Screen Dump 520

As if a bodega at the nineteenth hole
intimate . . . edgy . . . unapolologetic . . .
with you again . . . birding . . . again in Jellies . . .
again the culmination of opposites
almost always the same geometric problem
wending your way . . . ticket in hand . . .
notebook bulging with sightings
and now the painted streets
war zones
confrontations with the Breaking Wheel
trying to upend paintings
disguised as sketches
lines redacted
words enough to encase them
in six by six by six foot cubes
with looped recordings admitting
wrongdoings . . . misappropriations
of the facts in the case of . . .
The case in the facts of? . . .
Do you trust the ramifications
in the jetty jutting into the sounds of silence
letting it be
the audience altogether now reminiscing
if you have nothing to say, say nothing . . .
hamstrung by the kneejerk
by the inconsequentials
by the tools missing
from the pleasure principle? . . .
The knitting continues . . .
A train marks the beginning
of the middle of the night . . .
It's time to reinvent yourself . . .
to reinvent your story . . . your backstory . . .
You don't mind the face masks . . .

their discrepancies
inconsistencies
hypotheses . . .

There are too many issues trumping
the syntax and semantics of  line-cooks
whipping up pre-shift staff suppers . . .

You want to be a part of it . . .
Again the question hacked . . .
Again the question overtalked . . .
But . . . how then should a person be? . . .

Screen Dump 519

Everything can compress . . . and eventually collapse . . .
But why now on a Sunday morning

in the frozen food section? . . .
The UK mathematician who won big for unscrambling
a nightmarish family of equations

as if aliens were driving the bus
is over there puzzling a shopping cart . . .
You continue to fret the scale . . . and plow into
a pretend cluster of stochastic analyses . . .
It's all about the math of things . . . the mask of things . . .
the snarky randomization

that turns the simple into the complex . . .
You search through the junk drawer in your kitchen

travel back in time to the unreality of your basement . . .
to friends arriving and departing
as predicted by the wonderfully seamless unraveling
of imaginary numbers . . .
You pined for an imaginary number that dewy evening
when imbalance shadowed your footsteps
and made you the target of indifference . . .
You are sure someone somewhere wrote you up . . .
the comealongs exacting their toll of inequality . . .
Sharks and Orcas are behaving so badly they make no sense . . .

Race Point, Provincetown, MA August 2020

Screen Dump 518

You're going on about Hidden Mothers
in daguerreotypes and how in the masked world
we are holding onto our own shoulders . . .
tap dancing the frames . . . (I don't know
what brought this on . . .
maybe the painted streets
maybe the instructions for re-entry
maybe the confrontations) . . .
A steam train on YouTube argues a grade . . .
a respite? . . .
then something about dropping sand
for traction
as if we too could gain a foothold
from a similar application
and wince ourselves into a newer normal . . .
The birds in the tray feeders outside
remind me of the flying saucers
in War of the Worlds
the matinee my mother in her housedress
took me to in the summer of 1953 . . .
Did Orson see this coming as well? . . .

Screen Dump 517

A sudden intrusiveness . . . all well and good . . .
with thoughts carjacked
the best laid . . . and all that . . .
Did you think otherwise? . . .
Remedies are short-serving . . . with prognosticians
speculating gold fever
doing their best to make it through to lunch
for the day's special
at the top of the fifth . . .
Winsome of course . . .
of course he/she gets sidetracked of course
lost amid the swirl of words
and the vehicle of moderation again stalls midstream . . .
You release yourself . . .

apieceapart.com/woman

Screen Dump 516

Thumbing through your narrative . . . bristling

with Post-its . . . I find . . . mirrored . . .

without flinching . . . the shouldn'ts . . .

as if treading water in shark-filled surfs . . . categorizing

storefronts . . . busywork for the them-that-got . . .

without trying to interpret the world of illusions

squeezing into your mind's broom closet

that lately has taken on the role of night train

with its tell-all version of improprieties . . .

You pine for the sand box's epicenter . . .

halcyon days when your footsteps left no prints

and fellow birders

admired the sporting look

of your Jellies in rainbow colors . . .

You removed subsequent pages

and followed the dotted line into a backstory

that continues to hold you with its nimble fingering . . .

teasing you unconscious . . .

The days arrive in a freightyard

unpacking the unspoken until the shortlisted

begin their departure to unsung unknowns . . .

apieceapart.com/woman

I Don't Want To Do This Anymore

by Hana Sheedy-Corrado

I fell in love with his eyes.

Now, when I see them my heart stops.

The lump in my throat

the knot in my stomach

the tears in my eyes.

But I won’t leave.

Not just yet. 

I need every comforting moment I have left.

I know it’s time but I’ll hold on to these last few minutes as long as I can.

I watch him play with his curls.

The lump in my throat grows.

The knot in my stomach tightens.

Knowing this cannot be my life anymore terrifies me.

I know I’m not in love with him anymore

but I love him so fucking much.

I wonder why I’m still here.

I bring myself to this place

where all I feel is nothing.

But isn’t nothing better?

Isn’t it better to feel numb than to hurt

than to feel so overwhelmed

that you’re drowning

peacefully drowning

and although everyone is watching

no one bothers to help

because they don’t know what it’s like, right?

To drown but you don’t want help.

So you let yourself drown

until you find the courage to let go.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

Jarek Kubicki

DEMOCRACY 101

by Tom Bonville

Another month

comes and goes,

and the virus

seeks another  .  .  .

The public outcry,

the screams for freedom  .  .  .

Let one thing be said:

Ignorance hides nothing.

Mass graves in Brazil