Screen Dump 722

You draw a line as if the why is adrift

in a soon-to-be-predicted snowstorm

when incomplete sentences flurry

and you, jacketed against the cold,

attempt a semblance of sanity

while talking heads feel compelled to cosplay . . .

The moment-to-moment touch and go diminishes . . .

especially now with crumpled scripts

cluttering the gazebo

where an Anthony Hopkins' lookalike

walks you through the proof with:

Let X equal the cold . . .

In real life, it’s not that simple . . .

In real life, it takes a long time to break the ice . . .

the entire ordeal offputting  . . .

You worry tragedians . . .

You confirm the faces comprising your past selves

which your therapist, confusingly, demurs . . .

Yet, a brisk walk awaits . . . so you leave, quoting Woolf:

If a writer were free, there would be no plot . . .

Antonio Palmerini

At the Transfer Station

Rain sheets the windows

of the black Dodge truck.

There’s a young guy

in the passenger seat

and he’s giving you the thumbs up.

His grandfather is unloading the Dodge.

You're getting soaked

wrestling trash bags

out of your SUV

but you stop, put down the bags,

and give him the thumbs up.

Screen Dump 721

The provocativeness of close reading triggers

a memory that will prove your undoing . . .

Still, it's a wonderful life, yes? . . .

Clouds retreat in joy to the core of a volcano

on a remote island in a sea of forget-me-nots . . .

A sidelong glance from before glimmers . . .

You, in the moment, spend the rest of your allotment

running lines from award-winning one-acts

hoping, if nothing else, for a takeaway . . .

Antonio Palmerini