Screen Dump 601

You too consider bailing but the last few episodes

of Ho Down reclaim your otherwise

so you face the unplowed streets with takeouts

while licorice stick bluesplayers

shred the changes

ignoring time signatures of mixed martial artists

in gilded cages . . .

The snow continues its deception

the tried-and-true are misdirected

by evil clowns whose words

elbow into cold case files

in forgotten cul-de-sacs around the world . . .

Why not now the nostalgia

for Golden Books

with their little engine that could promises

chuffing in the middle of a chow-down

with smiles-a-plenty odysseyites

around a round table? . . .

Meals-On-Wheels was last seen entering a roundabout . . .

Whoever was there now that the takeaway is moot? . . .

Mixed Martial Artist "Thug" Rose Namajunas

Another Ordinary Morning

(reposted from Tuesday, October 1, 2013)

Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing.
          - Mark Strand

The leaves coax the light into a snow sky. A simplicity of one, costumed, belabored, fraught with delusion, lingers in a dream of the shore. The voice at the door continues the story. The organs of day engage a Netflix world, spiriting you away. The cat remains noncommittal. Late at night when you lie awake, tell yourself that you love who you are, that your half-concealed life is not without promise.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Screen Dump 600

As resident cartographer you continue to map

the terrain of intimacies 

etching your life

earmarking odysseyites

with aplomb

their cantilevered  promises

rutted and gutted . . .

You as always are elsewhere

changing costumes in full view

your half-track idling in a tow-away zone

on a dead-end street

painted purple in desperation . . .

You have left marks so to speak

on the faint of heart

on survivalists who look away

when dispassionate quatrains

jam the tone deaf . . .

No one is allowed to advance

until your enigma clicks in

with the language of machines . . .

A pileup on the causeway

floods the bedrooms of those

enamored of your signage of confused animation . . .

Your hatcheries of discourse remain on standby . . .

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 599

Nobody knows anything about the future.

          - Louise Glück

Once upon a time with several backstories . . .

Listening to the pages of books

you want to return to where it all began . . .

How it came down . . . and continues . . .

The survivors . . . masked . . . mundane . . . surreal . . .

Little sense renaming things . . . the overflow gesture

will surely bottleneck . . . not unlike most in the script

which you insist on trotting out . . .

The bus stops though are magnificent

but we must wait for later angels, yes? . . .

A good idea to spend time cataloguing various happinesses

both obscure and profound . . .

And now you endeavor to fabricate your own happenstance

which if done properly can be adopted by others

who have decided to make-do with leftovers from Pizza King . . .

I know . . . I know . . .

Never forget the sound-hemmed

or those who say the least . . .

Ghosts in the green mirrors of yesterday

continue to appear in your Facebook album . . .

Why did you deconstruct the bed before leaving? . . .

Was it the square wooden shoulders peering through the glass? . . .

Darkly? . . . Not to say . . .

Spending the day in a parking lot . . . waiting

for words to arrive on a Greyhound . . .

You were promised a box of pencils when stop-action coydogs

beyond all invention howled the passcode to your hip pocket . . .

As if experiencing tears for the first time . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

 

Screen Dump 598

The Shining's hedge maze with single digit temps

is a one-way ticket to elsewhere . . .

Odysseyites amuck with Coen's Macbeth

When the hurly-burly's done . . .

all doors open . . . hoo-ha . . .

Again, again, you try to capture the detail

with a nervous camera

like again you're obsessing The Da Vinci Code

earthenware digits reversing

the order of operations

to see if the end product morphs into a takeaway . . .

Trying to restart the Method . . .

Rearranging yellowing photos

from The Land That Time Forgot

(or should have)

you dream witch's garb

contorting into prophesy

with first person shooters at Rodin's Gates of Hell . . .

Flipping burgers in some greasy spoon

with hangers-on from a trilogy

that never got off the ground . . . whose words

are etched in someone's granite . . .

The mirror's images symbolic

of foul but give fair advice to heroes and cowards . . .

Kathryn Hunter in Joel Coen's Macbeth (2021)