Screen Dump 822

You imagine another life of almost transparent blue

filled with small, unexpected hopes

eclipsing your impatience if nothing else . . .

Like the time you negotiated a bouquet of confusion

for the pundits at the gate

entering the scene, spiriting time, reclaiming mobility . . .

your memory expiring upon the faux rocks

before moving onto yet another intellectual joust

coarse and aflame . . . impressive in its vacuum . . .

Odysseyites flattened . . . the arm subduing all passion . . .

Not a moment to spare . . . countdown flickering

in the distance . . . the hand paler still . . . until

your naked neck rose against happenstance . . .

Merry Alpern

Screen Dump 821

You had hoped to compile a Table of Contents

but your digressive sidebar blew that out of the water

so you returned to a consolation

of memory jacks . . . everything longer and thicker . . .

less rethinking the vatic moments you played

while streaming your backstory . . .

rewound and precipitous . . .

mornings to afternoons to evenings to nights

into eternity . . .

auditionees waiting with parted lips

as the rain came and went . . .

the night kaleidoscopic . . .

The shell of coziness did not fracture

as partakers looked past their own reflection

in the pool of happenstance

filling with the hopes and dreams that had made the deadline

while you waited in the wings . . . costumed and ready . . .

Merry Alpern

Screen Dump 820

You mean like a tracer round

to illuminate the path of the engagement

with odysseyites doing close reads

and you insisting it's time to pony up

as if the porosity is to be ignored? . . .

But there's no depth

just a going-through-the-motion sort of embellishment

as a feasibility run . . .

Exciting, yes, but restropectively, I don't know . . .

Then the pushback . . . coded as inuendo . . .

Why are you reviewing your notes? . . .

You've encountered this managerie before . . .

It's a Pick Up Sticks type of ploy . . .

The question of whether you will take up residence

in long-term memory . . .

in their Notes To Myself whiteboard

that they will return to, again and again,

as they prepare to enter the waiting room . . .

Anna-Liisa Liiver

Screen Dump 819

You're talking to the images of people

in the mirror behind the bar . . .

Are these people you know . . . or knew? . . .

People who play - or played - a role in your delicate life? . . .

The delicate lives in the empty storefronts

in this maelstrom of a mall

known for its catchy soliloquies . . .

Isn't it all about the metaphor of a waiting room? . . .

Still hiding behind your assumptions, yes? . . .

The clock quid pro quos questions . . .

What? . . . You know, the questions . . .

The questions you will have

after you enter the waiting room . . .

Isn't there another way? . . .

What do you mean? . . . like . . . rewinding the tape? . . .

rewriting the script? . . . googling? . . . AI? . . .

Just regurgitate the lines you were given, OK? . . .

All the world’s a stage

by William Shakespeare

                                        All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Will (by AI)

Screen Dump 818

Hide-and-Seek at sunset in the cornfields

of your 20s . . . those almost moments

where everything was so right yet so wrong . . .

Then the particulars of your life

covering Simon & Garfunkel's America . . .

the moon rising over an open field

hitting you in the eye like a big pizza pie

with options grayed-out for odysseyites

crowding into the Scarborough Fair

to snap Mrs. Robinson

who hid it in a hiding place where

no one ever goes after removing it

from the pantry with her cupcakes . . .

Life's geometries, yes? . . .

Does it matter? . . .

Do we have a say in the matter? . . .

I mean maybe at least . . .

But didn't we expect that

with darkness just around the corner

distilling spirits for trainspotters

looking for America . . .

identity thieves sucking-up passcoders

behind the wheel of a retro VW bus

in search of Joltin' Joe's America? . . .

The Graduate (1967)

And here I am, the

center of all beauty!

writing these poems!

Imagine!

          - Frank O'Hara