Screen Dump 493

It's all about degrees of freedom . . . costumes, angularities,
shadings . . . navigating an intersection . . .
midday . . . odysseyites treading water . . . again . . .
people spinning . . . accoutered with options . . . nothing makeshift . . .
private messaging their own doom . . .
highlighting with regret the ones that got away . . .
the clanging metaphor . . . laughable . . .
The colors of the day trot out . . . elsewhere
tendings accumulate . . . recalling morning breaks
and the rigmarole of the starting line. . .
iPhones punching in . . . around water coolers
with recaps of news items
that come and go . . . come and go . . .
Eking out a cover as if line-a-plenty were key to the labyrinth . . .
A practical guide . . .  at least according to some passersby . . .

Jan Scholz

Screen Dump 492

You wake to a migraine of skates, draw a rink . . .
Your brain clots false binaries . . .
worrying the next of seven levels
knowing gropings and reversals have their own weird logic . . .
iPhones snap up your moves . . . exquisitely . . .
escaping overcooked Facebook chatter with elasticized joy . . .
Someone somewhere is about to walk into a room . . .
Again, the past . . .
Odysseyites make house calls with action figures
resurfacing February's frozen pond . . .
Schools of fish swim a snow day . . .
The understanding is white coral
interspersed with coffee breaks and fine china
and magicians - yes, magicians - with brown paper bags
brimmed with magic dust . . .
You continue to finetune your moves . . .
fueling the excitement of masked goalies with ulterior motifs . . .
Your mother kept the piece, downsizing a dream come true
for those dissecting the afternoon's fallout . . .
Transfixed, you enjoy bus stops that jolt you into journaling
your life partying with snow angels more often . . .

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 491

The day reeks of snow . . . and lines from Gatsby . . .
borne back ceaselessly into the past . . .
The Stutz Bearcats . . . unsuspecting . . . put upon . . .
dabble chatty bangs . . .
runners up . . . misinterpreted . . . and late . . .
Daisy's white roadster appears . . .
as players are benched . . .
harvesting evidence for review . . . with a smile . . .
decades hence . . .
You arrive with Crayolas . . . the walls of your room rearranged
to better escort the inexperienced . . . drifting into invisibility . . .
into the land of prematures . . .

Mario Sorrenti

Screen Dump 490

You're paging through . . . spelling redemption . . .
sinking a bunch from the free throw line . . .
eyes on the key . . . the steroids in the back room pushing big iron . . .
amused . . . you miss a spot . . . go back . . . and back . . .
back to your OCD . . . in fuchsia high-tops . . .
receptionists-a-go-go filling in the gaps
with furniture music from a hilltop factory spewing polyethylene . . .
shout-outs to the hyperventilating . . .
You propose a scavenger hunt with nanoseconds
the door ajar to a room festooned with period costumes . . .
The length enticing . . . the game continues . . .

Screen Dump 489

You miss the exit . . . and begin transcription
the backseat drama unfolding . . .
an overabundance of footnotes . . . trolls following the dotted line
into backroom bookshelves . . .
but this is what you wanted, yes? . . .
Thinking salutations . . . sulkily, you become a minion
searching the trash for disclaimers . . .
mapping the terrain of the argument . . .
If only odysseyites had proofed the pudding . . .
nosebleed sections deconstructed, labeled, reassembled . . .
Guiding the hands of players . . .
this from your notebook jottings
embellished with promises from would-be martyrs . . .
Removing transitionals from how-tos made it seem almost real
with more than enough space for everyone . . .

Wendy Bevan