Screen Dump 865

A regression line stretches back

to singer/songwriter Bruce Cockburn

thinking about eternity

on SNL May 10, 1980 and you're worrying

the lions at the door

with a plan to buy time . . .

more time & more

in the first quarter of the bell lap . . .

crossing the River Styx

on a raft with Huck and Jim

a time of innocence 

and Simon and Garfunkle walking off

to look for America . . .

Kathy boarded a Greyhound 

in Pittburgh

echoing Jack Gilbert

Pittsburgh and happiness high up . . .

each time almost remembering something

maybe important that got lost . . .

But where is Kathy now? . . .

Still reading her magazine? . . .

With Mrs. Robinson? . . .

and which magazine was it? . . .

inquiring minds want to know . . .

The streets are blocked off for a 5K

heading into Memorial Day

a miniscule inconvenience by comparison

surely not the lions coming through the rye

with Salinger's misinterpretation

of Robert Burns . . . but what the heck

it fits . . . doesn't it? . . . so acquit Holden . . .

indeed, a time of confidences . . .

Bruce Cockburn (SNL May 10, 1980)

Screen Dump 864

Out of earshot, yes? . . .

Meanwhile the collective belch of the day

bridges gaps in memory

deconstructed at all hours

or odd hours . . . whatever works . . .

The difference is in the fabric

the tongue-and-groove conversations

among grocery shoppers

tagged for manager specials by AI . . .

The days unfold the same . . .

quite close to the arithmetic

of a calliope . . .

Nothing can be done

but no matter . . .

the comings and goings

covering distance with more distance

protective of what the ears cannot hear . . .

Pull up the night train

with cartilage still pliable

and willing to take a stab

at identifying the flickering scent

emanating from elsewhere . . .

It's the frugalitarianism crapping out . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 863

This will have to do for now . . .
There should be enough to keep you busy
especially the second movement
with its surprising reprieve . . .
There will be coffee of course
and days squandered

before confusion enters the room

and bolts the door . . .
Again this year the soil will be turned
hours set in motion against the dwindling light
yielding memories like meaty tidbits
picked at by gnarly-clawed
Rhode Island Reds, eager for freedom . . .

Screen Dump 862

There's the anvil again

and the rythmic strikes of the hammer

on the red-hot steel

re-shaping the drill point

while the road crew chills with smokes

next to their idling rig . . .

And the Rhode Island Reds

their strange, soft, drawly clucking

filling the air

milling about outside the coop

scratching for worms

with gnarled, yellow claws . . .

the clotheslines . . .

attached to the telephone pole

squeak in harmony

with a push mower

and with the bell in the cherry trees

shooing away Robins . . .

You're trying to connect the dots

hungry for meaning

now with age more interested in narrative

as the bell lap sounds

in the roll and stretch of a dream . . .

the same dream . . .

the same black and white dream . . .

fearing so many things

a terrible kind of proof

so as not be crushed

by the stupid or the vacant  or the void . . .

There's this scene in Bela Tarr's The Turin Horse

with a young woman sitting next to a stove

with its pot of boiling potatoes

looking out the window at the dust storm

imagining other worlds . . .

The Turin Horse (2011)

Screen Dump 861

The argument collapsed and you were left

sifting through the shape of water . . .

The can of spray paint

used to highlight the separate steps

was found and dusted . . .

with odysseyites analyzing the has-been . . .

A beautiful mind was awakened

to walk among and comment on

the plantings . . . a horticultural escapade

for those in the know . . .

Counting worked wonders

and in no time the path to the argument

was uncovered and made presentable

which seemed to have been part of the plan

from the get-go . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 860

You're asking about the doors

and why they're opening and closing

and why Kafka's path - beginning middle end -

had to have been put down simultanously

as corroborated by footage

that didn't exist . . .

So a walk in the garden among the peerless

the moment you realize

the connections that the writer/director

had diligently worked out

in the late hours of their mind . . .

It's not so much the expansion

of thoughts as it is the extension . . .

the detritus of the day-to-day

with meanderers choosing happiness . . .

aloud no less so that others might appreciate

their impulsivity and the seedlings

scattering in time to the second movement

of the drama unfolding in your backstory

despite the missing pages . . .

Where to go next? . . .

But there's time . . . yes, there's time . . .

Paolo Roversi

At the Transfer Station

Rain sheets the windows of the black Dodge.

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.