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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

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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

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You're obsessing over exuberance

Pinion gearing on a gravel trail

while a bobcat

(AKA red lynx)

they are and always will be wild animals

lies in wait . . . ready to pounce

around the bend in the river . . .

with Huck's fifteen minutes in Chapter 16 . . .

paddling a canoe

leaving Jim the runaway slave on a raft . . .

Huck is planning to turn Jim in:

Right then along comes a skiff

with two men in it with guns,

and they stopped, and I stopped . . .

One of them says:

What's that yonder?

A piece of raft, sir.

You belong on it? 

Yes, sir.

Any men on it?

Only one, sir . . .

Is your man white . . . or black? 

He's white . . .

and someone's looking out the window

at Albany . . . across the Hudson

as the train pulls out of the station

for the Guggenheim's posthumous exhibit

of On Kawara's Silence . . .

and Dylan's Queen Jane Approximately

is bailing you out:

That you're tired of yourself

and all of your creations . . .

and this artichoke farmer

debunks Ashbery unsuccessfully . . .

Do not forget the Summer of Love

when Princess Summerfall Winterspring

grew the balls

to confront Phineas T. Bluster

about his untoward gestures

that back in the black and white day

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 comb:

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 the 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? . . .

Scarlet Rivera

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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