Screen Dump 513

The scene opens . . . the dance commences . . . you and not you . . .
the happenstance of eroticism driving the bus . . . with you
pin-spotting lexicons from the used bookstore around the corner
where the owner's calico eyes you from atop the rolltop
as you page volume after volume
trying to recapture something important that maybe got lost . . .
Did you find it? . . .
Did you find what you came for? . . .
The tell-tale euphoria . . . or paranoia . . . whichever . . . guiding you
through past's portals to that mid-summer afternoon
long ago . . . at your favorite kettle hole on the Cape . . .
the water warm clear inviting . . .
Later . . . someone editing memories . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Screen Dump 512

Someone says the time is not right . . .

Indeed, it is not the right time
but why then are you plotting options? . . .
OK, the other day after texting masked,
socially distant experts in erasure,
you said you had had enough
with up close and personals . . .
That the end point had disappeared . . .
that there was no end point . . .
no convergence so to speak . . .
Wait, you saw it in which film? . . .
I don't think so . . . besides
you have just handed in your grades . . .
There will be no after-hours anything . . .
Being dragged to the surface? . . .

Isabel Toledo

Today on Mike Maggio's blog showcasing COVID-19 poems:

Screen Dump 499

You are masked and gloved . . . and socially distant . . .

orbiting the silent film Orphans of the Storm . . . gingerly

navigating the crapshoot of grocery-shopping . . .

An essential to the soundless

you eat the loss of the future tense

with its enigmatic typescript captioning

It's a Wonderful Life . . .

Someone somewhere is about to pull a ripcord

to float shamelessly and selflessly into the enveloping ether . . .

There will be others . . .

Jarek Kubicki

Screen Dump 511

The irregular dance of false starts

with its preoccupation of place that engulfs the blue moment . . .

the moment examined . . . incomplete . . .

The doors shut . . .

Was there a romantic link . . . perhaps temporarily? . . .

The ears . . . unblinking . . .

as if a thrill to cease . . . and desist . . .

You're wondering about the aftermath . . .

Not sure what you're talking about . . .

You know . . . it's kind of like when you're expecting delivery

and the scene shifts with players rolling their eyes

over costume changes that for some reason
seem ill-advised . . . ill-fitting . . .

Jan Scholz

Screen Dump 510

Tomorrow is now that day . . . choked with mutations . . .

monochromatic landscapes soundtracked

by those who have missed the unfollowing underway gradually . . .

This too smacks of spam . . . drawn slowly and all that is new . . .

The numbers climb . . .

Wrapped uncontrollably in festive cloth no more . . .

Did you think essentials would move like languages

through the outer regions . . . missing from the latest tally? . . .

You bought into that too, yes? . . .

Introspection is a no-no in those skimpy moments

when all you can think about is the way it was . . .

Someone hit the override button suspiciously

sending trailers to editors prior to

an ever-increasing awareness that gravity will do us in . . .

You too were thrust into the mirror . . .

What business of chastisement stands aloof? . . .

Can you imagine beaches without knowing anything . . . really? . . .

Unrecognized priors dictate the future

with little happenstance in their arsenal of apps . . .

Notions based on fluff . . . what now? . . .

OK, dissect the speculation put forth sans disclaimer . . .

With the drum and bugle corps abandoned midstream

the kickstart was left flopping around on the shore . . .

Nothing of these toppled times but conjecture 

and far be it from anyone to suggest a workable alternative

though that might be a tad harsh . . .

You have the right to an attorney . . . as if that would make a difference . . .

Nora Attal and Elfie Reigate

Screen Dump 509

Begging the rhetorical question is a joke you carry
in your hip pocket to pull out in the wake of an auditionee

soundtracked by silence in the streets . . . 

The humor is lost . . . or so it seems . . .

No one wants to cross over . . .
The line is drawn in the white sand . . .
The problem launched . . . Can nothing be done? . . .
Eye-glitter duped . . . and so it remains to be seen . . .

Can you adjust the spectrum . . .

or are we locked as well into that pattern of denial? . . .

Far too many . . . uncatalogued . . .

Why now the cups and saucers? . . .

The sit-down drags on amid the fluster of angles

spun by major leaguers . . . or is that too my imagination? . . .

Mario Sorrenti

Screen Dump 508

Margins of error plague your daydreams . . .
You count to five slowly after a flash of lightening . . .
welcoming the dissonance of thunder
and you're inside an upright bass
walking the notes . . . someone somewhere running the changes . . .
Under the right . . . or, maybe wrong . . . circumstances, yes? . . .
The supermarket - masked - barks out specials
in concert with coydogs
who roam the woods at night
searching for orphans . . .
cataloging drops vis-à-vis correlations
between down time
and the uptick in shootings
over what some are calling the new normal . . .
But he's not reading the reports! . . .
The debriefings anachronistic . . .
You wanted to pick it up from there
but the bus stops have been decompressed
and stuffed into clichés with little afterthought . . .
And this is someone's finest hour? . . .

Germaine Dulac, The Smiling Madame Beudet (1923)

SUN SET

by Nancy Dyer

What does it take to let a sunset into your heart?

To NEVER FORGET the colors?

Why is it we only keep the bad memories?

We crave the “bad news.” And then we share it.

Why do we let “them” put the big “Corona Virus” picture on the screen all day long
impervious to what it is imprinting in our minds?

What it is creating?

Will we never think to replace it all with sunsets and rainbows?

It’s just a decision, isn’t it?

Screen Dump 507

Ramifications? . . . What ramifications? . . .
A show of hands . . . palms open . . .

continuing the conversation across lockdown months . . .

This requires a reset . . .
The script qua floorplan enough to carry you through
until whatever phase includes feeding the flame . . .

You immerse yourself in hospital beds

tallying sheets, pillowcases, blankets . . .

What happens next? . . .

As if the Questioner of the Sphinx had opened

the gates of hell . . .

Remind me when the time comes . . .

Cold water will be such a treat . . . followed by no idea . . .

The sound of your voice ups the ante . . .

fading in and out . . . people checking in . . . and all that . . .

I've lost count . . .

Look . . . a cat approaches . . . head bowed . . .

Germaine Dulac, The Seashell and the Clergyman (1928)

Screen Dump 506

The streets fill with consequences . . . and eBikes . . .

and soundscapes for tomorrow's ticket-holders

enamored of dissonance . . .

Of course the hard damage of pianos

when in a false moment

you reach out to blindsided razor scooters

hoping for the next best thing . . .

Inasmuch would be too much

so we drop back . . . as the water level

creeps upward . . . threats the size of the third factory . . .

You recall burned-out players

sequestered in abandoned fallout shelters . . .

strings attached . . . fretless necks . . .
rehearsing what-was-then . . .

feeling free to take whatever . . .

The cost is about to weigh in . . . with yet more

incidental information disguised as nothing of late . . .

You too should have been there in the crowded atelier . . .

the underpinnings . . . substantial by any stretch . . .

The streets . . . back to the streets . . . yes? . . .

Germaine Dulac

Screen Dump 505

A warm breeze off the water
thinks twice
after being t-boned by the smell of the city . . .
You are tempted to retreat
to the chapter on white sand
and blue surf
where you have been told
many have fled . . .
There is no escape . . .
Your style . . . like so many others . . .
has been retired . . .
your script redacted . . .
The alleged perps last seen
after shredding the wheels of a moving violation
circling a roundabout . . . hot on the trail
of knockoff designer face masks . . .
Identities are cloned . . .
The plague is with us . . . within us . . .

The 1918 Great Influenza

Screen Dump 504

The world fills with Eleanor Rigbys

buried without funeral . . . without music . . .

with fossilized smiles

while looters . . . making off with paper weights

disguised as MacBook Pros

demand compensation . . .

Barricades seethe with anger . . .

Your favorite things lie smashed curbside . . .

The healing grows incredibly slow

as if cells object to expending energy on a jalopy

en route to the scrap heap . . .

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? . . .

Screen Dump 503

This mail-order thing is distracting . . .
Take the other night for example
facing blank pages . . .
Rehashing the reinvestment
when your vanities took hold and ran wild . . .
You had time, yes? . . .
So why worry the dictates of taste? . . .
You were inclined to have no idea
how to redistribute the silence
that seemed to grow exponentially as you jotted down
what you took to be future options . . .

Eugenio Recuenco

Screen Dump 502

Instead never happened . . . it was cancelled
along with ghosts
of those awaiting word in six-foot bursts . . .
Shout-outs are shouted-down
the universe upended
even metaphors . . . bobbing along
with the flotsam
as confused as the rest of us . . .
struggle for how-tos . . .
And you? . . . You insist on photo-montages
scrambling for the high ground
as floods wash away
hopes and dreams and memories . . .
Why concern yourself now
over oxygen levels
while players instagram the remains of the day? . . .

Alina Lebedeva

AT the KITCHEN WINDOW, now

by Nancy Dyer

At the kitchen window, now,
eating breakfast.
Sliver of the river off in the        distance
Butterfly flutters past on the background of eternity.

Screen Dump 501

You pick up breakfast curbside . . . at your favorite diner
clock the high drama of lockdown
the air . . . filtered . . .
the reunion on hold
mom and pop's shuttered
memorializing . . . a day in the life of . . .
no intermission . . . no meet and greet . . .
From now on you will be responsible for carrying out
what you carry in . . .
When . . . to begin again? . . .
Didn't I tell you? . . . Sorry, I've forgotten . . .
It's always this . . . not unlike a magical addendum paraphrasing
the story line for first responders
who by choice or chance
enter the arena . . .
the wherewithals having left with spotters of notions
costumed for one last turn through the roundabout . . .

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 500

The room you are in fills with words . . . big words small words
color-coded . . . but the colors change as you collect the words
in your bucket for delivery to the empty marketplace . . .
The mooring of starting out . . . as good as any
while crossing Brooklyn ferry
with other swingers of birches . . . no more . . .
A line of people stretches out of view . . .
you recognize some . . . past players . . . here . . . not here . . .
fabricators of the now old New Next . . .
as well as extras for roles in a future film
that may open someday at the Bijou
in Wherevertown . . . its frayed seats having hosted
your journal entries . . .
and several of your play-by-plays . . . Becket's Krapp
listened to tapes recorded over the years . . .
mining his life . . . excavating his life . . .
with big words small words color-coded words

that became earworms . . .
mental Post-its for how a person should be . . .
Indeed, not wanting for things, yes? . . .

Screen Dump 499

You are masked and gloved . . . and socially distant . . .
orbiting the silent film Orphans of the Storm . . . gingerly
navigating the crapshoot of grocery-shopping . . .
An essential to the soundless
you eat the loss of the future tense
with its enigmatic typescript captioning
It's a Wonderful Life
for those in search of closure . . .
Someone somewhere is about to pull a ripcord
to float shamelessly and selflessly into the enveloping ether . . .
There will be others . . .

Jarek Kubicki

Screen Dump 498

There was nothing you could do
about it . . . then or now . . . as if
the back door had become unhinged over
its inability to understand . . .
The comfort of connections . . .
the connections we seek . . . and need . . .
the wet, heavy snow igniting
cardiac episodes . . .
Grocery carts roam empty parking lots . . .
Spring unsprung . . .
everyone - well, most everyone -
masked, gloved, giving
wide berth . . . not unlike
ships at sea . . . Michael Moore's
Planet of the Humans shakes you awake
at 3 AM . . . big-shouldered
extraction companies overharvesting
resources . . . to page through
yellowing notebooks . . .
for Hawking's uninhabitable . . .
This was done . . . then, nothing . . .

Jarek Kubicki

In April's Chronogram:

A Piece of Nothing

And then, again, you decide
to look at the sketches
of domes in cities
you've never visited,
and probably never will,
the domes having
insinuated themselves
into your reading
and into your life.
You don't even know
the names of the cities
and towns but they're
pleasant to look at,
and spark images of travel.
There are moments
when the armchair
you're sitting in
by the window
overlooking the park
seems to lift off
and float above
the canals in the cities.
You strike up conversations
with strangers in languages
you don't even know.
This could be a wish,
or a piece of nothing,
connecting you to the world.

Screen Dump 497

You're messing with the script
trying to dodge it
short-circuit the craziness . . . life out of balance
but the ruts are deep
and you keep sliding back in . . .
An instruction manual offers suggestions
but we'll have to wait for the next installment . . .
A lapse in the rain graying-out
the morning's options
fills your pockets with seeds . . .
Is it time to turn the soil? . . .
to add fertilizer? . . .
Last year was a bust . . . nothing . . .
Maybe this year, yes? . . .
As if elephants appear out of a nightmare . . .
downsized . . . Aren't we all . . . downsizing? . . .
Isn't everything downsizing? . . .
You decide to make matters worse by tagging the elephants
that have joined us to break bread
around an empty table . . .
You opt - quite heroically I should add -
to include boulevards in the lockdown . . .

Kate Moss

The Albany Poets, in the spirit of community, is encouraging local poets to post a video of themselves reading one of their poems. Here's mine:

One Could Do Worse Than Be A Dumper Of Screens

I dream myself a spotter of weight-bearing fantasies
of half-whispered promises laced with nonsense syllables
my dialogue a monologue of graphic comics . . .
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 . . . and something else . . .
Off-days the string quartet in my back pocket
is all but played out . . . in three-quarter time . . .
Odysseyites . . . mark the spot . . . steal second . . .
and more . . . transposing the theme of Lassie
chock-full of unclaimed funds . . .
sitting there . . . festering . . . in the laptop of jargon
with no one worth emailing
about the sinister rise . . . 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 . . .
the unbearable heaviness of isolation . . .
Is there no other way? . . .
Indeed, one could do worse than be a dumper of screens . . .

Screen Dump 496

So by half exist you mean what? . . .
The head boards have control of your head
and they're using it to illustrate
the ebb and flow of counterintelligence . . .
Someone intuitively selects a circle
to contain the argument which is making
its way along the rutted road
that runs alongside your dream house . . .
There's a run on everything I suppose
if you assume the unpopular stance
that there's no significant difference
at the .01 level . . . at any level
for that matter . . . but even then
hyperventilation cannot redeem
the world . . . and AI is out to lunch . . .
at least until 1:30 . . . Rewiring skin tags
begs fluctuation . . . wouldn't you agree? . . .

Anatoly Gladkov

Screen Dump 495

Humpty Dumptyites insist survival is predicated
on accepting disappointment . . .
Even health care workers are buying into it . . .
balding boldfaced burnt-out self-quarantined
in face mask and sandwich boards
pushing a fractal approach . . . while walking on
the frozen surface of a body of water . . .
billions and billions
on a tiny pale blue speck of dust . . .
wait to be loosed into the cosmic boondocks
of the late Cornell astrophysicist Carl Sagan
who shared the secrets of the Cosmos
with insomniacs while appearing
more than two dozen times
on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson . . .
Price gouging spikes . . .
for toilet paper, paper towels, hand sanitizers, hand wipes,
cleansers, detergent, disinfectant sprays . . .
Doomsayers wander empty supermarket aisles
plugging black holes with emptiness . . .
A conspiracy of cats contacts you . . .
Aquifers bloat watersheds . . . spark confusion . . .
Why does why invite seepage? . . . something unexpected . . .
Window-shopping for answers you encounter
an urgency with no recognizable context . . . and so it goes . . .

Humpty Dumpty circa 1873

Screen Dump 494

But then in the middle of the Alfredo you break it off
running tabs aerobically . . .
effortlessly . . . on one of your cardio days . . .
The morning coffee . . . altered
the plants sprayed
the cats fed . . . and watered . . .
It wasn't on the list, was it? . . . I mean
this offset color . . .
arranged I suppose in a rainbow of personals . . .
The language . . . inside and out . . .
suppositions . . . (with addenda) . . .
There's little here for watchers
if you discount them over there doing planks . . .
breaking through the fourth wall
with Cream of Wheat oversold, yes? . . .
elevating obscurity
at least in the red white blue states
somewhere here buried in the regs . . .
You alas as such . . . no, more, yes, more . . .
cultivating an avatar with rapidographic seizure . . .
the morning after . . . and then . . .

Wendy Bevan