Screen Dump 625

But it's not that . . . it's something else . . .

Isn't it called a fugue state? . . .

To be unmuted without warning . . .

Going here and there and here and there . .  . to quell the anxiety . . .

The conditional . . . always the conditional . . .

How many scenes have you fled . . .

scenes of a crime . . . accompanied

by the lost and found . . . the found soliloquy . . .

listening to the found soliloquy late at night

when the romper-clads invade the dreamscape

and the streets grow ears . . . for tell-tale heartbreaks . . .

When is too much? . . .

I mean . . . wait, I don't know what I mean . . .

The clock counts the pages . . .

and the projects . . . one after another . . . are jettisoned

as if in Spellcheckland . . . can you imagine? . . .

The competition continuous . . .

reminiscent of bantering

without the semi-consciousness of regret . . .

well, maybe after a moment's reflection

the curb building up . . . and you ramrodding

the endgame's absurdist, tragicomic, grotesque story-within-a-story

that you've been working on in a shack in the dunes . . .

Imagining the gloom apart from some unspecified end . . .

There's more . . . wait . . .

The nonsensical that we juggle

and the tribes that assemble . . . at a moment's notice . . . and . . .

Jennifer Flowers in Samuel Beckett's Endgame (2016)

Screen Dump 624

Crating the incidentals for the move

while buckling beneath the ranter's rants from elsewhere . . .

without which  . . . only so much . . . and then? . . .

The seating chart backed up against the wall

covered with the defensive eloquence

of an electric tricycle . . .

Your costume sutured with bird droppings

you enter the fray with yesterday's menu . . .

the dumbfoundedness of the feed . . .

seconds . . . thirds . . . fourths . . .

reaching for cardiovascularity's price point . . .

There's so much at stake

with a walk along the canal . . . drydocked vessels pine

for the podium to incubate nautical miles

where he and she and they searched for missing links

under the banner No More Utopias . . .

Tech support isn't . . .

You immerse yourself in the well's baptismal waters

color-coded for easy lookups into online divestitures . . .

The steamboat sprouts arms

for 15 minutes of infamy on the battle inside your head . . .

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 623

As if today's sky is an accident . . . Naysayers think it hopeless . . .

propose derailments . . . Fantastic scenes with smudged erasures . . .

You retrieve the moment . . .

Your inner Rapunzel dyes her roots bright red . . .

That should do it

humming All Along the Watchtower

with odysseyites knighting old heroes

brought in to trash gloom . . .

Credits flatten the teleprompter's ennui . . .

Roots enflamed, you become unshatterable

conducting tours of the herbarium at the botanical garden . . .

bench pressing your weight between go-betweens . . .