Screen Dump 276

Driving on the wrong side of the looking glass . . .
Irrefutably Heathcliffian . . .
Again, the story . . .
Trying to get the story straight . . .
The story . . . a smattering of misapprehensions . . .
neologisms . . .
return trips . . .
lost in the aisles . . . of a used bookstore . . .
jostling for immortality . . .
not unlike Xboxers who
freely associating your solemnity with past escapades
now stand on their heads
in the queue at Mickey D's
waiting for their grilled chicken sandwiches . . .
in their minds . . . a healthier alternative . . .
Examine the crossbeams of your gingerbread house . . .
the crossbeams of your thoughts . . . your regrets . . .
while I interpret the shadow
of your half-smile
matching it to the shape of your hands . . .
the shape of your lips . . .
exposing your offerings
to the down-the-hatchers . . . and down-and-outers . . .
who have fallen for your Youtube flirtations . . .
kicking back on off-days . . . and on on-days . . .
engaging Throwback Thursdays . . . without remorse or endives . . .
your stubborn refusal (is there any other kind?)
best approached head-on . . .

Alice Through the Looking Glass (2016)

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. . . doesn't every poem confess something?
          - David Kirby

You audition behind a screen for a seat in the pit . . .
the fanfare . . . Chanticleerian . . .
before stopping . . .
at the corner pub . . . in shorty . . .
the opening gambit . . . unpremeditated . . .
awakening video endgamers . . .
with a shuddering rise . . .
coming . . . again . . .
as if in service to Nefertiti . . .
taking a village . . .
letting the incidentals fall onto the gameboard . . .
moves . . . you invented . . .
gripped as you were
in the pre-sainthood days of martyrdom . . .
when every instant was up for grabs . .
the auction block loaded with requests . . .
(You do remember them, yes? . . .
not necessarily the sticky specifics
but the gist of the encounters . . .
some played by ear within earshot
of the players assigned to the rack . . .
the real point of the action) . . .
while outside the mist parlayed the rusting hulks of seafarers . . .

Fabio Chizzola

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People like to think that I was frustrated. . . .
          - Rose Wylie

Hickory, dickory, Doc Martens . . . evidently . . .
and then some . . . a full tank of gas . . . is not enough . . .
is never enough . . .
I celebrate my selfie, and sing my selfie . . .
as if bygones were . . .
while the looney tunes in the loony bin
soundtrack an unexpected darling of the art world . . .
glaring from beneath her pewter-gray bob . . .
seeded with happenstance . . .
nomenclature . . . a loose cannon . . . or canon . . .
wrinkling the thinking of those in the know . . .
Stop a moment . . .
and take issue with the troublesome minions . . .
especially now in the aftermath of an opening . . .
Disneyfying Dickinson . . .
Of course, you saw them . . . we all did . . .
so please drop (stop?) that line of questioning
before you're benched . . . two minutes on the clock . . .
with Klee, Taking a line for a walk . . .
The afternoon cometh . . . stalked by flurries . . .
It's not yet time to count sheep . . .
with a Hey, diddle, diddle, . . .
and free passes to the Auto Show . . .
And now you . . . with your camera . . .
memorializing moments for eternity's collage
awaiting the green light . . .
the steam train chuffing out of the station . . .
your unexpurgated memoirs . . . in tow . . .
through the woods . . . to grandmother's house . . .

Rose Wylie

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Sparring with place settings . . . at low tide . . .
as if rationalizing utensils with a sense of know . . .
accordion dreams back-pocketed . . .
tomorrow's version . . . on the tongues
of news anchors mired in flotsam . . .
Hum along . . . if you like . . .
with the dissonance of the Jersey shore . . .
where tête–à–têtes gasp their last
on the Bayone Bridge . . .
during rush hour no less . . .
and Roxanne tweeted something
about lumbago and Leonardo DiCaprio's
most-tweeted Oscar moment of all time
surpassing even Ellen DeGeneres's selfie . . .
Can you imagine? . . .
And just think . . . when the circus comes to town
you can suit-up for stand-up . . .
on the high-wire . . .
your four-inch heels . . . excuse me, five-inch heels . . .
just what the doctor ordered . . .
Playing ICU . . . at the light . . .
your coming (out) attraction . . . Oscar Night . . .
on the red carpet . . .
awaiting your cue . . . coat-racked against calm . . .

Per Zennstrom

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You thought you could unravel the laughter
aloft in strange machines
piloted by novitiates grown weary of story telling . . .
When the time comes, yes? . . .
The ink dissolving . . .
The audience exiting . . .
Remarkable in your post-Vanna White protocol
smoothing archaeological ruin from the third century BCE . . .
Surprisingly easy to walk the straight and narrow, yes? . . .
How many have adjusted contrasting embellishments
and resumed play . . . as if it were nothing? . . .
Pawn to Queen-Four . . .
Happenstance knocking at the door . . .
Time to re-enter the crinkled photos
when box lunches rode roughshod over delegates . . .

Begin mute . . .

Make a left turn here
while the voiceover is catching its breath . . .
Imagine circumvention . . .
Count the number of bagels in a baker's dozen
to help you regain a firm footing
and face the unknown with a patchwork quilt
and matching ambiguities . . .

End mute . . .

You will see what you believe
absent the existential interview and/or debriefing . . .
As you wish . . .
the main character was heard to say
before remembering forgetfulness
as if one two three threw open a portal
to a magic kingdom . . .
We are reminded of incidentals
echo chambers
classrooms filled with images of recipes
for navigating life's eddies . . .
The traffic ramps up
inspiring us to confront the dilemma of remainders
as if jumping the gun meant more . . .
Your six-year-old can do this, yes? . . .

Screen Dump 271

Incomprehensible regurgitations . . . overtake many of those
who seek solace in the balladeer's tongue . . .
conjuring the self . . .
while outside snow speaks makeshift lyrics . . .
We are released early for good behavior
to rouse the ire of the nasty weather . . .
pocketing vials of Teflon for the folks back home . . .
The streets clown us . . .
There will be no escaping the night . . .
especially now with your diary veering into unconsciousness . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 270

This standstill is senseless . . . but necessary . . .
Let's recap the past few hours days months . . .
You gave (head?) at the office . . . but didn't inhale . . .
while arch-conservatives polliwogged their way to keynotes . . .
We need to listen to clusters of notes before we decide . . .
No one note alone is good or bad . . .
Hours spent squiggling on the Freddie Freihofer Show . . .
its juxtaposition of arms and legs spawning footnotes . . .
some pages long . . . not unlike DFW's . . .
athletic . . . at the very least . . .
Good that you sloughed off the accusation of redundancy . . .
There's an aesthetic consciousness
in this gaggle of blunt assertions . . .
this mess . . . if you will . . .
this close encounter of the pathological kind . . .
Fear not! . . . the green light . . . the applause . . .
the key to the hidden room behind the bookcase . . .
in the library . . .
will temper in time . . .
Yes, the butler did it . . . with the candelabrum . . .
shuffling off his mortal coil . . . to Buffalo
with a windchill in the negative tweens . . .
But aren't most? . . .
John B. Watson for example knew exactly what he was doing . . .
before his stint as Mad Man . . .
bedding down his graduate assistant Rosalie
while conditioning Little Albert B . . .
who was never counterconditioned . . . to fear fur . . .
Never forget the basement of the Alamo, yes? . . .
You too have had hybrid encounters
and a reluctance to reveal your userid . . .
to anyone but your hairdresser . . .
in your 50-minute hours on Skype
bumping up against The People's Court . . .
litigating the littlest legalities
(if one chooses to call them that) . . .
while taking inspiration from she who must be obeyed . . .
Evidently . . . came up . . . again . . . and again . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 269

You spend afternoons with homonyms . . .
connecting dots of primordial images with the speed of a python . . .
In the free-weight room at the gym . . . language evolves . . .
The blinds withdraw . . .
Amanuenses appear . . . for St. Valentine's Day . . .
You continue to pump iron . . .
adjusting the sweats you took a shine to . . .
without a sense of dread . . .
The costume . . . as Book of Days . . .
as notations sanded smooth by prevailing winds . . .
runs deep . . .
Close encounters of some kind ensue . . .
You tap your smart phone to the beat of his/her enunciation . . .
Three sets of 12 reps, yes? . . .
You are reminded of . . .
those times . . . late at night when you . . .
enraptured by your Kindle . . .
keep adjusting its brightness . . . for better or worse . . .

Screen Dump 268

Cartesian luminaries . . . of the most outlandish . . .
brought in . . . at the last minute . . .
on ferryboats . . . saturated with artsy stuff . . .
Where to put in? . . .
My dreams paralyzed . . .
demanding answers to questions
orphaned in blue books . . . long ago . . .
You are heartbreakingly, disarmingly funny . . .
illuminating the what ifs
so dear to many . . .
especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays
when the bagels are at their mouth-watering best . . .
Back and forth . . . and again . . .
Imaginations rekindled . . .
Smooth faces in fun house mirrors . . .
with words . . . Frostian . . .
catapulting a mind of winter
into the present tense . . . with all the fixins' . . .
Instead of communion . . . a solo foray
within which words come alive
and lead to salvation . . .
and/or to that place for pondering the afterlife . . .

Charlize Theron

Screen Dump 267

Circumlocution . . . if only . . .
mired in reruns . . . the solace of the familiar . . .
taking a break . . .
assembling rationales for the hiatus . . .

you find plant life . . .
a crack in the glass . . .
from moment to moment
and then the drying out . . .

moving on . . .
folding yourself into an envelope
with instructions for re-entry . . .
riffling through dog-eared pages

transfused . . .
as if in the narrows . . . boats bottleneck
then begin without waiting . . .
But waiting . . . for what? . . .

The blank page? . . .
The incomplete sentence? . . .
You too cast off
then rethink

lines from your favorite books . . .
your favorite films . . .
By why now? . . .
Now when the others are about to arrive? . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Screen Dump 266

Big-haired backyard barbecuers
dance feverishly
in yellowing collages of pics . . .
zigzag through the neighborhood
trafficking in incidentals . . .
fingers . . . keyboarding songs
swollen in possibility . . .
sheer happenstance
and garage band coloratura . . .
Recall the duct tape
its iterations
when what to my wondrous eyes should appear
cascades of ganglia
interspersed with large drops of rain . . .
This will take some explaining . . .
Is this the winter . . . of our malcontent? . . .
The song and dance continues . . .
Dogs and ponies celebrate
proof . . . of existence
logging roads and junkyards
vying for a place in the annals
of small town etiquette
and independent films . . .
Of course, you can do it! . . .
Well, there's always a first time
(don't deny it) . . .
but with ancient history snapping at our heels
it feels new . . . as if Scene 1 resurfaced . . .
in REM sleep . . .
How many years ago was that, again? . . .
Furniture music
the invasion of smart devices . . .
takeaways thrown away . . .
One could fashion an excuse (I suppose)
architectural embellishments
pock-marked with red anthills
kicking back with a beer
at the corner pub
the ongoing conversations
finessing flirtations
as if the countdown had begun
and locals had taken to the high ground
fearing floods
triglycerides
broken promises
from others earmarked for their contributions
to adult coloring books . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 265

Quizzical stares lead to a room where empty nesters
eager for the next assignment
take the scenic route to work
slip through metal detection . . . and into cubes
to engage their fantasies . . . before lunch . . .
Something bodes well here . . .
gaining momentum with Ashberian clarity . . .
wrestling with the script . . .
high water marks notwithstanding . . .
The new millennium continues to strut its stuff . . .
Santa will find out who's naughty and nice, anyway . . .
Some prefer not to carbo-load . . .
Some prefer to pick them up and put them down . . .
in full view of a diorama of articulated porn stars
sporting incidental galoshes . . .
speaking exponential volumes
brimming with architectural references . . .
Is this working? . . .
Is it making a dent in the indeterminate afterthought? . . .
It's time to cut to the chase . . .
to stop picking lint . . .
There is no story here . . . no landfill . . .
no hooks . . .
nor ax to grind . . .
nothing beyond your metric . . .
a drop in the unimaginable bucket of leftovers . . .
X + Y + Z = more . . . or less . . .

Dree Hemingway

Screen Dump 264

Someone should record this . . .
Absent condescensions . . .
You can do this . . . assume ownership of the character . . .
Meet yourself halfway . . .
OK, into the darkness . . .
Then? . . .
"All the world's a stage," yes? . . .
In Friendly's . . . with interlopers . . .
Can we start over? . . .
No idea . . .
Stop . . . already . . . with the analyzing . . .
Ditch the script . . .
I'm cutting and pasting . . .
I am in a restaurant . . .
Tap the app, already . . . please . . .
OK, OK . . . I'm reading the menu
looking for a theme . . . a conceit . . .
What? . . . Drop the formalities . . .
Find the door into the character . . .
But the character has disappeared . . .
Wing it then . . .
Sans this . . . sans that . . . sans this and that? . . .
Squabbling with those in the know? . . . in the front row? . . .
Break through the Fourth Wall . . .
Only you can prevent usurpations . . .
This time without backup . . .
without the profile . . . which was sketchy at best . . .
I am "at" my best . . .
Without overworking? . . .
Pace . . . Isn't that it? . . .
Now look at what you've done . . . the audience has disappeared . . .
But this is good, yes? . . .
You are by yourself . . .
No next line . . . no next scene . . .
freeing yourself to _____ (fill in the blank) . . .
No dropdown? . . .
No dropdown . . .

2001 film adaptation of Samuel Beckett's "Play"

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Late nights on rickety scaffolds . . . soliloquizing . . .
fractals costumed for clubbing
and something looser . . . less will in the world . . .
pumping regulars for chump change . . .
ignoring irregulars
who engage mindfulness . . . with a takeaway . . .
then sweat repercussions
while noodling entropy . . .
Alt-Shift and you're home free . . .
tapping out melodramas at 4 AM with Cinderella heels . . .
providing sanctuary
to bread truck drivers
who get more than your autograph . . .
then favorite you
while peeping through shutters . . .
You map a different route for yesterdays . . .
but your GPS sends you off-course . . . into doldrums . . .
Do you know enough now about the ins and outs
the ups and downs
the sidelong insinuations
of window-shopping
of playing hangman . . . on bridges
in the middle of snowstorms? . . .
The makeover cut to the chase, yes? . . .
with its run-through of opening scenes
players . . . teary-eyed . . .
reviewing crumpled pics . . .
You played your hand to the max
rode out your long-legged addenda with insider trades
and short-term hookups . . .
cascading schemes until further notice
from incumbents who didn't know and didn't care
as if rent-a-gargoyle was in cahoots
with the weary ghosts shuffling through the crystal castles
featured on the front page of that rag
you picked up checking out of Motel 6 . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 262

But the lines are throwaways . . . the perspective trumped . . .
compartmentalizing your demons . . .
Act 2 Scene 2 Line 33 . . .
Wherefore art thou [insert name]? . . .
I see . . . the parched facade . . . the blemishes . . .
But don't we all? . . .
Foreshortening may work . . .
Allow you to appraise past escapades . . .
Can you deal with the attention . . .  fresh off the omnibus
on which you were held . . . per your wishes? . . .
Because why? . . .
Ah, yes, because you were engaged in developmental studies
with their Type II errors in abeyance . . .
and a loose cannon tethered to your toned calf . . .
Of course they're looking . . .
your backpack or attaché
brimming with paperwork . . . bound for glory . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 261

Doing time in the fun house . . .
the mirror reflecting your syllogistic somatotype . . .
believing the words of buskers
the slow curve to home plate
and the swings in the old neighborhood . . .
Tell me when your password expires . . .
and I will enter the magic room
where cats brew tea for associates
and wigglers wiggle . . .
What's with the latest installment in your biopic? . . .
I love the costumes . . .
Magnanimous of you . . . indeed . . .
but now he/she expects to be included in the loop . . .
like the puppy whose wet nose is pressed
against the pet store window . . .
Guaranteed to wane? . . . You bet! . . .
This posturing . . . in public no less . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 260

Look, you have to have a little faith in people.
          - Mariel Hemingway, Manhattan

Short chapters . . . make them short! . . .
Like The DaVinci Code . . . or Utopia? . . .
Woody and Diane on a bench beneath the 59th Street Bridge . . .
They had to bring in the bench, you know . . .
I've had to bring in a bench . . . many times . . .
Because you wanted to be romantically involved? . . .
Channeling Lord Byron? . . .
Mad, bad, and dangerous to know . . .
Spoiler! . . .
Cut to The Grand Budapest Hotel . . .
Piecing together a life . . . from scraps . . .
Why are you so depressed? . . .
Not just depressed . . . but so depressed? . . .
Fair question . . .
Because of my agoraphobia? . . . my phobophobia? . . .
In your own words, please . . .
OK, I've been at this for hours . . .
for days . . . months . . . years . . .
Everything eclipses everything . . .
I shouldn't have begun . . .
I should've left the notes in the nightstand . . .
The nightstand has taken wing . . .
Angels . . . are pissing and moaning . . . as well they should . . .
Do something before it's over . . .
OK, I'm rewriting the script . . .
I'm going to ditch the multiple choice questions . . .
Multiple-choice questions? . . .
Yeah, can you imagine? . . . Multiple-choice questions? . . .
Hundreds of them . . .
Life deserves an essay question . . .
An essay question . . . with extra time . . .
and additional blue books . . .

Manhattan (1979)

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The committee convenes to determine when a work of art
cannot be fixed or restored in the traditional ways . . . and
must, instead, be replicated.
          - Ben Lerner, The Custodians

Using 3-D printing to fabricate sculptural assemblages
of body parts . . . some bodies take in the exhibits at the museum
others scrub toilets . . .
An old-timer the color of dust rides shotgun in a pickup
the color of your scrunched hair . . .
Using the remote to switch roles . . . again? . . .
Why monkeyshines? . . .
Your mother dead 15 years thinks you're out walking
your big black mutt along the eerily-elevated High Line . . .
Thinking re-purposed artifacts? . . .
A jumping-off point . . . so to speak . . .
Mystery? . . . Yes! . . .
Warning: In the current show of Internet art . . .
the complexity is not indicated in the placard
beside the sculpture . . .
Reprinting your past scripts in 3-D? . . .
The endgame cometh . . .
Wooden players adjust their digital timers . . .
I will join them after I load the boiler . . .
Insignificant treasons . . . of the heart . . .
You await the remake . . .
summoned by mockups . . . of past odysseys . . .
trailers expelling intricate engines from the Renaissance . . .
I knew you would . . .
Embracing naiveté . . . ignorance . . .
Hover . . . then drop . . .
your ultrasounds . . . off the charts . . .
Forget Into Great Silence . . .
Cage's 4' 33" . . .
There is no perfect silence . . .
Act 1 Scene 1 . . .
You are (at) your own best . . .
nose pressed to the still-visible constellations
double-blinding players
whose hand-held buzzers emit subtle patterns of the mortal . . .
the body and soul . . . one . . .
You recall their lines . . . their movements . . . their gestures . . .
the rehearsals . . . the retakes . . .
It's all good! . . .
Feral cats skim the edge of trees . . .
There are others . . . as well . . . clamoring for something . . .
avatars . . . frosted with Facebook
ready willing able for leaps of faith . . .
their marginalization duly noted . . .

Screen Dump 258

Yes, I know you saw it coming . . .
hard and fast and in-your-face
gaggles of oom-pa-pa's . . . within earshot
seeking professional words
in their curmudgeonly way
while buying time on the parking meters
of their gratification . . .
Lots of hootin' and hollerin' . . .
which was supposed to be a big surprise . . .
but that was last night . . . now . . .
with its wilted line of happy questioning . . .
and one-too-many-overnighters
from past odysseys
when enigmatic avatars held sway
and curiosity was heavy metal . . .
Come to think of it . . . arms akimbo
would have been a nice touch . . .
therapeutic . . . indeed . . .
which according to telemarketers
is guaranteed to elicit dismissive looks
from passersby . . .
who know not so much . . .
But we know better, yes? . . .
Remember the shore . . .
with words sulking between the lines . . .
on the hot sand
when out was out and in was in? . . .
Premature, perhaps? . . .
It can be reversed . . .
if you're willing to go the extra mile . . .
don a costume . . .
for the duration of the interrogation . . .
speak iteratively in phrases
clandestinely applied with a camel-hair brush . . .
Not so? . . .
Check out your carbon footprint . . .
Can you honestly say you've eliminated salt
from your past life? . . . lives? . . .
Food preparation qua reparation
an inter-ocular undertaking . . .
if ever . . .
standing half-naked in the kitchen
mutated banjos dueling in the background
stirring up trouble . . .
What better way, yes? . . .

Fabio Chizzola

Screen Dump 257

Why be facetious . . . using non-words with binary flavors? . . .
Feeling foolish? . . . At this time of the year? . . .
Neologisms? . . .
No, the transits are in transit . . .
and the scenes are falling into place . . .
As if there were an overseer? . . .
Happenstance . . .
Ah, serendipitous, yes? . . .
Have you again forgotten your lines? . . .
You never had a problem entering a club and winging it . . .
On the fly . . .
Searching for a delusion to grab onto . . .
Not unlike the rest of the cast . . .
with their exits . . . and their (en)TRANCES . . .
their offset gypsyisms . . .
and monocular perspective . . .
We have tangoed outside the lines . . . many times . . .
Humpty Dumpty as spotter . . .
as serial list maker . . .
as drone . . .
You have waxed and waned with . . . uh, I've lost count . . .
Little matter . . . the taxonomy . . . though Procrustean . . . works . . .
That is what it's all about, yes? . . .

Alina Lebedeva

Screen Dump 256

What if there were a hidden pleasure in calling
one thing by another's name?
          - Rae Armantrout

In a voiced community . . . A reasonable facsimile? . . .
Rehabbing yourself . . . again . . .
you find remainders . . . of close encounters . . .
under the floorboards . . .
and begin running numbers
applying algorithms . . .
posting weary pics from yesteryears . . .
You are positioning the stars over your bed
for a takedown . . .
This will not make a difference . . .
Revisit the maps of your years
parse sentences
rethink the selections for today's menu . . .
Transcriptions of your names fetch big bucks . . .
This is not for public consumption . . .
Can you imagine the confusion
when the heat from the lamps begins to burn the skin
and the History of Loneliness begs to differ? . . .
Why now? . . .
I have no idea . . . None whatsoever . . .
Perhaps reviewing the dailies one more time
will shed light on the contents of the missing chapters . . .

Akif Hakan

Screen Dump 255

As if mummification were a side effect
of your (re)scribed meds . . .
a loophole in the quagmire of holidays
the back halls decked
with Morandi's dusty hues . . .
I am conversing with the thens and nows . . .
sidestepping altercations
and alterations
pining for takeoff from the cacophony of selfies . . .
The oblivion of the uninformed yet all-knowing . . .
intimations of immortality
recollections of Malmac place settings . . .
when visiting the lavatory
required permission  . . .
Quickly, the parking lots are filling
with blustery giftees
who desire a return to the state of un-giftedness . . .
Is there indeed an equivalent . . .
to the humdrum of breakfast drinks
that make palatable the blah blah blah of anchors . . .
sweating global warming
on what seems like every street corner
while dusting off between texts
their honorary degrees . . . of freedom? . . .

Gabrielle Rigon

Screen Dump 254

Your histrionics are history . . .
now that the plants in their embellishments have been watered
and taken out . . . for a test drive . . .
Tire Pressure Monitoring Systems . . . TPMS . . . have it all . . .
especially when the downside is backing into a parking space
with eyes on the trial balloon . . .
The elementary foci of gyroscopes . . .
coupled with the insignificant pages at the end of a book
hoist groping for meaning to a new . . . albeit preempted . . . level
where ifs ands and buts hold sway . . . with shape-changing dismay . . .
I would be among the first to crease the corner . . .
marking my territory (so to speak) for the unspoken
who are always ready to chime in with hot chocolate suggestions
and other post-time swizzles . . .
Please continue bailing . . . until we spot land . . .
or a reasonable facsimile . . .
which, when faxed to Battlecreek, MI
will bring you know who fame and fortune . . .

John Galliano

Screen Dump 253

You worry adjacencies . . . and grand rounds . . . and line-ups
and find yourself mugging . . . in a mirror
with someone twice . . . perhaps thrice . . . your EQ . . .
dancing with the frightening thought of tenure . . .
in the sad playgrounds of retirement communities . . .
The notion of absenteeism . . . of disappearance . . .
bumps you into a faster forward . . .
beginning with closer encounters at Bruegger's . . .
You know you can always didgeridoo . . .
And, yes, circular breathing will again release you . . .
buy you time to weather the latest in ultrawear . . .
your inner aborigine morphing into the next sonic terrain . . .

Ticki Stamasuri

Screen Dump 252

Elsewhere, you experience a rare biography . . .
a biography of postulates . . .
of opposites . . .
double meanings . . . squared . . .
labyrinths . . . hidden panels . . . and then some . . .
What is it? . . .
Putting in time . . . chockablock . . .
ingratiating yourself
if only for the sake of getting your bearings
in this Land of Unsound
the electronic infrastructure cradled in your lap(top) . . .
You have encountered these compositions before
in the thin hours of clubbing
asking for nothing . . . Yeah, right! . . .
You should begin to feel somewhat composed
in a few bars . . .
better to hear yourself
and the common ground shared by art and albatross . . .
The introduction less harrowing, yes? . . .
especially now that you've begun mastering the tracks
of your chosen form . . .
Think nothing of it, he/she said,
and you will garner praise
from the minions lining up for free samples . . .

Mario Sorrenti

Screen Dump 251

The bifurcated life . . . your call . . . a cheesy app? . . .
You pine for exits . . . for outs . . . and ins . . .
recalling past commitments
as you page through regrets . . .
your mother having called the cops . . . more than once . . .
The basement . . . where you conducted your experiments
with n's of 1, 2, 3 . . . ad nauseum? . . .
your trial balloons . . . floating among the star-struck . . .
You are blemished by detachment . . .
the inevitability of which dances circles
around your off days . . .
making promises that will later turn green with envy . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 250

Your UGG knockoffs do indeed send a message . . . however cryptic . . .
As it should be, yes? . . .
What manner of brouhaha for the holidays? . . .
Anecdotes keep a'Twittering . . .
what with thirteen filibusterers a'filibustering . . .
to say nothing of the conundrum with the A+ students . . .
who have failed to belt themselves in for the inevitable crash . . .
and will doubtless end up on the cutting room floor . . .
And, yes, the departure . . . from reality . . .
encased in a cloche . . .
Your pockets fill with familiarities . . .
but will that be enough? . . .
The Times They Are A-Changin' . . . indeed! . . .
I'm sure he/she meant well . . . despite the posturing, et cetera . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 249

The absurdist in you grabbed me mid-crunch . . .
I've decided to continue the melodrama
with visitors in scene three costumed as dispassionate LPNs
on lunch break
arguing the latest in metaphysical footwear . . .
Again, you will recognize yourself
despite your alter ego . . .
despite the shout-outs . . .
You have become irresistible . . . to some . . .
a stand-in . . . for many . . .
I've felt it in my bones . . . or something like that . . .
Nothing transcendental . . . nothing osmotic . . .
just the same-old same-old
with its lollygagging personae
defacing selfies . . .
Do you really want to kick it up a notch? . . .
Little repercussion, yes? . . .
Besides, the holidays are ready to pounce . . . so, who knows? . . .
Midsections intruding . . .
I've lost my place . . . again . . .
in line . . . in the book . . .
Beware gestures that bespeak the other . . .
I recommend googling that . . .
For example, did the voiceover mean what it said . . .
trapped as it was inside an anachoic chamber? . . .
The right stuff . . . or the real stuff . . . whichever . . .
Don't worry . . . you'll have time . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 248

A new you . . . with a new 'do . . . will debut
in a pair of pink satin coveralls
from Frederick’s of Bollywood . . .

rollerblading burgers and Rustoleum at Sonic . . .
dreaming a lateral to Hooters . . .

Pat Sajak sitting on Vanna White's Facebook page
while phoning a friend . . .

He is the rhinestone cowboy . . . of your future . . .

The irrepressible urge to enter the Witness Protection Program
forehead etched with years of hustling Bic disposables . . .

I'm Popeye the Sailor Man!
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man!
I'm Popeye Doyle! . . .
I'm Popeye Doyle the Sailor Man! . . .

Your body double . . . double parked . . . pole-dancing in the cupola . . .
The neighbors . . . out to lunch . . .
What came first? . . .
The chicken . . . or the frozen egg? . . .

Lydia Roberts

Screen Dump 247

You rearrange yourself for the next take . . .
Cameras capture still-lifes . . .
The film crew channels Morandi . . .
I'm not interested in additional rehearsals . . .
Shooting cold ignites me . . .
Isn't it best to see aesthetics for what they are? . . .
A blush on the side of a barn? . . .
Reenactors on tiptoes . . .
Why present life chronologically . . .
cutting and pasting the elements of style as they occur? . . .
Exceptions "R" Us . . .

Philip Messmann

Screen Dump 246

You sleep through solicitations
and are ticketed for doing 62 on the off ramp
claiming Black Friday
and a Magical Mystery Tour of Wicker at Pier 1 . . .
A concave mirror intrudes . . .
You see yourself flirting
with a fact-checker
whose life resembles a cookie cutter . . .
dropping facets faster than names . . .
which no sooner skip to freedom
through an artichoke grove . . .
Someone insists a barn swallow . . .
You have something else in mind
a vestige of one of your deep fantasies . . .
an inferno of arms and legs . . .
Do you recall packing for the weekend . . .
worrying that your tablet would hang? . . .
I thought not! . . .
Indeed he/she did in fact hang on your every bite
working through that log of braciole . . .
though it was apparent that Bela Lugosi
at the other table had rung the wrong bell . . .
A tad ticklish . . . to say the least . . .

Phillip Messmann

Screen Dump 245

They're talking doorbusters . . .
but you are trying to pace yourself
sacred in your innocence
editing notes you've jotted down
from the notebook
of your cubemate . . .
You like to jump fences
and feed birds who ride the rails . . .
Take down the tree, they say . . .
You ignore them . . .

Ahmet Polat

Screen Dump 244

The body unfolds . . . from a night of nightmares . . .
ignoring joint pain . . . GERD . . .
dissonant chapters in out-of-print books . . .
It recoils . . . and enters a whitewashed room
to collect itself . . . and the empties . . .
circling . . . and circling . . .
trying not to make eye contact . . .
trying not to engage (enrage?) others . . .
The choreography is deformed . . . preposterous . . .
Words await words . . .
as news continues to pummel commuters . . .
The world . . . out of balance . . . torqued . . .

Lydia Roberts

Screen Dump 243

You wake with Emily Brontë . . . in your head . . .
and begin the day on page 216 . . .
The whacher (her spelling) . . . watches kites circle prey . . .
as the days of your life open
to the middle chapters
hewn in a wild workshop (Charlotte on Wuthering Heights)
which at best (lately) are lackluster
and could use a fresh coat of paint
like the eyesore down the block . . .
You ignore the lookalike crouching in the corner
a would-be wannabe . . . who cameo'd on Wheel of Fortune . . .
lusting after Vanna White . . . and Pat Sajak . . .
The tale of two tongues? . . .
Where did all this come from? . . .
Surely a MacArthur Fellow . . .
had she not predeceased John D and Catherine T . . .
There are other items on your to-do list
which most likely will get back-burnered . . . given the bareness . . .
of diagramming incomplete sentences to feed your OCD . . .
your biographers . . . as well as the limp but happy stalkers
from the House of the Rising Sun . . . appeased . . .
Overhearing only the first half of the sentence? . . .
But then . . . with the playoffs . . . a bit of calm . . .

Emily Brontë

Screen Dump 242

Your texts drip drama . . . with intermissions . . .
intrusions . . .
impersonal enunciations . . .
free popcorn . . .
Trailing around with pockets turned out . . . submarining . . .
Can we label this happenstance? . . .
We interrupt this program for debugging, yes? . . .
The corrections elbowing their way into the everyday . . .
bathed in florescence . . . in phosphorescence . . .
in nonchalance . . . as if it were . . .
Inasmuch as it is, yes? . . .
The excitement of the express line . . . orgasmic . . .
Carpooling on a cloudy day . . . in the passing lane . . .
Passing cars on the bridge . . .
The stalled cars from your past . . .
In the back seat of the stalled cars from your past . . .
I'm trying to counterbalance things here . . .
The interference though is getting the upper hand . . .
Why bother? . . . you have to ask? . . .
You have to ask? . . .
Why excuse yourself, then, . . . when so much is at stake? . . .
Witches burned at the stake! . . .
as if we were someone else . . . penning anecdotes . . .

David Leslie Anthony

Screen Dump 241

You make a funny face . . . and know you are kidding . . .
slipping it past the others
as the car warms for the trip . . . over the bridge
and into the City . . .
with Gram taking pictures of you costumed
like everyone else
cut to hook the imagination and jumpstart the excursion
into the clubs of the good . . . the bad . . . and the ugly . . .
It's not just a game, yes? . . .
It's a passage . . . a maze of hooplas . . .
I am like them . . .
nurturing the stages of development . . . as experimenter . . .
double-blinding players . . .
hairy . . . horn-a-plentied . . .
with lips and tongue . . . fake phone numbers . . .
and more . . .
from an irretrievable uneditable unconscious . . .

Screen Dump 240

Your inner Groucho tickled, you begin unpacking your ditties
for another weekend of he said she said . . .
cataloging the emptiness of mismatched furniture
and late-night detective shows . . .
You could have told me . . . about the insignificance
begging to be jotted down . . .
I am ready for the interview . . .
Stung into disbelief . . . you choose not to follow along . . .
Good for you! . . .
Forget the trenches . . . you were not meant for trenches . . .
A certain foolishness enters the room . . .
You can't help yourself . . . as you study yourself in the mirror . . .
But I know the ending . . .
Really? You know the ending? . . . to what? . . .
All endings are pretty much the same, yes? . . .
I want to float unfettered in a hot-air balloon
high above the cities . . . and towns . . . and canals . . .
of your imagination . . .
I know where I have been . . . I know that much . . .
I have always aimed to please . . . myself, of course . . .
Et vous? . . .

Jennifer Balkan

Screen Dump 239

We are all tunnelers . . . inhabiting grocery lists . . .
flirting with former selves . . .
dispatched by voiceovers . . . into the wind and rain and darkness . . .
Is living in the moment an option . . .
or has it too been grayed-out by instrumentalists
who hold the key . . . and the score . . . to the latest overture? . . .
Recapping what led up to wherever we are . . .
poses difficulties . . . though not insurmountable . . .
It's nothing more than what we're good at . . .
Making do with the lakeside cabin of our dreams
while clinging to the hope of finding the final piece to the puzzle
that peers from the loneliness of our back room closet
where the spirits of players await the opening of the endgame . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 238

This is not a room for making spaghetti . . .
There are yurts for that sort of thing . . .
All buttoned up against the cold . . . with leggings even . . .
transferring balances . . . just because . . .
orchestrating the place settings for a birthday bash . . .
Little matter . . . the conspiratorial deadline
with players arranging themselves . . . for photo-shoots . . .
will remain chemically imbalanced . . .
You were meant to follow along? . . .
I don't think so . . .
Since when did you trouble yourself with nuances . . .
or with the tracks of Sunday schoolers? . . .
This could be a stopgap . . . a hack . . . a time for reflection . . .
living in a new warp . . . with all that time to prep . . .
and tweak your M O . . .
A tad rusty . . . but who's counting? . . .
You recall your 20s . . . with the devil-may-care costumes . . .
jotting scripts from late night tête-à-têtes
as you made your way across town in the back seat of a cab . . .

Screen Dump 237

Sentences brimmed with allusion . . . pace the halls . . .
You as subject? . . . object? . . .
I will find meaning between the lines . . .
Auditioning . . . despite the nausea . . .
A curiosity that refuses to be quenched . . . by routine . . .
En pointe . . . the indifference disappears
as you immerse yourself in the choreography . . .
Perhaps the excitement of what's supposed to matter? . . .
of what's supposed to happen? . . .
or what you hope will happen? . . .
Forgetting the roadmap in the cereal box . . .
and the acquaintances with their run-on sentences . . .

Screen Dump 236

The inopportune moment . . . when the pieces threaten
to fall into place . . . and the time machine on the windowsill
begins churning out what seems to be nonsense . . .
But isn't that what it's all about? . . .
Spectrums of memories . . . partners . . . friends . . .
gathering for a barbecue . . . in someone's backyard? . . .
Trips along the yellow brick road . . . to Neverland? . . .
Aloof in Neverland . . . despite resolutions . . . despite dreams . . .
despite the familiar resurfacing . . . again . . . and again . . .
amanuenses taking down your sputterings . . .
This and other talismans scaffolding your delusion . . .

Screen Dump 235

Some part of me has always been drawn to stories of obsession.
          - Elizabeth Ellen

Appropriating words from an old dictaphone . . .
I was asked to write this . . .
You recall the manic chatter . . . and the final moments
tinged with blinking neons
and barges slipping through narrow canals . . .
You become obsessed with dilated pupils . . .
googling the association between dilation and attraction . . .
You begin collecting photographs
of faces with dilated pupils . . .
black and white photographs . . .
Etch-a-sketching the distance between you and them . . .
the image narrating your moods . . .
Off hours, you recall the hours
spent playing Hide-and-Seek . . .
obsessing over whether the eyes
of the seeker were dilated . . .
and whether it was an advantage . . .
in the darkness . . . and after . . .
You remember studying his/her face
the expression . . . and how it changed . . .
with the story . . .
and how you began taking notes to memorialize the moment . . .
the moment that would insinuate itself . . .
again and again . . . into your obsession . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 234

You see yourself on a train . . . pulling out of a station
and worry exposure . . .
your eyes filling with after-images . . . of another life . . .
If only we could apply the filter in real-time . . .
teasing would-be fornicators . . . and followers
with words in the round . . . round words
morphing into quintuplets
who . . . as far as the eye - your eye - can see . . .
will become first-rate watercolorists
flanking the moments when understudies call from below as if you -
only you - can grasp the turpentine in their lines . . .

Screen Dump 233

Accidental or artificial? . . . you're not sure . . .
But the lyrics no longer do . . .
And the sidewalks have changed . . . and the faces on the street . . .
and the enjambments . . .
You deserve a beard today . . .
with roving philosophers . . . David Letterman
and cluster flies . . .
Am not I a fly like thee? . . .
Hmm . . . time to phone a friend, yes? . . .
Attach yourself to the next docent . . .
Don't worry about the moments that seem alien . . .
Everything is not meant to fall into place . . .
despite the signage . . . clammy with fear . . .
Let your fingers do the talking . . .
Forestall the inevitable wrong turn . . . if you can . . .
That's it . . . take the next bus . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 232

Stymied by incipient conversationalists . . .
telemarketers . . . debunked scout leaders . . .
wrong-way-Corrigans
who believe the end justifies something . . .
Amid the glory . . . you do remember, yes? . . .
Curfew was always a boondoggle
for those being groomed . . .
We waited for the reflection in patent leather . . .
anticipating a world . . . out of reach . . .
a world of bells and whistles . . .
Your life as a jpeg is about to begin . . . again
with Apple's release of iOS 9 . . .
Accelerate to Park Place on the board
then jump ship and swim to the white sands
of your fantasies . . .
You remember clubbing . . . and the displaced . . .
their winsome troubling hands . . .
their grand slams . . . their false starts . . .
their disheartening journeys in staircases . . .
Are you taking notes? . . .
There's an email in your inbox with store credit . . .
and your next assignment . . .
Trot out the Seven Levels . . . go with Door #2 . . .
There will be a place for you . . . for us . . .
a place hidden from the commonplace . . .
with reboots . . . downloads . . . and much ado . . .

Louise Ebel

Screen Dump 231

The unreasonable shoes of infidelity track mud
into your room
where you lie as if dissected
tossing words to the wind
vetting your casual partners . . .
Apparently you've forgotten that walls have ears . . .
Again . . . yes, begin again . . .
Remove your wrap . . .
Label your inked body parts . . .
You will find yourself in Chapter 3 of a novella
with characters muting themselves
to impress you . . .
A UPS truck will try to insinuate itself . . .
Frozen moments . . . but not without excitement . . .
The image of you jumping rope . . .
The dissonant notes of a life . . .
Did you cross the breezeway as scripted? . . .

Screen Dump 230

The medievalists in the back carrels are tambourining . . .
fast talking in a dead language
about Intensive Outpatient Programs . . . IOP for short . . .
I've had enough for one day with fancy fonts . . .
I'm not about to jump into anything willy-nilly . . .
Slip on your four or five inch heels
and avail yourself of every nook and cranny . . .
Take the alternate route to Grandmother's . . .
Dickinson's Wheels of Birds . . . await your arrival . . .
I've no idea what I'm waiting for . . . no idea whatsoever . . .
This happens to you, as well, yes? . . .
Call me when it's over . . . we'll ask for seconds . . .
That'll throw some for a loop . . .
dislodging the boredom of board games
with a few tidbits from Wittgenstein . . .
or Whitman . . .
A blind alley . . . for sure . . .
where you choke on one after another? . . .
And you thought it was the expected thing to do? . . .

John Galliano

Screen Dump 229

Into the indescribable . . . as if sliding across a mirrored floor . . .
This . . . your focus . . .
No stranger to Yeats's center cannot hold
you embrace misdirection . . . the futility of bemoaning . . .
The loss . . . of what? . . .
In time, notches accrue . . . the word spreads . . .
The football team . . . out of the huddle . . .
appears as yesterday's super heroes with revisions . . .
You terminate the hiatus . . . apply for sainthood . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .
while the springing offspring learn to roll with the punches
auditioning . . . auditioning . . . for bit parts . . . voiceovers . . .

Paolo Roversi

Pocket

          - for Diana, my once and future wife

at night
instead of sleep
I color images
of you . . .
costumed
dancing . . .
my heart
in your pocket

Screen Dump 228

Mimicking Whistler's Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1
you await the voices
which usually arrive at dinnertime
with stories, reflections, digressions . . .
sometimes with histories of common objects
like salt shakers . . . or deodorant sticks . . .
This is not your mother's bailiwick . . .
with its arsenal of words
jaggedly penciled onto drying canvases
going head-to-head with Twombly's crayony pronouncements
from lost worlds . . .
You color in Agnes Martin
with a diagnosis of schizophrenia . . . and shock treatments
sitting - off her rocker - on her rocker
in her adobe studio in Taos
waiting for the voices to quiet
before resuming her brushwork on six-by-six-foot canvases . . .
A hummingbird at the feeder texts you
capturing everything but disclosing nothing
as you exchange protocols
and arrive - with French press - at the solitude of the blank page . . .

Agnes Martin