Screen Dump 336

Apparently, you were comatose all those years . . .
a marionette to nimble fingers . . .
an automaton dispensing emoticons willy-nilly . . .
off-shore laundering muddying the movements
color-coded from your days
in the dorm hustling Monopoly . . .
The hidden room behind the grandfather clock
maps your seductions with wide eye-shadowed eyes . . .
the undertaking inevitable
as you surrender yourself
to the lusts of strangers
initializing tick sheets in the sun room
while picking lint from shirtsleeves . . .
Surprised? . . . And now, ladies and gentlemen . . .
the darkside . . . the underside . . . the blindside . . .
the other side of then . . .
the other side of now . . .
lip-syncing Regina Spektor's Hero:
He never ever saw it coming at all . . .
Wait! Can we stop with this outpouring of theater or theatre
this close encounter of the un-kind
this semiotic overload
this de-con-struc-tion
this rewinding of the tape
this ripping of musical addenda? . . .
You bought into the notion of restorative solitude
a power higher than the unremitting void
environmentally friendlier than dishwashing detergent . . .
You are doing your part . . .
Correction . . . You have done your part . . . And now? . . .

Francesca Woodman

Screen Dump 335

How does it feel . . . with no direction home? . . .
          - Bob Dylan

As if boarding a tram in an end zone of irregular verbs . . .
You . . . clothed in the outlandish . . . just to be oppositional? . . .
How many were there? . . .
No idea . . .

You mistake indelible for inedible
and jump into a brief novel of waiting
your Etch-A-Sketch sapping the body of eroticism
courts and rejects intertextual references . . .

No black and white idiom here . . .
the moments between objects and events . . . invisible . . .
You're invisible now . . .
you've got no secrets to conceal . . .*

Pocketing variations of enigma
flexing with the urgency of an unorthodox kind of desire . . .
you begin negotiating angles . . .
raging against outliers . . .

The ultimatum as pre-emptor . . .
as mystery tramp . . .
Genre-bending as gender ploy
skipping the discomfort . . . just when understudies arrive . . .

This is how it played out . . . in the dream . . .
how it devolved . . .
when all else seemed suburban
and you resurfaced as if at an impasse . . .

*Bob Dylan, Like A Rolling Stone

Francesca Woodman

Screen Dump 334

[audio]

Of course you remember those days, yes? . . .
soundtracked by Jaco's unfettered unfretted bass . . .
Can you spell Word of Mouth? . . .
Looping back to a mind of winter's pink skies
and the remnants of past players
infiltrating your portal
when 1 + 1 was an imaginary number
that laddered its way to the top of your Wish List
where Utopians sported recoilless Doc Martens
in colors to tweet home about . . .
There was no need . . .
no worms drilling into your OS . . .
Your play station was your life . . .
You were warned . . . acoustically . . .
Dylan's gray-sleeved The Times They Are A-Changin' . . .
as you made your way to the corner mini-mart
for Ed's toast (taste?) of the town . . .
circumnavigating the razor-fenced delusions
that profited everyone . . . and no one . . .
while vacuum tubes leaked
the words of poets who had signed off
on beta versions . . . bringing home the bacon
that would one-way-ticket them to an MRI
just when their buckshot ducks were all lined up
and the ovens were ready for the next mitochondrion . . .
Uber Drivers of the World deserve a break today . . .
A Room of One's Own . . .
Do you have an ARoOO? . . .
Of course you do! . . .
There's no telling . . . Yes, please go on . . .
rejuvenated . . . and rejuvenated . . . and rejuvenated
Come . . . You Master(bator)s of War . . .
stepping in and out of a series of dreams . . .
autopiloting plants from bulbs
commonplace bargaining chips YouTubing
your audition for a seat in the orchestra pit . . .
the pendulum swinging
back and forth . . . back and forth . . .
to Vincent's head on the body of a fly
in the flick's parting shot . . .
You was dumbstruck by the Creature from the Black Lagoon
and the mysteries of Julie Adam's white one-piece
that filled the screen
and your head
especially the scenes in the cave
on some backlot no doubt
which led to the bowels of the Paris Opera House
where the Phantom keyboarded
phantasmagoric seductions for Christine for over 27 years
besting Cats as the longest-running Broadway show . . .
Those were the days my friend
unfolding one after another
with suits papering the A Train
which morphed into The Polar Express
for most . . . if not all . . .
Little matter though . . . Little matter . . .

Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)

Screen Dump 333

[audio]

This way or no way.
          - David Bowie, Lazarus

Tell-tale hearts tell all on morning talk shows

slotted with errant knights and distressed damsels . . .

wakeup calls . . . ignored . . .

Mavens . . . encrusted with sobriquets

enter roundabouts at speeds

unsafe for Bollywood trailers . . .

and you . . . without reprieve . . .

reminisce through the third chapter and beyond . . .

plotlines folded into money belts . . .

The absurd drama . . . at one remove . . .

anthologized . . .

repeated . . . repealed . . . for the better? . . .

What does this tell you? . . .

about him . . . about her . . . about him and her? . . .

About Eleanor Rigby? . . .

Where do they all come from? . . .

upstaging the Simon and Garfunkels of the millennium . . .

bookended . . . whispering in our ears . . .

anguishing over troubled water . . .

storefronts retrofitted for the now . . .

the without . . . and then some . . .

thinking back wistfully . . .

for however long it takes . . . to count out the coins

and assume the role of lead . . .

The deadline passed . . .

The language poets of Abyssinia . . . silenced . . .

demand a recount . . .

while shooters . . . at 20 paces . . .

with chips in their brains . . . and chips on their shoulders . . .

randomize death . . .

Like Bowie's Lazarus . . . Everybody knows me now . . .

David Bowie, "Lazarus"

Screen Dump 332

With camera obscuras [sic] on the virtual beaches of your odyssey . . .
the white sand studded with the vexing asymmetry
of indulgences flattening your life to a morality tale . . .

in which he/she becomes increasingly enamored of inked torsos . . .
This of course will be addressed in the next chapter . . .
along with the history of illuminosity . . .

Excuse me while I trot off to the deli
for a provolone and tomato on sourdough . . .
Trudging through the snowstorm . . . and all that, yes? . . .

There's something to be said for the interiority
of this short austere work of fiction . . .
It grabs from the get-go . . . with its refusal

to stick to the customary protocol of story-telling . . .
not unlike the days of pushing paint . . . sans serif . . .
Elsewhere sommeliers await the rematch . . .

Interruptions . . . make for interesting bedmates . . .
Why the reluctance to take ownership . . . after all these revisions? . . .
Mayhaps the iffyness of it all? . . .

Girl with a Pearl Earring (2003)

Screen Dump 331

1. Action figures . . . with debits and creditors
2. with parlez-vous français
3. with inconsistent bedtime stories
4. of nights in shining amour . . .
5. have returned . . .
6. The day twists and turns and shouts out . . .
7. Checkout lines bottleneck last-minute shoppers . . .
8. BOGO becomes BOGT . . .
9. Your old Harley . . . running on empty over toll roads . . .
10. appears . . . and agrees to ferry you back
11. to the old neighborhood
12. to the desperation
13. of your parents' backyard barbecues . . .
14. with the gambits
15. karaoke machine
16. sleepovers
17. hangovers
18. (un)dress rehearsals . . .
19. Your élan vital is up up and away . . .
20. and on-deck for The Twenty Question Challenge . . .
21. The end run is in the starting blocks . . .
22. The slo-mo is a no-show . . .
23. heavy with odds for the long shot . . .
24. Install the app for It's a Wonderful Life . . .
25. Do it now . . . before it's too late . . .

Screen Dump 330

Blundering into the hemisphere of adjuncts . . .
The holiday pinspotted with strike zone and age spots . . .
Traps baited with unbound collections . . .
The armatures of engagement, yes? . . .

You kick it up a notch for the blue screeners . . .

a bevy of iconoclasts in a black Chevy SUV . . .
ferrying across the Kill Van Kull . . .
using your archives as GPS . . . The kiosks . . . in overtime
running lines . . . forgetting . . . most . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 329

A photograph with no "punctum" to draw you in and disturb you.
          - Roland Barthes

You know as well as I that the costume
trumps the standoffishness . . .
this mirror-image of the transformation . . .
a surprise . . . to many . . .
a panoply of seductiveness, if you will . . .
seduction as entrée . . .
as when Proust dips his madeleine in tea
and is transported to metaphysical reverie . . .
Who is bluffing whom? . . .
Enigmatic . . . without whom . . . yes, go on . . .
I have bicycled six crooked highways . . .
To possess in its entirety
as when asleep one possesses oneself . . .
Is that Proust again? . . .
No idea . . .
A play in three . . . no four . . . acts . . .
Reassembled for extra credit . . .
The creditors askance . . . a well of silence . . .
You enter the scene . . . somnambulistically . . .
Your cropped top . . . directing traffic . . .
The extras? . . .
Conquest or discovery? . . .
Stretching out . . . in control . . .
This will be reshaped . . .
as in I will reshape the scene . . .
Isn't it obvious that it has to be redone . . .
Put your dinner with André on hold . . .
You'll be able to assume charge . . .
able to resume . . .
able to subsume . . . if need be . . .
She was so wasted, she knocked over the dip . . .
When questioned about it . . . she lied . . .
Already indifferent . . .
as change . . .
as redundant . . .
as necessary . . .

Krzysztof Warlikowski's New Proust?

Screen Dump 328

Now that you've circumvented that . . .
I just thought . . .
What with all the brouhaha . . . about whatever . . .
Time to videotape the scene . . .
Resplendent, yes? . . .
But what about the gaps . . . in the dialogue? . . .
The silence would be an action, yes? . . .
Into Great Silence . . .
Like smoking weed . . .
The form-fitting costume . . . as requested . . .
Parlaying the emptiness
as if it were the correct pronunciation
which . . . as I'm sure you know . . . it is not . . .
In cursive . . . if that's what you want . . .
Stop the car! . . .
Pull in behind that minivan
brimming with yapping animals . . .
This was written into the scene . . .
Not sure by whom . . .
But he/she said to follow the dotted line
in the dialogue . . .
Go with it . . . improvise . . .
We could try The Red Hen . . .
Yes, let's try The Red Hen . . .
In the dream, I was burglarized
and he was dead . . .
Kind of unusual . . . even for him/her . . .
Ya think? . . .
Anyway, they continued marking up the menu
with changes to the dialogue . . .
Pretty good, actually . . .
But then Door #2 swung open . . .
The revisions tumbled out of the back room . . .
Certainly enough time to grab a motel room . . .
Well of course you can . . .
Why are you lying on the floor? . . .
He/she meant no harm . . .
What about the bandaids? . . .
And your shoes are scuffed . . .
All that walking . . . seemingly in circles . . .
But now the laundry has been folded
and put away . . .
Time to proceed . . .
I'll take that call . . . and raise you three . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 327

1. Grim figures with notebooks and head colds . . .
2. Isosceles triangles in training . . .
3. Perch on bathroom fixtures and drywall
4. in Home Depot
5. recording life's secular apocalypses
6. for price check . . .
7. You engage them in Q&As
8. about toilet tanks . . . sawhorses . . .
9. crescent wrenches . . .
10. the impending blizzard . . .
11. Clues to materials, colors, dimensions, warranties . . .
12. as the Porcelain Doll in Orange Overalls . . .
13. Thumbing through
14. The Whole Earth Catalog's Tools for Change . . .
15. captivating players . . . and their parts . . .
16. in the tool shed . . .
17. pro forma . . .
18. with your 16 mm take
19. on Marvell's To His Coy Mistress
20. seducing the dumbstruck
21. with multi-layered costumed panegyrics . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 326

1. Indiscriminate evenings . . . leggy with enticement . . .
2. with eyes . . .
3. exchange costumes at the entrance . . .
4. You know the drill . . . however goofy . . .
5. Are you underestimating the instability of the context? . . .
6. the excitement? . . .
7. Come again? . . .
8. Field studies, yes? . . .
9. as if opening a dream . . . to decades-old meanderings . . .
10. drifting . . . out-of-focus . . .
11. The sky . . . too . . . counterpointed . . .
12. with aria . . . faint . . .
13. The weird aftertaste . . . of an unknown
14. hitting you . . . hard . . . on the drive back over the bridge
15. to an all-night diner . . .
16. before tumbling . . . downplayed . . . into morning . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 325

1. You seek the promiscuous feeling of being alive
2. conference-call your mirror
3. and dream alterations in structural modesty . . .
4. In effigy . . . someone reminds you . . .
5. Why tarry? . . .
6. It would behoove you to take it to the next level
7. despite the rumblings from behind Door #3 . . .
8. The other day an open mic in the supermarket . . .
9. Lines run
10. on shoppers with full carts
11. and full bellies . . .
12. No one stepped up to the deli counter
13. to sample the sharp provolone . . . sliced or chunked . . .
14. How long the wait . . . in the green room? . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 324

1. You wake to the urge to BOGO
2. at this most wonderful time of the year . . .
3. despite fading tan lines
4. spotty cell service
5. and road-texters fessing up to the White Rabbit
6. in waiting lines that curl into makeshift parking lots . . .
7. as semiotician-stalkers scramble for seats
8. outside your bedroom window . . .
9. obsessing over the signs and symbols
10. of your designer ultrawear . . .
11. The myth morphs . . .
12. The players exchange roles as directed . . .
13. Many are missed . . .
14. A few quibble . . .
15. Rewrites are rewritten . . .
16. An aura of retrofication ensues . . .
17. The scene . . . infinitely looped . . .
18. opens . . . and closes . . .
19. opens . . . and closes . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 323

The ramen restaurant . . . offers personal “flavor-concentration booths,” where patrons . . . can experience “low-interaction dining.”
          - Emma Allen, Eating Ramen By Yourself Is An Antidote To Everything

The isolationist in you polishes silver
in a high-ceilinged cobwebbed room
collecting and comparing handwriting samples
from hedonists . . . and patrons . . .
on the truth of the matter . . .
the Mad Hatter's riddles
etch-a-sketching memories
of your understudy, Miss Havisham . . .
a bowl of ramen noodles
a piece of wedding cake
the clock's hands cradling the past . . .
You are stymied . . . again . . .
despite the entries in your journal
its blank pages evidence
of your odyssey's decay . . .
The wedding album awaits edits . . .
Your conquests pile up in the alcove
where a fruit basket interviews applicants
for the role of supplicant . . .
a minor role, yes, but relevant
to the underpainting
which you insist is essential . . .
You, like many, fear micromanagement . . .
The scene . . . color-coded . . . familiar . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 322

The shoplifted elements of your profile . . .
Smudges on the answering machine . . .
Developmental studies? . . .
Would that you could, yes? . . .
And why not? . . . asks Door #3 . . .
Buckle up your overcoat next time you swim out beyond the breakers . . .
where mermaids are reassigned . . .
as Sirens . . .
gifting tantric truths . . .
The sinisterity . . .
The what? . . .
You know, the sinisterity . . .
Whatever . . .
The sinisterity of fairy tales disrupts your REM sleep . . .
I am famished . . . for nothing . . .
I welcome the accusation of pulchritude . . .
Many dislike the sound of that word . . .
and are surprised by its meaning . . .
I am intrigued by your insistence on wainscoting . . .
There are many more steps than 12 . . .
How so? . . .
Hey diddle diddle . . .
The cat and the fiddle . . .
I await the laughing dogeared edition . . .
and was sold a mock-up . . .
that whispered in my bad ear . . . throughout the night . . .
Lucky me, I thought . . .
but then resisted the urge to tweet . . .
And so they said you saw . . .
But are you vetted? . . .
It takes some undoing to read I Love Dick by Chris Kraus . . .
soon to be HBO'd . . .
Your shyness . . . replaced by boredom . . .
So what's wrong with that? . . .
With what? . . . The Sexual Life of Catherine M.? . . .
which Salon said Holds you tighter than a pair of handcuffs . . .
I was sentenced to be a fly on the wall . . .
I sat back . . . cigarillo in hand . . . or whatever they're called . . .
I examined the cracks and crazes in the enamel . . .
diagrammed the lines . . .
the air filled with scents . . . and nonsense . . .
words . . . cries . . . shouts . . . moans . . .
the unimaginable sounds of silence . . .
bodies electric becoming . . .
entangled . . . engaged . . . enraged . . . engulfed . . . encumbered . . .
Parts replaced yet the whole the same . . .
as with the compulsion to become the other . . .
an unrecognizable dainty tornado . . .
as in Eurydice's F/32 . . .
Will the miniseries continue? . . .
Will you re-up? . . .
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? . . .
Better as Who knows what evil lurks in people's minds, yes? . . .
The Shadow knows! . . .
I weaken . . . fade from view . . .
enter the Straits of Invisibility . . .
insouciant . . . notebooked . . .

Per Zennstrom

Screen Dump 321

How many words in the average novel? . . .

                    You have mythologized your odyssey
                    pinned nametags on onlookers . . .

How many words in the average reader? . . .

                    questioning the reliability of first-person players
                    who keep butting in . . .

How many words in the average person? . . .

                    You have remade yourself . . .

How many words in the average confession? . . .

                    The nightmarish quality of cameos
                    spurs you to rethink your opening line . . .

How many words in the average day? . . .

                    People are just standing around . . .

How many words in the average saint? . . .

                    I can't stand it . . .

How many words in the average lie? . . .

                    How it looks in a two-way mirror . . .

How many words in the average lay? . . .

                    Hallmarkian? . . .

How many words in the average sentence? . . .

                    You refuse to be bottlenecked
                    by those who insist they're in the know . . .

How many words in the average rant?

                    Never before or nevermore . . . both . . . and then . . .

How many words in the average soliloquy? . . .

                    You admit to misinterpretation . . .

How many words in the average breakup? . . .

                    Your watching is fitful . . .

How many words in the average excuse? . . .

                    and your commitment is a joke . . .

How many words in the average life? . . .

                   Misdirection . . .

Tim Walker

Screen Dump 320

Life is not personal.
          - Gilles Deleuze

OK, there's a redundancy . . . like a rabid dog biting itself . . .
This from a dream a while back, yes? . . .
An online virtuoso . . . nerdy affable obsessive
bopping along
leaves town without forwarding . . . without a word
as if the top of the woodshed blew off . . .
You enter the scene . . . soundtracked by an abandoned house . . .
if only . . . if only . . . if only . . .
But is it inconsequential? . . .
Doesn't it make a difference? . . .
Hasn't it made a difference? . . .
Not ready for prime time . . . not ready for the fall . . .
Why bother? . . .
Why bother what? . . .
Why bother attending to the aftermath
when all are present and accounted for? . . .
Why bother appropriating . . . without a voice? . . .
Is that what you're asking? . . .
Hold a mirror up to yourself . . .
Tell me about the disjunctiveness . . . the fragmentation . . .
You can set up shop as a go-between in the in-between . . .

Kathy Acker (1947-1997)

Screen Dump 319

Segue to bottled ephemera . . . clothespinned to your window . . .
with your affinity for cats . . . for dogs . . .
for cats and dogs . . .
It's raining cats and dogs . . .
the spin . . . the spin doctors . . .
the spinning . . .
the opening . . . as gingerly applied . . . then applauded . . .
Can you believe the outcome? . . .
Of course, it goes without saying, he/she reeks
of unfamiliarity . . . with the lives of others . . .
let alone saints . . .
Perhaps a touch of fear . . . or fear and loathing . . .
Exonerated? . . . One would hope not . . .
but who knows . . . given the present climate (change) . . .
with lives to spare . . . especially now . . .
You lack science . . . and a backstage pass . . .
It would behoove us to redo the read-through . . .
or the walk-through . . . whichever . . .
Cache as cache-can, yes? . . . To know
the many faces of you . . . amid the crumpled sheets of copier paper . . .

Screen Dump 318

You've lost me . . . Brutally honest and soft and vulnerable? . . .

Your aim . . . again . . . is off . . .

Gotta get outta Dodge . . .

Thomas Wolfe couldn't stop . . . either . . .

But sir, the redrafting emanates from the core . . .

You're focusing on the core, yes? . . .

Is it Taking Care or Talking Cure? . . .

Little matter . . .

Put your hands together for the midlife crisis guy, Carl Jung . . .

who, in describing himself, according to psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott,
gives us a picture of childhood schizophrenia . . .

I'll give you a moment to collect your unconscious . . .

Got meme? . . .

The fat lady who's supposed to sing has shed a few pounds . . .

Now what? . . .

We await integration of our split personalities . . .

And Sherlock Holmes's Blue Carbuncle . . .

Is the jury still out on the deerstalker? . . .

Coulda . . . Woulda . . . Shoulda . . .

Why do birds suddenly appear? . . .

Anorexia Nervosa was first described in 1684 involving the daughter of a Mr. Duke of London but wasn't given its own diagnosis until 1873 when Sir William Gull, Queen Victoria's personal physician, presented his observations of an emaciated condition in three young women: Miss A, Miss B, and an unnamed third . . .

And now for a recap . . .

The problem here is one of inertia . . .

Not a problem . . . consider the flying buttresses . . . and the general state of affairs . . .

He/she had a keen aversion to monogamy . . .

The facts in the case of the one who would leave in the middle of the night . . .

The bridge tolls alone, yes? . . .

For whom? . . .

For the party of the first part, of course . . . are you paying attention? . . .

Slipping through . . . costumed for the game . . .

Snogging with ice-men/-women until they cometh . . .

Seduction as effortless as breathing . . .

O, surprisingly, was illuminated by it, as though from within, and her bearing bespoke calm, while on her face could be detected the serenity and imperceptible smile that one surmises rather than actually sees in the eyes of hermits . . .

The odyssey continues . . .

Shelley's cats sat there . . . thinking up ways to get even . . .

Your odometer will be subpoenaed . . .

I kid you not . . . it's all about the bike . . .

Screen Dump 317

So, sad fact, but get used to it, because nothing else is going to happen.
          - Anne Carson

How well did you know him/her? . . .
I didn’t know him/her . . .
Why then the need to act? . . .
the need to deliver lines as if on stage? . . .
I am on hold . . . otherwise . . .
The world erased, rebuilt, erased again . . .

Reminds me of Poe's The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar . . .
How so? . . .
A mesmerist puts a man in a suspended hypnotic state
at the moment of death . . .
But aren't we all suspended in the here and now
awaiting deportation to the there and then? . . .

Houdini never got back to Bess, yes? . . .
But what about now? . . .
Now? . . . I'm only a pawn in the game . . .
A stretch limo . . . with credits . . .
The idea of closure as afterthought . . .
as incidental . . . lost amid the fourth wall . . .

I tried to follow the directions
but kept getting derailed by the enjambments . . .
to say nothing of the pages . . . and pages of footnotes . . .
Have no idea why I felt compelled to continue . . .
I guess it has something to do with where I’ve been . . .
A clue perhaps in the first few lines? . . .

You float above an empty amphitheater . . .
slough-off chance encounters . . .
with reenacters . . .
You hope to make a series of short films
inspired by Anne Carson’s comment that
the best one can hope for as a human

is to have a relationship with that emptiness
where God would be if God were available . . .
You return to the original wording . . .
The line-breaks have yellowed . . .
Impossible to draw the curtains . . .
This much you allow . . .

Screen Dump 316

The pattern of liking should have tipped you off . . .
A long bout of solitude
wrestling on what Mallarmé called the bony wing
only to arrive at the Pop-Up Shop of Pure Reason . . .
Irrelevant, your Honor . . .
This is all in writing, yes? . . .
The declensions . . . the alterations . . .
Insidious, but then . . .
demythologizing the odyssey . . .
à la Maggie Nelson in Bluets:
[It] worked well because he is a passive top
and I am an active bottom . . .
You have encumbered your SUV . . . and your script
with encrustations . . .
the elements of which remain just beyond your assignment . . .
yet you continue to entice players
with your absentmindedness
and hoop skirt . . . hoping for a shot at Reality TV . . .

David Benoliel

Screen Dump 315

You're driving the bus . . . and texting . . .
flirting with alternatives . . . in graphology and museology . . .
taking back roads for all they're worth . . .
breadcrumbing a false route for trolls
back to The Holy Roman Empire . . .
Can you handle the asymmetry? . . .
the inconsistencies? . . .
Can you distance yourself from those
quibbling over insignificance? . . .
No need to reload the camera, yes? . . .
You're on record for covers
for begin-agains
for setting up a kiosk in a trailer park
outside of Atlantic City . . .
and you have been written up for quilting your odyssey . . .
complete with blue lights, dampeners, and (un)dressers . . .
Let's reshoot the conflict and resolution scene, OK? . . .
I know you would have expected a humidifier . . .
but that's for later . . . in the series . . .
after the backers bail . . .
Why bother with circumlocution now . . .
when there are oodles of others . . . chomping at the bit? . . .

Kate Barry

Screen Dump 314

Endless arrays of costumes . . . their subtlety . . .
The clock . . . mimicking the art of the play . . .
the art of the players . . .
their parts . . .
chatting some up . . . bells and whistles . . . and all that . . .
Enlightenment on hold, of course! . . . otherwise . . .
Otherwise, what? . . .
Otherwise, . . . stop gaps . . . transpositions . . .
lost in the labyrinthine aisles
of supermarkets . . . and superstores . . .
Throw who a bone? . . .
Oh, really? . . .
Do you think . . .
Start over . . .
OK, how about this . . . Is there no other way? . . .
You could have at least waited for the credits to roll
yet knowing how way leads on to way? . . .
Time can move forward . . . and backward, yes? . . .
Why then waste time . . . in the waiting line? . . .
Subtraction as metaphor . . . as deal breaker . . .
as long lost . . .
Stop sign innuendos . . . fiberglass juxtapositions . . .
And you? . . . shortlisted . . .
here . . . in your bunker . . . a notch or two . . . up or down . . .

Kate Barry

Screen Dump 313

The Fall Before the Winter . . .

Act One, Scene One: The Agoraphobe . . .

A tilt-a-whirl ride in October’s unseasonal heat . . .
with you going on about the difficulty controlling
the unleashed vulnerability . . .
Your weeping willows . . . and pale matadors as such . . .
and your nostalgia . . . surely counterintuitive . . .
but so what? . . .
Hot prospects jam the queue . . .
Icebreakers . . . with pilsner (eye)glasses
as if Wittgenstein's half-smile
or Dylan's Nobel . . .
Hammering it out with Miles's Someday My Prince Will Come . . .
You decide to err on the side of happenstance . . .
lost in the strictures
of adult coloring books . . .
To seek refuge in a momentary lapse . . .
The incredible luminosity of such
with your ducks all lined up, yes? . . .
X marks the spot
where you began one of your maiden voyages . . .
To be continued . . .
But I thought the pervasive Dadaesque spirit of invention
was a matter of course . . .
wigging out over a red herring . . .
Notwithstanding? . . .
The question of balance comes up to the stage . . .
And I suppose you have others to spare? . . .
There’s a bagginess to it all . . .
a looseness . . .
nothing to steer the course . . .
You left in search of common ground
which you know as well as I
will quarrel with the provocative ensemble
inserted as an addendum . . .
You have been selected for tricks . . . and treats . . .
But aren't you already on someone's to-do list? . . .
Read the next paragraph to yourself, please . . .

Bruno Aveillan

Screen Dump 312

But I am done with apple-picking now.
          - Robert Frost, After Apple-Picking

You order a side of slaw from a waitress in a faded yellow uniform

and worry the humdrum of participating in a mass transit Q&A

as if the bottom were about to fall out . . .

Books are remaindered in times like these . . .

A Netflix devotee with a fat queue trots out an old something

you don't quite get . . .

You think leeks . . .

probably because Dr. Oz extolled their benefits yesterday

on several flat screen smart TVs . . .

Just how smart are they? . . . No idea . . .

When will they ever learn? . . . Dunno . . .

Raindrops keep fallin' on your head . . .

The morning meet-and-greet is a rain check . . .

The wet grass . . . and then? . . .

And then the concubine in you appears . . .

against the world of hoary grass

to announce that she too is done with apple-picking now . . .

Future prospects cast a baleful glance . . .

foreshadowed by ossification and entropy . . .

And so it goes . . .

the after-hours dramatization

the playing hooky in the aftermath . . .

Stymied . . . and overwhelmed . . . with delight, I might add . . .

sinking your teeth into a covered dish

as passersby scratch stubble . . .

and dream of becoming swingers of birches . . .

The standing room only room spins . . .

and fills with surrogate ventriloquist dummies

riding bicycles built for two . . .

By then you are three, four, five . . . maybe even six or seven . . .

Screen Dump 311

There was no misnomer . . . in retrospect . . .
No mistranslation . . . misinterpretation . . .
Naughtiness rendered as daguerreotype . . .
rendered kaleidoscopically . . .
Tests of insignificance at the .05 level invade your sleep . . .
raise hell with the books on the shelf . . .
say nothing when the garden is readied for winter . . .
The overcast morning gives way to a detour . . .
gives way to a mind of winter . . .
I marvel at your driving . . .
And you with your vegetable mindset . . .
a vegan's way of looking at a menu . . .
Destry Rides Again . . . Excuse me? . . .
Cyclists spinning . . . around second base . . . grandstanding . . .
practicing voice lessons . . .
vocal folds encircle Gregorian Chants
in the first inning of a triple header
on the Williamsburg Bridge . . .
Sonny Rollins . . . on the Williamsburg Bridge . . .
circa 1962 . . .
Returning to Brooklyn . . . in the back seat . . .
lipstick smudges . . .
lipstick smudged . . .
As if the body were a stop light . . . snagging the unsuspecting . . .
As if rigor mortis were about to set in . . .
And you . . . odyssey'd . . . hanging by the threat of a garter belt . . .
by the threat of a garter snake . . .
and it's summer . . . fall . . . winter . . . spring . . .
and it's Howdy Doody Time . . .
with Clarabell (all three) . . . and Buffalo Bob . . .
and it's your wedding day . . .
rewound to the first time . . .
Stick women . . . in bustiers . . .
Naughtiness . . . under layer upon layer upon layer of tulle . . .
Come right in! . . . only to count out thirty pieces of silver . . .
Just the other day I was reminded
of Penfield's memory experiments . . .
We forget nothing, yes? . . .
Pontificating on Windows 10 Internet speed degradation . . .
But I'm worried about consuming huge system resources . . .
and deconstructed grocery lists . . .
Caution! . . . Wet Paint! . . .
the wrong color . . .
the wrong place . . .
the wrong time . . .
There was no wreckage . . . in retrospect . . . but now look . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 310

But it doesn't have to mean . . .

For example? . . .

Goethe . . . the German Shakespeare . . . the poet of affinity . . .

a lively color but one devoid of gladness . . .

And so? . . .

Your weeping ages you . . .

I can see it in the smoke and mirrors . . .

and in the black canvas of your next project . . .

The prestidigitator's attempt to forestall the inevitable . . .

irrespective of the curfew dictated by the peanut gallery . . .

Why your favorite book? . . .

Your favorite author? . . .

Why now? . . .

This morning's talk through the woods . . .

past the kitties' burial site . . .

how your favorite colors relate to your favorite films . . .

Anything there? . . .

You tell me . . .

I mean . . . but it doesn't have to mean, yes? . . .

The fingerpainted reinterpretations of your odyssey . . .

The players . . . and their parts? . . .

Your intrusive necessary whistling . . .

I know as well as I can . . .

Intrusions are just what the doctor ordered . . . sometimes . . .

A side order of fried green tomatoes would do well about now . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 309

The matter-of-fact streets of your makeshift childhood crowd with regrets over the empty candy bins in May's News, the corner store stuffed with cigars, cigarettes, comics, skin mags, soda, ice cream . . . where daily you were dispatched for a double chocolate . . . and the number . . . Done . . . and done again . . . And why not, yes? . . . It's all there . . . in the pianistic improvisations of Frederick Nietzsche . . . who . . . like all of us . . . dreamed of the paper city of Carpe Diem . . . elbowing his way through a table-read of Bela Tarr's The Turin Horse . . . a revitalization sequel to the twelve steps as leaked to NPR . . . I was asked to remind you that the marquee for the The Last Picture Show awaits your edits . . . And you're filming this for a surrogate? . . .

Screen Dump 308

That it doesn't always work out . . .
this cup-and-saucer world of water-resistant fonts
where Harry meets Maggie
and your search for totemic images
inflates to Jungian proportions
with parking spaces
brimmed with backstory metaphors
and exotic asides -
the nuts-and-bolts of Dunkin' Donuts . . .
the spiraling down
with heel lifts calling the shots
eight ball in your hip pocket . . .
You await word from persons of interest
displaced to the farther reaches . . .
The fits and starts of unknowns . . .
The morning after the day before . . .
You continue to imagine
the beginning middle and end
of most excuses . . .
the popcorn days of your apprenticeship
tapdancing the good life
with deposits from sticky bottles
recycled from the Tour . . .
and the sparring over putting pen to paper
with eyes on the exit
transforming lockups into the lockdowns
of summer's documentation . . .
the trash Instagrammed . . . and posted . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 307

Foodshopping for answers to the 20 questions
double-parked in your brain . . .
you exhume a meta-metaphor for use in this poem
bridging then and now . . . and then again . . .
Players from your odyssey costumed as extras . . .
reappear . . . and begin texting . . .
vying for a seat on the Argo . . .
But why here? . . . Why now? . . .
Back to the woodshed . . .
back to rehearsing the audible improbability
of life's irrepressible ups and downs . . .
Irrepressible? . . .
Alas, poor Yorick! . . .
You too knew him? . . .
Shakespeare's 400th? . . .
On the white beaches of P-town? . . .
Bicycles like puppy dogs lined up on the fences? . . .
Yes, of course! . . .
the betting windows at Saratoga
the ponies of August
the ghosts at Yaddo . . .
and the times when your thoughts were blanketed
by unknowns shadowing you . . . and your other . . .

The Bicycles of Provincetown

Screen Dump 306

You crack open a Bud Lite and make yet another
act of contrition . . . arm wrestling with Mallarmé's
creature of ancient and evil plumage . . .
the memory studded with the illogic of machines . . .
the stage sprayed with artificial mist . . .
The day swells with a sudden summer shower . . .
You are dumped into a grammatical cul-de-sac . . .
Snappy tourists and tourist-wannabes
dream of accompanying happenstance on a drive
along a winding coastal road . . .
highlighting your online CV with images
of past players pumping doldrums
in the mirror of an empty free-weight room
in one of the many cities you've never lived in . . .
You make a mental note to re-up your membership . . .
On second thought, you contact customer service
and ask about their return policy . . .

www.thepoetrybrothel.com

Screen Dump 305

. . . some sorry-ass grave digger grown bone-tired of the trade.
          - Maggie Nelson, Bluets

A sense of brutal honesty . . . perhaps not often . . .
or . . . not often enough . . .
Why bother with the examined life on the examination table? . . .
With accretion . . . nothing lost . . . including loss . . .
The images fuzzy . . .
Is retrospection by nature . . . fuzzy? . . .
by nature . . . faulty? . . .
As when you look back and get drenched in blue . . .
A sweet sensation? . . .
And you insisting you always drove the bus . . .
Doubtful . . . she replied . . . mid-costume change . . .
as if . . . in the middle of lovemaking . . .
someone walks in . . .
I know my lines so please stop with the prompts . . .
Rallying around . . . and what not . . .
The loneliness of long distance silence . . .
Not a chance, my love, you have parlayed that conceit . . .
Trawling for eyes . . . mouths . . .
Awaiting the shuttle back to Neveragainland! . . .
Floated by some . . . There must be a reason for this . . .
Sucker-punched . . . and then . . .
conceding that it may help some . . .
those holed up in themselves . . . living life . . . off camera . . .

Aron Demetz

It's August, and the Ponies are Running

(reposted from Monday, August 1, 2011)

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my better judgment,
my better half, my worse half, my other half;
they're running away with my vacation, my vocation;
with my kids' education, my salutation, my edification;

they're running away with the plump-lipped waitress
in her too-tight uniform, in her too-short uniform,
in her tu-tu uniform;
they're running away with the short-order cook,
the dishwasher, the window washer, the windshield washer,
the loud customers, the cleavagers, the spin doctors.

It's August, and the ponies are running away
with my expectations, my aspirations, my inclinations;
with my best intentions, my worst nightmares;
with the free tees and handicappers,
with the gamblers, the scramblers, the midnight ramblers;

they're running away with the long shots,
the long run, the long ball, the long haul, the big fall;
with the potheads, the potholes,
the hotties with their rubberneckers,
the one-armed bandits and double-deckers,
the card sharks, the loan sharks, the great white sharks;
with the stacked decks and pole vaulters,
the pole sitters and baby sitters;

The ponies are running away with the weary travelers,
the thirst quenchers, the road crew bosses
and time-and-a-halfers;
with the running-on-empties, and pies-in-the-sky,
with the local history buffs and their jaundiced eye;

they're running away with the landscape,
the cityscape, the seascape, the escapees, the APBs;
the trees lining the tertiaries, the estuaries,
the innocent bystanders, the indigents,
the passersby, the groupies, the roadies, the loners;
with the home-schooled and home-brewed;
they're running away with the motley-crewed.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with the one-tricks, the two cents,
the three blind mice, the four horsemen;
with the squanderers, the wanderers
the hangers-on, the barflies, the right wingers,
the left wingers, the middle-of-the-roaders, the Debra Wingers;
with the know-it-alls and straight shooters,
the forked tonguers, the mixers and remixers, the mixmasters.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my severance pay, my brand new day,
my May day, my getaway, my AOK, my here-to-stay,
my hip hip hooray, my final say.

IT'S AUGUST, AND THE PONIES ARE RUNNING!

Screen Dump 304

The choreography of the day carries you into the second act
where backstage lighting
showcases the incidental props of dreams . . .
soundtracked by furniture music . . .
Why incidental? . . .
With time, the stuff of days folds into itself
leaving you naked in a one-way mirror . . .
on a one-way street . . .
The Street of Crocodiles . . .
hidden behind a bookcase
in a one-night stand's double-wide . . .
Entrapment follows the magician's wand . . .
awaiting orphans
who continue to grapple with self-checkout machines in Walmart . . .
carts brimmed with hand-me-downs . . .
The flavors pale . . .
You skip the rest of the chapter . . .
grasping at straws
as if the opening of the exhibit
exchanged vows with non-presidential candidates
in this Olympic Year . . .

Screen Dump 303

No whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory / of whiteness.
          - William Carlos Williams, The Descent

You try to retrieve a dissonant melody
but the street lights
bobbing in the turbulent wake
fade to shadows . . .
afterimages displacing the memory of your odyssey
and its players . . .
You enter the fray . . . with delicacies
and become a vessel for happenstance . . .
This of course is as it was . . .
Time sprouts ears . . .
The abundant pronouns of your close encounters
upend the entanglements . . .
your free throws . . . Made-for-TV-Moments . . .
fill several subfolders . . .
as the magician's hand plummets into a bell jar . . .

Paulina Otylie Surys

Searching for Bobby Fischer: A Prose Poem in 13 Days

(reposted from Wednesday, May 11, 2011)

Day 1

My friend's cat, Bobby Fischer, is missing.
He took off without leaving a note
without taking his food dish.
We're worried about the food dish.
It sits in the corner all day
twiddling its thumbs
thinking about Bobby Fischer.

Day 2

My friend and I hail a cab.
The cabbie misunderstands us.
He takes us to a Rotary meeting.
The final vote is being tallied
on whether or not to airlift a causeway.
The causeway is cause for concern.
Some Rotarians feel it's water under the bridge.
One Rotarian recalls seeing Bobby Fischer
walking along the causeway
earlier in the week
seemingly preoccupied.

Day 3

The man at Kinko's has crooked teeth.
My guess is he knows something about Bobby Fischer.
He scans a recent photo of Bobby Fischer.
We attach it to a sheet of white paper.
We consider captioning it Desperately Seeking Bobby Fischer
but settle instead on Searching for Bobby Fischer.
The man with crooked teeth says he likes it.
He makes 110 copies but only charges us for 100.
He says he knows how we feel.
I don't trust him.

Day 4

We divide up the posters and plaster the neighborhood.
Several passersby comment on Bobby Fischer's good looks.
A few pocket posters as souvenirs.
One old man draws a mustache on Bobby Fischer.
We call the police.

Day 5

The message on my friend's answering machine is garbled.
Something about a round robin.

Day 6

Bobby Fischer has done this before
only to return a few days later
reeking of catnip and stale mates.

Day 7

Bobby Fischer calls.
He says he's been thinking about making a move.
He says he has enrolled in a method acting class.
He wants to throw himself wholeheartedly into something.
He wants to bring real life to the boards.
To forget himself.
To give his mind and body to a fictitious character.
My friend and I nod knowingly.
We hand the phone to Bobby Fischer's food dish.

Day 8

We bump into Bobby Fischer's acting coach in the library.
He's taking out a book on gambits.
He tells us that Bobby Fischer will be using
a little known gambit on opening night.
He's rather defensive for a Sicilian.
He gives us two tickets.
I don't trust him.

Day 9

Opening night.
We're packed in like sardines.
Bobby Fischer is loaded with greasepaint.
He plays a bishop who's sacrificed.
The klieg lights make him blink.

Day 10

The play receives rave reviews in the Post.

Day 11

Bobby Fischer calls.
He wants us to pick up extra copies of the Post.
He says the play is being made into a television miniseries
which will air during ratings week.
He says he has to go.
Oprah's limo is waiting.

Day 12

Bobby Fischer calls.
His voice is shaking.
He says the television producer, Boris Spassky,
decided to cut his part
in view of the current crisis in the Catholic Church.
He says Boris Spassky told him the Church
has enough problems right now.

Day 13

The doorbell rings.
It's Bobby Fischer.
He's back.
He smells of catnip.
His fur is matted with dried greasepaint.
His backpack is stuffed with dog-eared copies of the Post.
His food dish brims.

Screen Dump 302

If they can do it, I can do it.
          - Anon

It's all about leveling the playing field, yes? . . .
sidebars . . .
late-night Ubers . . .
categorizing narratives by color . . .
insinuating yourself into the after-hours . . .
asking recording engineers . . . session musicians . . .
character actors . . .
about the nuances . . . and blueness
of your voice . . .
Finding that most people's favorite painting
is a blue landscape . . .
with Miles . . . in an atelier . . . noodling . . .
Kind of Blue . . . a mantra . . .
while others step up to the plate . . .
order takeout . . .
a crapshoot . . . nonetheless . . .
You were abandoned . . . more than once . . .
testing your belief in . . . what? . . . magic? . . .
But aren't we all at times duped
by an illusion of our own making . . .
tweaking the script to straddle happenstance
in positions construed as ballet . . .
even on those days that seem to unfold as planned? . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 301

And so I fell in love with a color . . .
          - Maggie Nelson, Bluets

Your costume as rhetorical fiction . . . as illicit . . .
as maddeningly blue . . .
where in earlier chapters, you fell in love with retraction . . .
taking back what you offered . . . teasing . . .
as you considered the fast lane in a trailer park . . .
with rules for engagement for understudies
afflicted with acyanoblepsia . . .
the inability to see blue . . . You know this . . .
and have managed to derail your obsession . . .
Your next move . . . as witness to the beginning . . .
the middle . . . the pleasure principle . . .
first slow . . . then . . . faster . . .
with eyes and mouth half open . . .
in front of a mirror . . . as penetration of privacy, yes? . . .
This morning at the breakfast table . . .
your blue eyes mapped your next strategem . . .
imagining blue skies . . . and blue waters . . .
a blue room . . . in a blue hotel . . . as if like Stein
you believe every bit of blue is precocious . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 300

Is perspective a hedge against the mutually observed? . . .
The omniscient third partiers
with their notebooks and keys
and smartphones
act out scripts
bridging fact and selfie . . .
Improvisations of the odyssey, yes? . . .
In the red . . . always in the red . . .
clutching write-ups . . .
hamstrung by the limitations therein . . .
Stocking shelves at 3 AM
you pick through trash for archived posts . . .
mounting pieces by amanuenses
for gallerists who begin their day
with texts and double espressos . . .
The eyes in your bedroom mirror
are the eyes in the photos that once populated its edge
leaving sentences for lifers . . .
documenting the odyssey as it unfolded in real-time . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 299

Does any of this ring a bell? . . .
Does it matter? . . .
Is it the illusion of re-entering a scene . . .
or paging through a program
to fetch the name of the pleasure principle . . .
or principal? . . .
long-listed . . .
somehow personal . . .
smiling an insomniac's dream . . .
a moving violation of neck bites
and other seductive mishaps . . .
Your unwritten poem is blabbing away . . .
over there in the corner . . .
saying yes to Noh . . .
checking into Door #2 . . . with #37.5 . . .
You were ticketed for tailgating . . .
and pled not guilty . . .
to entering a club . . . on stilts . . .
dispatching patrons clucking and hand-wringing . . .
The shortest route to then
eyeshadows an archived player
trying to make it into the finals . . .
It's all in there . . .
In where? . . .
In the script of video regrets
from casual partners
on rainy days and Mondays
and from onlookers earmarked to cameo
in the penultimate edition
of your back story . . .
catapulting across dust motes
with therapeutic touchups and oral delivery . . .
demonstrating the divine
in sex toys . . .
poems that rhyme . . .
retired librarians . . .
after-hour tongue-lashings . . .

Ahmet Polat

Appropriating Myself

(reposted from Thursday, June 16, 2011)

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself.
          - Buck Mulligan quoting Whitman in Ulysses by James Joyce

The dogs are in the trees again. And they're barking. I am escaped from the pages of Dickens, my words nestled all snug in their beds. A black and white segues from my past. A symbolist jumps in insisting on the last word. He is dressed down. Woe to those befuddled crossword puzzlers or those courting constellations on rooftops with the satisfaction of a meandering brook. This dealership is known for its BLTs. My place in the sun layered in dust is appropriated by a Jay Gatsby lookalike living on the edge with a certain je ne sais quoi despite the bulging lines at soup kitchens. Footsteps echo off buildings scheduled to be razed before change punctuates the thought-balloon - ghosts on the spur of the moment waiting for the lost to stumble, entering their shadows, cartographers linked in time. The baguette did come in handy as you said it would. But how did you know? Without blackbirds in the trees I wouldn't have the mind of summer. Why don't we rent a little bungalow on the water this summer where each midday we can crayon in our missing persons? 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. The menus here are blank, the newspapers' words missing but with a trace of a message that tricks us into thinking it can be pieced together and understood. Your free run wooden horse has run away. It was her heels - neon yellow spikes clickety-clacking though the intersection, charging gawkers a fee for a free ride - a free ride that would take them to the palisades of their dreams, leaving them winded with enough pocket change for the meter maid. Many are puzzled and await word from above. It will come. I want to be transported to an earlier time filled with jawbreakers stamped with phrases of affection. I suppose I too want it all. You called in for takeout. We selected items from two columns. That’s when I decided it was time to refill the rapidograph with red ink and begin a series of one-liners in red - the red saturating the eye with disbelief. You audition for the part of Iago, thinking this would be a great way to spend the summer - a summer of unrequited doubles. It was a throwaway, I had to admit, that unsettling feeling you get as the bath water departs, counterclockwise, leaving you, toweled, thinking about the final scene in that film whose title is slipping away. The name Wichita could happen to any of us. Now what? Now what do we do? . . .

Screen Dump 298

The double bassist on my to-do list speaks Jelly Roll . . .
Excuse me, but what color is your window? . . .
Off-duty plagiarists in deerstalkers
litter the putting green of my REM sleep
with run-on sentences
with incomplete sentences
with life sentences
with blah blah blah sentences . . .
Why lose momentum with archived ne'er-do-wells? . . .
Counting sheep as cheat sheet . . .
Moving your queen into a safe position on the board
will buy you enough time to run to the corner deli
for a provolone on sourdough and green tea . . .
Your full red pierced lips . . . work overtime
on my ink
pushing the envelope
out of my dead letter cubby . . .
Hey, I'm trying to fill my dance card here! . . .
You've managed to retain your enigmatic persuasion . . .
on stage . . . in a sundress . . .
sending the game into extra innings . . .
I don't know how . . . but . . .
like you the boulevard continues to mimic
those in the know of art nouveau . . .
Let's step outside for fascination's sake
and rub shoulders with real-time dance marathoners . . .

Irina Dmitrovskaya