Screen Dump 663

Emails bottleneck at the back door

dangling profiles and memory hooks and terms of endearment

setting off smoke detectors

with lines like You are always on my mind

shifting irresistibly in Aeron ergonomic chairs

permanent at MoMA

the meter clicking off degrees of freedom

between you and whomever

your knees weak from the algorithm

you've been tweaking from the get-go . . .

Everyone has flirt options

especially when cloud banks dictate seasonal rates

and we riffle through closets for long sleeves

only to default to comforters . . .

The plot kindles into you and your root cellar . . .

Do we have enough food and drink to weather the weekend? . . .

To weather the sparring? . . .

Bassoonists insinuate themselves into your drama

retreating into anonymity when you look behind the curtain

and find your handwritten notes . . .

The dream of reading not unlike puppetry . . .

Pulling the strings, yes? . . .

Where will you be on the night of . . . something? . . .

The loneliness of the high seas

with Ishmael quoting The Book of Job:

I only am escaped alone to tell thee . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 662

Another late night of books

and you slip on a stanza

spilling the words you've been squirreling away

for your next encounter . . .

The assignment calls for recommendations

that can be folded into your disembodied days

of garden salads, protein shakes, vitamins . . .

Do you have the wherewithal

to recommence your life

as artifact, clattering along rooftops,

peering into windows,

scrambling to hide emails under the rug? . . .

There are benefits, of course,

as spelled out in the attached addenda . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 661

You're juggling impressions, trying to make it home

before someone asks you a question . . .

Even the guy in the 7-Eleven looked ready . . .

And where were you when you caved? . . .

You resolve to study epistemology,

especially now with the neighborhood Velcro'd

to detractions . . . Ladies and gentlemen,

boys and girls, children of all ages . . .

Yes? . . . Was there a message in that? . . .

Something we could latch onto perhaps? . . .

To parlay into a vacaciones during the null center

of the holiday stream when most wade in

and are carried along by current events . . .

I suppose you could take the alternative out for a spin . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 660

You find sentences with missing words,

words with missing letters . . .

Someone texts you about a field

of orphaned puppets . . .

A chamber group plays the same piece

over and over

overlaying the day

with misty undertones . . .

Extras appear at opportune times

knowing this too is simply a run-through

for the real deal

which you've heard is being touted

at local landfills . . .

Instead you decide to fill in the blanks

fill in the gaps

with what you think they meant

with what you think they want to hear . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 659

Backing into a parking space, half-smiling, earwormed,

the dime-store alchemy with its godless sneer

playing hide-and-seek in the darkening, overgrown garden,

you decide to break the mold, breathe,

the small script saying something about sincerity . . .

Intimidations aside, it couldn't have been avoided . . .

Of course, once you stepped into the ring

the bell sounded the beginning of the round

and before you knew it, you were rocked by a left

glancing above the timekeeper's toupee

for a clue to the full catastrophe: the ride over,

backpacks unpacked and returned to the back room . . .

This time there wasn't time to rehearse . . .

This time the experience was framed, matted,

and on the street in a wrinkle to be picked over

by disinterested parties who scattered

the unwanted, while, all the while,

the mimeograph machine, posing new questions,

awaiting the verdict, commiserated with sleight-of-handers,

who, ill-advised, convinced you

that this was not what you had paid for . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 658

And you're swept into the arbitrary . . .

Those moments when the rational kicks in

creating the illusion of symbiosis

and you feel the connection, and think, This is good . . .

Walking fast . . . texting . . . you know the deal . . .

Your world filling with texture maps

and normals and shadowy displacements

fully rendered and baked . . .

I'm not convinced about that last part

especially now with things heating up:

He said . . . She said . . . I said . . . You said . . .

It calls for robustness with a narrow margin of error . . .

Tarjay had a special on those not too long ago . . .

We could all use a break

from the ins and outs, the ups and downs . . .

You mean trancelike? . . .

Yeah, that'll work, as well as anything . . .

Antonio Palmrini

Screen Dump 657

Something about a porcelain figurine

followed by an intimate encounter

time shape-shifting, catching you mid-stride,

losses lost in the day-to-day . . .

Don't waste your time trying to make sense of it,

the step-by-steps were tossed out with the trash

along with the Revell Zeppelin

from the cracks of your childhood . . .

Your membership has been cancelled . . .

(The updates were worthless anyway . . . )

Go ahead, enjoy Miles's linking of the then

to the sanctity of the conundrum

far from the madding boring shit

as he called it . . .

The year will soon flip . . .

Leftovers announced . . .

Time to break out the resolve

to sort things out and again take on Sheila Heti's

How Should A Person Be? . . .

despite the comfort of entanglements new and old . . .

Engage the throttle . . .

Not sure to where, but that's part of it - the good part . . .

By morning, old everything . . .

Your head channel-surfing for ornaments . . .

'Tis the season, yes? . . .

Cassandra Wilson whispering Time After Time . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 656

Your hesitation speaks volumes which few if any will read . . .

It smacks of plagiarism, but don't we all? . . .

I could thumb through a few pages, if you like . . .

A votive candle, perhaps . . .

Sparks have been known to fly . . .

A past life here, a passed life there . . .

You yourself told many it was a superlative time:

a time of innocence, a time of confidences . . .

Turn that thing down, will you please? . . .

It's interfering with my tram of thought . . .

And you thought what? . . .

That we would forego the preface? . . .

Jump up behind me . . .

I've decided to pay up front, and make-do with whatever . . .

Tell the others to meet us at the restaurant-in-the-round:

they're all that's left you . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 655

Especially now, with the cat out of the bag

the holiday season ready to pounce

and your latest tête-à-tête simmering in the atelier . . .

Listening to covers while journaling

will buy you the anonymity

you've convinced yourself you need

and enable you to resume your place in line . . .

The Persian rug in the room is gone

as are the white beaches

with the beached iMacs . . .

You've been fortunate enough

to live the life of make-believe,

and get away with it, for the most part . . .

I'm surprised you were never called

to the front office, that strange transfer station

populated with mannequins

of questionable character . . .

If only you had described the beauty

of the algorithm you wrote that tied it all together,

you could have redeemed the coupons

downloaded in anticipation . . .

That would have been quite a coup . . .

Too late now . . . Too late for most things . . .

Enter your username and password

then click the box for Remember Me . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 654

You fail to anticipate the superfluousness

of the run-through

and run home to check your notes,

channel-surfing for answers to the 20 questions

choking the queue . . .

Your kitty kindles loneliness

then texts the stationmaster

who reassures all that there are still only three colors

and a partridge in a pear tree . . .

Someone arrives on the 11:05

and begins dismantling the prose

cluttering the entryway . . .

Who was that masked man/woman? . . .

Have you checked in with your sponsors? . . .

Perhaps they can spare the change

although it's unlikely that the 12-tone mini-u-et

will carry the burden of absence . . .

The viewers are sure to expect more . . .

You know this despite the fatigue

pestering your keyboard . . .

It's time to come clean . . .

Not a big deal . . . Never was . . . Never will be . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 653

And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness.

          - Wallace Stevens

Without the enjambment at the weary end

you'd be lost forever to the moon and its quieting dreams . . .

The cat critiquing, Move on! . . . Move on! . . .

Your pacing solves nothing . . .

Funny, you know this as well as I . . .

Yes, the scholarship is evident, but misplaced . . .

Your announcement with the shades drawn

against the traffic light

opens a door and your eyes to the darkness

and back to an earlier season of silence -

the linguistic equivalent of hammering nails into flesh . . .

When was this, anyway? . . .

Yesterday? . . . Last year? . . . Five years ago? . . .

I don't remember . . . Do you? . . .

The tureen quivers with nonsense syllables . . .

The evidentiary moment remains . . .

Your car idling . . .

The snow, too, advancing . . .

Of course, the video shows that there's more

in the final paragraph

than referenced in your text . . .

The Art of Omission, yes? . . .

So little time left out of tempo with footnotes no less . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 652

You skim the dog-eared blue-lined notebooks

lying next to your bed

for new words, different words

to ease the ache of repetition,

the ache of the old . . .

The hour arrives at the wrong address,

laughs, lingers, and you forget the difference

between high and low drama

the loss surfacing after closing

as if it mattered to the rent-a-magician

left waiting in the Green Room,

wand in hand, as generators,

prepped to weather the nor'easter,

exit through the gift shop . . .

Again, the rehearsals prove futile,

frustrating, the French horn player

running the changes

through their backward-facing bell

making it new, until, in an eyeblink,

it was old, boredom seeping in, abracadabra! -

the furniture, the cat, and you, gone . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 651

You see her in a mirror, in a wedding gown . . .

That scene from Seven Minutes in Heaven

with the trains running late

but they're going ahead with the auditions anyway

and ordering takeout . . .

When you least expect it, she calls

for a costume change

and it turns out to be good . . .

Tweaking the scene, too . . . Yes, this could be it . . .

And then you hear her begin: Evidently, . . .

Regarding the ending? . . .

Let me get through my fish and chips first . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 650

You seek solace in idioms and run smack into a blank stare . . . 

The exigencies of Helvetica provide little comfort

as you stalk the caveats of typographers

and the roadworthiness of long distance scribblers

who are here for the free ride . . .

A typeface with élan will spring you from ubiquity

and into the world of graphic comics

where a curve is a curve at your beck and call

and the moon ready willing and able to deliver the latest

in fashionable footwear . . .

And you thought perhaps this was make-believe? . . .

A pretend-pudding if you will? . . .

Buying into that sort of gaga could spell onomatopoeia 

and a trip to the mall rivaling Rimbaud's A Season in Hell . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 649

Demonstrating the proper form for free weights

on the flimsy scaffold in the winkling of a storm

then the absence

the break in the purpling days and nights

the nights rife with howling

time witnessing the palpability

sauntering through the early morning railroad flat . . .

Perhaps you are still overwhelmed

despite the smothering insistence of imposters

who keep arguing

You think it, you did it . . .

One thing leading to another . . . then another . . . then another

the Rothkovian blur between love and hate rubbed raw . . .

the principal inducted into the minority of givers . . .

How sweet it is? . . .

Your first thoughts? . . . The accoutrements of passion? . . .

All part of the con hung out to dry

within view of the nosebleed section in this miniseries . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 648

And now you're inventorying survival gear

as if your past lives left instructions on the answering machine

rekindling memories that years ago

provided you solace for something or other,

for what, exactly, I don't remember . . .

The clock's face again pokes in,

disregarding your previous comment

awash with remorse . . .

You're trying to reconstitute yourself as another -

another with tickets to a double-header . . .

Nothing better to short-circuit unhappiness . . .

Not unlike us, yes? . . .

Off-hours, you choreograph untried virtues,

tweaking missteps to captivate . . .

You backpedal . . . Indifferent . . .

How will you write this up in the final hour? -

the final hour, when distracted by claims of melodies,

you will be assisted by members of the alphabet

selected at random from drive-bys . . .

You'd think by now they'd be as encumbered as you and I . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 647

The rewrite, darker than riddles, upends you . . .

Is this how it is? . . .

You return to your room

and the tented books

and your search for a common theme

in the words of the dead . . .

The voices continue . . .

The feeling of motionlessness . . . again . . .

Did you think the misunderstanding had settled

after that morning in the coffee shop

when you asked about the book? . . .

Turn the page . . .

Read . . . Please! . . .

Go through the motions . . .

The chat was inevitable . . . Insignificant . . .

The font a diversion

from long ago summer evenings . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 646

The whole thing enigmatic . . .

You can hardly keep up

with inquiries

with instructions for dancing

so you shift down, and begin recalibrating . . .

Their shoulders seduce

their angularities the kind that sell . . .

so close yet so far . . .

Vendors arrive, and fishmongers . . .

Wine glasses mingle . . .

Their bangles speak of other worlds

spiritual melodrama

sustained incongruence . . .

And now they're crossing the street

and someone's asking . . . something? . . .

Sit down on this bench, please, take a break,

rewind the tape . . .

Meanwhile, This Is Us streams in the park . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 645

A voice in heels welcomes you with the answer . . .

The je ne sais quoi of close encounters, yes? . . .

Driving through a drive-thru, you tick off ways to improve

now that you've pruned tricks from your bag

under the watchful eye of neighborhood watchers . . .

You can't wait to unpack the layers,

especially the earworms of vacant storefronts

featured in mock-u-mentaries . . .

You cameo as a walk-on in a live model drawing class

thinking This is where I will find myself . . .

The odds appear in an email after months on YouTube . . .

Why are the plates at the Culinary Institute so large? . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 644

I'd be at a loss to put my finger on the precise moment . . .

In those days trust was an add-on

not unlike cargo pockets on your camo shorts . . .

I'm not saying you don't aim to please

but doesn't it seem as if

Meta has become a retreat into itself? . . .

In Walter's day, for example, we switched on You Are There

and popped Orville's corn . . .

Options trumped options

which stymied some

mostly those who were on the cusp

of an aha moment . . .

3-In-Oil was touted as a multipurpose lubricant

ideally suited to multitaskers and pornographers

who featured PB&Js, restraints, and body cams . . .

Nothing was said about seductiveness . . .

I guess it was assumed . . .

What better way to spark the mood? . . .

To fix the mix? . . .

I'm sorry . . . What was your question again? . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 643

So easy to misplace the definite article

in the folds of flesh that titillate you

juggling five balls

while trying to answer 20 questions

from this morning's inbox . . .

Enchanted by the movement

of the moment

the slightest twitch pinning you

to a recurring dream

dressed in the cloth of summer,

it begins . . .

Your online backordered item has finally shipped . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 642

The bathroom scale smirks your optical delusion

with a fright wig

waiting for long-overdue texts

from the not-so-dearly departed in-country

where someone will be charged

for impersonating you on YouTube . . .

You segue to those times

when car exteriors matched interiors

and you practiced eroticies

in a green van with green seats and green mats

dialing in Rockaday Johnnies

with a cigarette lighter that burned a hole

in your costume du jour minus one . . .

Your epicenter was dragged off-pointe

by a ballet dancer in First Position

sitting in an end-groove

through a Victoria's Secret Crayola Release

with too much to expect too soon

from streetballers wowing courtside

while Dylan roamed backstories:

I lived by the window / As he talked to himself . . .

This amazing young woman who brings much joy to my world turns 33 today. I wrote this poem for her 24 years ago:

My Daughter Dances to Strauss's Annen Polka

          for Tara

The gauziness and smiles are as soft-edged

and wonderful as a Degas. Around me,

shadows on lawn chairs consult programs;

an early summer breeze flutters leaves

beneath a star-laced, darkened sky.

My daughter dances to Strauss's Annen Polka,

floating with the wide-eyed innocence

of a nine-year-old who has yet to glimpse

the world of the backstage. Look at her

taut sureness, the steadiness and poise,

the promise of her young movements

as they transcend choreography with a joy that,

one can only hope, will buoy her through a life

filled with huge pockets of uncertainty.

Screen Dump 641

You jog to the kiosk and reopen the book

to the chapter that keeps rewriting itself . . .

You share your identity with thieves

especially when separating out

the transformationals bundled with the software

partying in a two-family on borrowed time

after which you realize

one has to have been there . . .

The time of the year, that is

stretching out as it does,

improvisationally,

letting the images populate, walk and talk,

guided by a simple motif . . .

nothing too strenuous

nothing too contrapuntal . . .

something to carry you into a wooded glen

where you can chill,

surrounded by fascinating incidentals . . .

Antonio Palmerini