Saturday, October 26, 2024

Screen Dump 787

The backstory jumped bail, leaving you
with fragments and a breakout hit in a car chase . . .
Cosplaying . . . again? . . .
What do you mean you're not sure? . . .
You know, I'm not sure, so I'm waffling . . .
This is important . . . the lines
as elements of style that blunder along . . .
There were quite a few . . . and, yes,
it was edgy which made it exciting
but the blowback had to be reconciled
with whomever was involved . . .
or maybe not, I don't know . . .
You mean the party of the first part? . . .
Then, everyone was left with jottings
for memoirs, I suppose, following
what Paley calls the open destiny of life . . .
The endgame . . . the warning track . . .
and you're about to hit the wall . . .
Having a plot fenced you in, OK? . . .
keyboardiing your experiences . . . or
assumptions . . . or allegations on your laptop? . . .
Indeed, you're not sure . . .
Maybe retracing your steps with a refurbished script . . .
new words . . . different words . . . that sort of thing . . .

Camille Claudel by August Rodin


Thursday, October 24, 2024

Screen Dump 786

Take for instance the still lifes
that stammer choices in cafés . . .
the still lifes that could be amped-up
with nothing more than a toggle . . .
The dealer has just cleared her hands
for the eye in the sky
while the pit boss pilots his skiff
toward the Burning Man . . .
You're thumbing options . . .
transcribing the title
of your final Golden Book . . .
a Seussian mix of alleged allegory:
Oh, the Places You've Been . . .
Encryption is key
with Beckett's maybe
as failsafe, yes? . . .
Without the venue it could flop
not that that would rewrite
the chorale but if you're placing
your bet on cacophony you'll appreciate
the metronomic meaning qua meaning . . .

Hendrik Kerstens


Tuesday, October 22, 2024

Screen Dump 785

Dylan's Queen Jane Approximately:
That you're tired of yourself
and all of your creations . . .
and in the Summer of Love
Princess Summerfall Winterspring
confronts Phineas T. Bluster
about his untoward gestures
that back in the day of black and white
was tossed in a circular file . . .
Someone's voice catches on the sound stage
and The Man With A Thousand Faces
appears at the organ in the bowels
of Paris's Palais Garnier Opera House
with Christine awakening to a music box's combs:
I remember there was mist
Swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake
There were candles all around,
and on the lake there was a boat
And in the boat there was a man.
But now you're bottlenecked in a queue
for the computer at the library
with this CEO person gesturing to this IT person
and you know you've been drafted
into a focus group with
all the clowns you have commissioned
having died in battle or in vain
to rewrite the opening scene
to The Turin Horse
because Sea Shepherd lost the battle
against the whale hunters . . .
with Facebook friends defusing the shiftiness
seeping into your daily bowl of organic oatmeal
affixing itself to that rare elegant lapse
in a small gallery on the third floor
where long-limbed bronzes
crowding the poorly-lit hallways
have pulled it off . . . echoing Dylan's
and you're sick of all this repetition . . .
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? . . .
as the train pulls out of the station
for the Guggenheim's posthumous exhibit
of On Kawara's Silence . . .
Across the Hudson . . . Albany . . .

Scarlet Rivera


Monday, October 7, 2024

Screen Dump 784

The self forms at the edge of desire.
          - Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet

Days and nights . . . days and nights
encounters in off hours
with translators of Ancient Greek
you and sleep parting ways
your self-portrait mirrored in a convex mirror . . .
blindfolded, yet? . . .
I mean, of course, until . . . on the horizon . . .
palms up . . . weighing the air . . .
anticipating departure . . .
You sometimes worry in the middle of it
how they're faring . . .
referencing Tolstoy on kindness
a segue to a conversation about why . . .
Forget that . . .
You want to haze transformations (OK, I get it!)
too excited too much too late . . .
it seems to click in so nicely
you want to take this poem on vacation, yes? . . .

Antonio Palmerini