Screen Dump 410

The semi-autobiographical appeals to you
despite its labyrinthine loopholes . . . acne scars . . .
and OCD underpins . . .
not unlike midnight snacking on reviews
on Rotten Tomatoes:
funny? . . . moving? . . . profound? . . .
plagiarized . . . and labeled a reformed other . . .
what with the painting hanging in
who knows whose apartment? . . .
Fanfare for the tone deaf, yes? . . .
A tour bus walks into a bar . . .
the order of finish . . .
irrelevant, your honor, Perry Mason said . . .
a faint skirmish . . . as when spent
he spent the rest of the evening
chatting up his etchings . . .
The straight dope . . . and all
whose predilection for protein
makes voyeurs gag . . . in reel-time
with anonymous ratings - still coming in I should add -
topping the list of vinyl . . .
turntablists scratching out
their untoward albeit melodious propositions . . .
You improved in black and white . . .

Lady Bird's Saoirse Ronan

Screen Dump 409

Once upon a time on a sidewalk, yes? . . .
he/she pointing out something to understudies
who practice to perfection between takes
with the chainlink buffering . . .
Another time between the lines . . .
with the same MO . . .
The waiter returns with a to-go box . . .
The scene shifts to reel-to-real . . .
The moment skips past thinking snow . . .
You are called out for howling at the entrées . . .
sheltered behind the runner-up's ear . . .
This too will be memorialized . . . Imagine that! . . .
The bed is a no-no . . . as if in the first stanza . . .
He/she could hear the silence before
you broke it off for independent study . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 408

You practice a type of echolocation . . . labeling
the wherewithal of former selves linked
to former players . . . their bodies semantic templates . . .
Demarcation aside
the tags echo stories in foreign tongues
with words to pique the interest of eavesdroppers . . .
Meaning becomes metaphor
as the queue populates . . .
tracing and retracing lines of engagement
which from a distance resemble
the structures in which you have spent your captioned life . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 407

You engage a theory of aesthetics . . .  become a blank space
in costume . . . under various guises . . .
narrate fragments of invisible houses for shadowers
in moments of silence . . . immerse yourself
in the ice-cold stream of a character . . .
the ice-cold theatricality of days . . . breathing life
and nuance into words
with enough awareness to evolve the character
through subtle ongoing performances
that could be hawked as how-tos for a life worth living . . .
YouTube is always handy, yes? . . .
Either way, you could use something in the distance . . .
something to dream perfect numbers as such . . .
Catastrophe Theory as public code . . . as public code breaker . . .
splattering negative numbers all over trending paradoxes . . .

Gabriele Rigon

Screen Dump 406

As if partnering in the process of distributing paint
on an uncomprehending surface . . .
the insinuation was an of course phenomenon
the enormity of which was enough to zero-out the counters
maintained by slow readers courting time slow reading
worrying the artless passages . . .
You maintained a page count
and tweaked the lines that peeked through
the deconstruction
misdirecting the watchers at the gate . . .
Later you greeted the inexperienced
with a template for testing the waters without smartphones . . .
You wished otherwise . . . perhaps . . .
and this of course was not the first-time . . . triggering points
locked in formaldehyde for artful dodgers
vying for a piece of your pie . . .

Gabriele Rigon

Screen Dump 405

The evidentiary moment fuels your ah-ha . . .
the excitement filling in the blanks with the names of identity theives
while sweet-talking desserters . . .
Your words . . . bittersweet . . . seduce the far-fetched . . .
A pared-down Proustian approach
scans images . . . free-writes shortcuts
to the enigmas of entrapment . . . of standing-room intimacies . . .
No need to spend time call-waiting . . .
The costumes will color in their own lexicon . . .

Liliana Karadjova

Screen Dump 404

Mentioning the unmentionable was a mistake, yes? . . .
A Type II error . . . when players
with see-through credit lines are admitted - or, committed - with F-scale
aficionados . . . and guaranteed a place in the penultimate playoffs . . .
Again, you regress to costuming the unintended . . .
highlighting misdirection
with the fourth-quarter ticking down
as if YouTubers in roundabouts spun your nom de plume
with an elementary logic . . .
Calling the shots in the kaleidoscopic manner of the mentally ill . . .
Star-struck triglyceriders on the storm . . .
Go-betweens doing bright-white lines with sans serif junkies in triplicate . . .
It's not anonymous, anymore, I mean . . . all pitter-patters, if you will? . . .

Lolitaesque

Screen Dump 403

So the analysis continues
picking through the odyssey's detritus
undaunted by the future's trailer
pastiched scenes stampeding lesser inklings . . .
you . . . convinced of their value . . .
of the value of the gems hidden
in the wordplay . . .
the run-on sentences
the incomplete sentences
the closed mouths of intermediaries
enough to bankroll another journey
into the past life of . . .
the past lives of . . .
awaiting the end run . . . that awaits . . .
the scrimmage
the scrum . . .
as if raising a pole barn against time
during off-seasons
with beards-a-plenty is enough . . .
is more than enough . . .
to satisfy the insatiables at the back door . . .
I am who I am . . .
You are who you are . . .
We are who we are . . .
introducing the next player
the next contestant
the next confidant
dollied . . . with head akimbo . . .
the uppercut beginning its ascent . . .
the paradigm shifting . . .
Zoom lens atop drone . . .
Standing down
scripted for the takedown
yellowing . . .
The elders . . . next . . . searching out
tender limbs on which to place
their hard-earned words . . . so yesterday . . .

Rooney Mara in A Ghost Story (2017)

Screen Dump 402

That the current overuse of bespoke is an example
of semantic drift triggers memories of warm summer nights
when you would rehearse unlisted numbers
with a niggling exactitude . . .
hurling backseat drivers back to their Once upon a time . . .
The elements of style reeked of insouciance . . .
Little matter though . . . your redacted paper trail
exposed the bellies of the beasts you'd encountered
as you odyssied past the stop signs of endearment . . .
Center stage was occasionally occasioned . . .
You backpedaled as best you could, yes? . . .
with little effort to upstage the obvious . . .
We're plugging leaks choruses through most of the recital space . . .
This back-and-forth-back-and-forth upends many
as Valentine's Day swoops down upon a newhire standin
with Out to Lunch cred . . .

Linda Evangelista

Overnight at the Ventriloquist's

(reposted from Wednesday, June 1, 2011)

His voice is everywhere.
His knowledge of cork vast.
He talks about his plans
to retire to a walled city
with underground labyrinths
inhabited by used car salesmen
posing as television personalities.
He will not take No for an answer.
Jobs are scarce, he says,
from under the rug.
Too many words, too many words.
He whistles in three-part harmony
and keeps five balls in the air.
Halfway through the evening,
he saws a woman in half
while drinking a glass of water.
The other guests continue
to arrive in suitcases.
We fall under his spell.
Dinner is served by candlelight.
The artichoke under glass
dances to Mahler's slow movements
rising from a wax cartridge
in front of a great fire
brimming with wooden arms and legs.
We are shown to our rooms with flashlights.
Later that night, it begins to snow -
thick, indifferent flakes swirl down
like confetti in a snowglobe.

Screen Dump 401

Famously lingering . . . after hours
with pages of questions pulsing with anticipation . . .
But what of the rendezvous? . . .
Surely it will play itself out
despite the sluggishness of infinitives . . .
Suppose we consider the portal as a revamp . . .
as an exegesis of odysseys past? . . .
Some will soon age out
but others will doubtless raise a ruckus
if for no other reason than the discrepancies between the script
and your play acting . . .
costume changes notwithstanding . . .
Yet another example of explanatory fiction, yes? . . .

Craig McDean

Screen Dump 400

Now the parsimonious agitation of the rain, yes? . . .
Downtempo'd . . . the street cradling the day
when a smile - doing its best - passes
and you're earwormed . . . Sia's Destiny with Zero 7. . .
I lie awake / I've gone to ground . . .
Thoughts of Color Me This
crowd out the other . . .
I'm bending time getting back to you . . .
Wait . . . wait . . . hit pause . . . I need to rethink this . . .
You know exactly what I'm talking about . . .

Sia Furler and Sophie Baker

Screen Dump 399

You imagine someone listening
to your delivery . . .
A smile goes to your head . . .
and now you're being
carried along by the irregularities in this latest drama
which will air
without much of anything . . .
as soon as . . .
Something is forcing itself upon you . . .
Some just cry while they drive . . .
Surely you can adjust the rate of tumble, yes? . . .
Imagine, if you will . . .
But then, try to keep it in the moment . . .
especially when you plagiarize additional memories . . .

Serge Barbeau

DSM-XYZ

The days mislaid . . . buried under Netflix's Alias Grace with Thigpen and Cleckley interviewing Jane/Eve and Joanne Woodward snagging an Oscar for The Three Faces of . . . A few years later, Sally Field's Sybil fuels diagnoses of multiple personality disorder - now dissociative identity disorder - and Sally walks away with a PrimeTime Emmy . . . while still later, Shirley Mason, the Seventh Day Adventist on whom Sybil is based, admits to faking the whole thing to get the attention of her therapist, channels Mary Shelley, and flees into the shadows of a condo on Lake Geneva . . .

Joanne Woodward in The Three Faces of Eve (1957)

Screen Dump 398

You ask the remote to select . . . the plotless moment
when all are suspended
and someone wheels in the midday
as if a restart is expected . . .
far from the principles . . . or principals . . .
of the madding crowd
sharpening stubs of pencils
to prove . . . to no one in particular . . .
that the river will indeed flow
in no direction home . . .
Why bother rescinding the to-do list
when the day will close black and white? . . .
The point being well-taken
by those who are otherwise clueless when offered a buyout . . .
You know this, though, yes? . . .

Gabriele Rigon

Screen Dump 397

It's not as if you chose letter box format . . .
One day it was there . . . piggy-backed on a cold front
that moved up your arm to your shoulder . . .
No toggling out of it either . . .
these manifestos of the body - lyrical experimental satirical -
bring flu-like symptoms
unhappiness as prose fragments
of wellness and illness . . .
Your sense of odyssey . . . quietly taking shape
on the corner of an ice storm . . .
You thought you would spend the day with a Sharpie . . .
The sad farmhouses in your dreams
are the stacked-up nightmares of previous lives . . .
Your distrust of the obvious, yes? . . .

Jarek Kubicki

Screen Dump 396

. . . warm and present yet far away.
          - Donald Hall, The Selected Poets

Also-rans crowd the podium
circumnavigating locutions decked out in the school colors
texting what can be had of the moment . . .
The venue virtual . . .
The commonplace suspect . . .
You arrive . . . trailing apps . . . as if reinventing the obvious . . .
I am lax . . . and begin paging through . . .
You footnote the theoretical medieval clothing of the new-you . . .
Awaiting your lines to be inscribed in stone . . . you insist . . .
We are all forgotten . . .

Bruno Walpoth

I Am On Top Of Things

I dream myself a spotter of weight-bearing fantasies . . .
my dialogue a monologue of graphic comics
and half-whispered promises laced with nonsense syllables . . .
I am on top of things . . . deluded . . .
imagining the world as mirror-image . . .
as far-fetched deadline . . . indifferent, colorless . . .
improprieties squeezing through the holes in my story . . .
paper cuts and hypotheticals . . .
a collage of weak passwords
legacied for shadowers of REM sleep . . .
Counting to the tenth power . . . within which . . .
if that's what you want . . .
The whole truth . . . and nothing but . . .
tap dancing . . . whistling while I work . . .
taking the long way home . . .
My notebook fills with snow . . .
Four score and something . . . a death . . . in the family . . .
Off-days the string quartet in my back pocket
is all but played out . . . in three-quarter time . . .
Exes . . . marking the spot . . . steal second . . .
and more . . . transposing the theme of Lassie,
chock-full of unclaimed funds . . .
sitting there . . . festering(?) . . . in the lap of jargon . . .
with no one worth emailing
about the sinister drop . . . in temperature . . .
A pound of something . . .
Tragedians backed-up at the roundabout
conjure audience implants
with places to go . . . people to be . . .
reworking the boundaries of ancient-Greek mythos
with aspiring telecommuters . . .
I brood Bacon's comment about the violence of paint . . .
What better way? . . .
Did you think you had thought of everything? . . .

Bruno Walpoth

Screen Dump 395

The pedagogy of your body sits in the front row . . .
open-legged . . . anticipating the rapture
trickling through the web of microphones
implanted in your flesh . . .
A garage band of soft stones retraces the images
of your odyssey drawn by headliners once removed . . .
You are quick to note the score . . .

Kate Moss

Screen Dump 394

You dream yourself a spotter of weight-bearing fantasies . . .
your dialogue a monologue of graphic comics
and half-whispered promises laced with nonsense syllables . . .
You are on top of things . . . imagining the world as mirror-image . . .
improprieties squeezing through the holes in your story . . .
paper cuts and hypotheticals . . . a collage of weak passwords
legacied for shadowers of REM sleep . . .

Rana Hamadeh in The Sleepwalkers (2016)

Screen Dump 393

Your garden is a myth of drones rocking in the back seat . . .
following the dotted line . . . lining up
for handouts . . . hand-me-downs . . . handsome Johnnies . . .
Counting to the tenth power . . . within which . . .
if that's what you want . . .
The whole truth . . . and nothing but . . .
tap dancing . . . whistling while you work . . .
taking the long way home . . .
Your notebook fills with snow . . .
The world a far-fetched deadline . . . indifferent, colorless . . .
Four score and something . . . a death . . . in the family . . .

Alique

Screen Dump 392

Off-days the string quartet in your back pocket
is all but played out . . . in three-quarter time . . .
Exes . . . marking the spot . . . steal second . . .  and more . . .
transposing the theme of Lassie, chock-full of unclaimed funds . . .
sitting there . . . festering? . . .
in the lap of jargon . . .
with no one worth emailing
about the sinister drop . . . in temperature . . .
A pound of something . . .
Tragedians backed-up at the roundabout
conjure audience implants
with places to go . . . people to be . . .
reworking the boundaries of ancient-Greek mythos
with aspiring telecommuters . . .
I brood Bacon's comment about the violence of paint . . .
What better way? . . .
Did you think you had thought of everything? . . .

Cesar Ordoñez

Screen Dump 391

You've hit an orchestrated snag . . .
The ancient phobia reappearing with Leopardi's Hodge-Podge . . .
Evidently the time was set . . . and now, the retracing . . .
as in La Familia de Celilia . . .
accompanied by what if a much of a which of a wind . . .
Here's the windup . . . and the pitch (as black as) . . .
sending it out of the park and into the maelstrom of great silence . . .
with hey, diddle, diddle, / the cat and the fiddle . . .
with the cats . . . and the fiddles . . . at 10 AM on August 12, 1958 . . .
Art Kane for Esquire . . .
Not inclined to venture out into the drifting
Silent Snow, Secret Snow . . . above all . . . a secret . . .
Thinking - metaphorically - how disturbed one must be to do that, yes? . . .
But let's not go there . . . Who (in fact) killed Cock Robin? . . .
Circa 1950s . . . the black and white Stromberg Carlson
and the opening scene of Robin's arrow speeding into a tree . . .

Art Kane's, A Great Day in Harlem, 1958

Screen Dump 390

A yellow submarine's sonar . . . pings . . .
somewhere . . . with directions to what? . . . last minute specials? . . .
The oddments are such that we could enjoy the respite
but this too is back-burnered
along with notes from Illuminations . . .
Sine waves sign in . . . trigger dance fever . . .
filling the silence with names . . . faces . . .
photomontages of parties . . . of the first . . . and second part
emailing jpgs to lovers . . . and other strangers . . .
Keep the words coming, he/she said . . .
strolling among the pines . . . on a winter afternoon . . .
worrying fonts . . . as if the image . . . you and I know this . . .

Dorith Mous

Screen Dump 389

Choosing tautology to express emptiness
your erotic other's tacit acceptance
waits in the wings . . . primping . . . with extras
Uber'd in for the shoot
for MoMA's History of Hooking . . .
a trailer on the set of Boardwalk Empire . . .
dioramas, day trips, drive-bys, past priors . . .
You examine the separation
that informed your odyssey . . .
an escapist's myopia . . . scheduled to air
on subsequent Tuesdays in February . . . or March . . .
with one-night stands costumed as dreams
of uncooperative dentists retrofitted
for the unbeaten hometown debating team
from your up close and personal
when you were stuck in traffic for over a year . . .

Charlotte Strode