Screen Dump 597

Your memories avalanche . . . their redundancy

taking you by the hand . . . misleading you

through the maze of your heart's back alleys . . .

How not to personify the habitual . . .

goofy shifts and the beauty of the clunk close to convincing you

to dispense with the endgame . . . the proper

though not necessarily acceptable solution . . .

A plague of hideous narcissists enters

full of sound and fury

local littlenesses piggybacked with false promises

take to the streets with anarchic images

from the backpacks of recognizable strangers

who are quick to trade identities

signifying nothing . . .

A contrabass flutist strikes a dischord

and is recalibrated by a wandering minimalist

intent on delusion . . .

The night puts out feelers . . .

Many experience a faux aha . . .

You see it coming despite your backward glance . . .

Paulina Otylie Surys

Screen Dump 596

Something about the web of indifference . . .

No retelling the clutch . . . it was there . . . you were there

as if tap dancing in the bardo . . .

Then you dropped the ball . . . outstripping silence . . .

Odysseyites began speaking from hard-won experience . . .

You Ubered home at 1:30 AM

playing stopgap with a year's reprieve

dust bunnies cavorting . . .

Why bother the naiveté of Positively Fourth Street? . . .

You have no faith to lose

in your celebrated future waking life . . .

Can you recap anything? . . .

Is there a documentarian? . . . a videographer? . . .

You are repainting the rooms . . . yes, I understand . . .

The cake was indeed left out in the rain . . . period . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Screen Dump 595

On bed or sofa . . . you adjust the volume

to accompany your departure

the departure of others . . .

The stillness captured

epic tales of whiteouts

hunkered down . . . waiting . . .

So now is the time to hoard it in your heart? . . .

Again and again . . .

Let's broach continuity

for the sake of . . . for the sake of what?  . . .

It sounds fishy doesn't it? . . .

I mean when was the last time you opened

a how-to with bits and pieces a-plenty? . . .

Should we go on? . . .

dump everything into a disambiguation machine

and see what happens? . . .

Maybe it'll surprise us . . . though I doubt it

what with the transparency

mottled at that . . .

Bloom of happenstance . . . then the close . . .

Shannon Hartman in Ill Seen Ill Said by Samuel Beckett (2017)