseye henna'd onto your unlined forehead . . .

Caught

I caught a tremendous fish.
          - Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish

But then the little engine that could couldn't
and you were set adrift . . . on opening day . . .
crib notes . . . encrypted . . .
a tale of blue cities in your creel
on life-support no less . . .
but this time time stops
as you reel in Liz's tremendous fish . . .
battered and vulnerable and lonely . . .
and examining and inspecting his sullen face
and five-haired beard of wisdom
you are awestruck by the rainbow, rainbow, rainbow
and by the happiness of happenstance
as it parallel parks
your day . . . and you too let it go . . .