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Screen Dump 415

The day unfolds flat 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 . . .