Screen Dump 837

Filling in the blanks . . . especially the urge

to drop your story

doing your Shangri-La with wait staff

unselfconsciously . . . without worry . . .

shredding the shell game . . . under glass

a peacable array of mock-ups

gradually falling in sync . . .

The outermost dunes of imagination

with character studies for those in waiting rooms . . .

You have returned in your favorite backstory

as an elementary guide

through the valley of bass clefs . . .

The moment to moment on the tenth yard line

with eye sockets appended to enjambments

as if ideosyncracies managed to get through secuity

without the usual disconfitures . . .

This is good . . . with you without remorse, yes? . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 836

I suppose that's how it began . . .

odysseyites worrying the crossing

with Facebook friends 

roadmapping next steps to happiness

morning rounds interrupting

the magical mystery tour

promised by the maître d' . . .

But the sign-up sheet? . . .

Forget that, it was a misstep . . .

But you mentioned a vague disquietude,

a vexation totally unexpected? . . .

That too was part of the excitement . . .

Apparently, you didn't get the memo . . .

So many do not want to be bothered

opening Door #3, fearing what,

identity theft? . . .

You mean tweaking? . . .

Not a big deal . . . bringing

something new to the table

should help you navigate the unknown . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 835

Stop making sense.

          - David Bryne, Talking Heads

Is it worth the effort to bring home the bacon

or release the stops and replay the collision

of fancy-pants words for odysseyites-in-training? . . .

Of course, the ramifications, allegations,

the daytrip to the photo-shoot

with clothes-horses astride the aforementioned . . .

An abundance of light . . . or delight, yes? . . .

You were promised a free ride but then what? . . .

The ventriloquist's dummy lost its voice

after speaking in tongues to residents of Utopia . . .

There was no turning back . . . the River Styx

if that's what you're thinking

or are about to think about . . .

Akin to moving into a loft to excavate

grainy black and white footage

from a foot locker earmarked for extraction . . .

before the scene in which briefs are filed

at a unknown law firm is dumped . . .

But that won't explain everything

being light years away from any sense

of street reality . . .

It's simply an idea . . . not unlike any old idea . . .

enamored as you are of the contemporary art scene

brimming with new or outlandish notions

in a culture punishing outsiders . . .

Mattias Bjorklund

Screen Dump 834

A playlist, yes, that’s it, a playlist . . .

rewound between scenes

and in the distance . . .

Can you believe the intermixes

of ensouled sediments à la Annie Ernaux . . .

memories the stuff of experience

confirming life's fragmentation

and the belief that one belongs

in a graphic novel? . . .

Try that on . . .

Oh, OK, to occlude the looming gloam of death

beyond the parameters of age

as if the sound of a train

steaming along the shore

will arrive with installation instructions

for your next next . . .

This is too far-fetched, isn’t it,

too ill-fitting

the range of options a word salad? . . .

You have to admit though a certain exuberance

so exuberant in fact that it applauds missteps

with A+s . . . nonsense, but yes

you can see it as well as I

and I have to admit I'm enjoying the garble . . .

the magic . . .

Annie Ernaux

In Anticipation of Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein

          for Mary Shelley

The powerful engine reanimates the commonplace
and transports you to Doug Adams's Galaxy
where you shop for food and tend the fire.
A little red helps wipe out the nightmare.
You thought solutions would drop from the sky
but instead squirrels on drifts ignite messages
from the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.
You recall taking off in secret,
traveling incognito around the countryside,
not unlike Torquato Tasso,
whose alleged schizophrenia rescued him
from a life without love.
Did Percy too stir with an uneasy, half vital motion
when you were out at all hours
with soft brush, dark crayon, and rice paper?
Were the rubbings a hit in the cabin on Lake Geneva?

Bernie Wrightson

Screen Dump 833

It was like that, yes? . . . like the obtuse angle

in a math problem posting the past

with an escape route to explain why

as if Tears for Fears:

Welcome to your life

There's no turning back . . .

Prisoner in a trap of disbelief

choreographing rewrites that clutter

your mind's forgotten transfer station . . .

Why the passport makes no sense

in this pool of adjectives backstroking

the aseptic elegance of angularities

extends into extra innings

making it almost seem worthy

of the nonsense syllables

transcribed onto a faux scroll . . .

This maelstrom of bittersweet streams

is nothing new . . . nothing you did not master

in the stairwell of the apartment building

where you had set up shop so to speak

for your clients

that has since been razed

to line the pockets of wheeler dealers . . .

Your habitual scribbling about one-trick ponies

with empty sockets

suffers a conclave of nostalgia . . .

troubling knowledge of what will happen . . .

the time opportune for boilerplate logic . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 832

Then, in the middle of it, you made a u-turn

collapsing rehearsals into autofiction . . .

labyrinthine waves promising hypnotic delights

from the seven levels at blowout prices . . .

A panhandling cat mutates

into an apothecary

the afternoon petering out . . .

bills interspersed with postcards

including one from Giza

with pop-up pyramids mimicking Albrecht Dürer’s

Draughtsman drawing a recumbent woman . . .

Women as subjects to be drawn . . .

objectification, yes? . . . 

bending the rules of perspective

leading to anamorphisis . . . mirror anamorphisis . . .

positioning a mirror to transform

a flat distorted image into a three-dimensional picture

that can be viewed from any angle . . .

the alteration an adaptation

this incompatibility unspecified

both amorous and tension-fraught

the nucleus powerplaying the realism . . .

No doubt the power of the costume
the power of indifference

channeling Schopenhauer on his 3 PM constitutional

with his puppy-dog Atma targeting paparazzi . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 831

Misunderstanding all you see . . .

          - The Beatles, Strawberry Fields Forever

Going for broke . . . essential but without

the plunging happenstance . . . colored with outtakes

from The Last Picture Show . . .

Never you mind, honey. Never you mind.

There was a moment but it doesn't matter much to me . . .

That's the Beatles . . . this too

I am he as you are he, as you are me

and we are all together . . .

then retraction or redaction

the little matters that matter little

setting the bar . . . it must be high or low . . .

On cue? . . . You costumed in praise of folly . . .

Begin again? . . . you mean with

all that David Copperfield kind of crap? . . .

So yesterday . . . Anyway, so yesterday,

Don't you think the joker laughs at you? . . .

for going out on a limb

tallying The World to Come

with Abigail and Tallie

battling hardship and isolation 

in mid-19th century Schoharie County, New York

where husbands reportedly poisoned their wives

in record numbers

irrevocably drawn to each other

comforting one another in the afterlife

taking the Queer Lion Award

with Norwegian filmmaker and actress

Mona Fastvoid at the helm . . .

but not Back to the Future

storyboarded soundboarded waterboarded

beyond the yellow brick road

with lists aplenty streaming on Netflix

in the guise of The Stranger . . .

or at least sounding out every other line . . .

Mona Fastvoid

Screen Dump 830

But then the time out with roadies loading inuendos

while you as self-appointed architect

began mapping an esplanade for extra credit and rumor . . .

It seemed lots of fun . . . at least that was the impression

with footsteps sounding as backstories unfolded . . .

Antonio Palmerninio

Do you believe in magic?

Of course you do.

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 829

You used to do this . . . the self you were

used to do this . . . a sort of trickle-down

not unlike what just about everyone's experienced . . .

but now a different game

with lapsed free-throws

reminding you It's not the content, it's the form . . .

OK, you can shapeshift as well as anyone, yes?

but you chose elsewhere

and I'm thinking line judge . . .

Night-sitting and all that . . . radiant night-sitting . . .

the water slow-lapping the shore . . .

fingers walking . . .

Not overrated! . . . despite the catechism's insistence! . . .

Leila Fores

Twenty years teaching psychology condensed . . .

Wolfgang Kohler's ape, Sultan, snaps together two sticks and snags a banana from the ceiling of his cage. The whole in Wolfgang's theory is greater than the sum of its parts. Pavlov's dogs drool to the tintinnabulation of bells, happy they won't be rocketed into space for at least 40 years. Fred Skinner's pigeons play ping pong for food pellets during the day, launder money at night in the school's photography lab. John B. Watson, Behaviorism's father, beds down his lab assistant and is given his walking papers. He stumbles into advertising and rises to VP, writing copy for cigarette ads. One of his grad students, Mary Cover Jones, counterconditions four-year-old Peter's fear of animals using scoops of ice cream. She sells her idea to Ben and Jerry. Sigmund Freud smokes cigars, collects Egyptian artifacts, wears out 306 couches, bifurcates humans into those who wish for a penis and those who fear for their penis. He sees no happy medium. Clifford Beers jumps out of a fourth floor window into a mud puddle, foiling his suicide and priming his pen for a "A Mind That Found Itself," while Gustav Theodor Fechner's opus "The Mental Life of Flowers" withers and dies. Harry Harlow tricks rhesus monkeys into falling in love with stuffed animals. They hide his booze, sending him over the edge of a visual cliff. Alfred Binet puts together a test to measure intelligence. He should have stuck to law. Hermann Rorschach spills a bottle of ink and markets his accident for countless James Joyce wannabes. Karen Horney argues that basic anxiety is the root of mental illness. A stick of dynamite drives a crowbar through Phineas Gage's frontal lobe. He becomes a sideshow sensation, and prefrontal lobotomies become the therapy of choice for society's square pegs. Ugo Cerletti and Lucio Bini compare notes with Mary Shelley, use an electric current to induce epileptic seizures in patients with mental illness, opening the door to electroshock therapy. Erik Erikson studies art, comes to America as an art therapist, and promptly loses his identity. Leta Hollingsworth gifts us giftedness. Jean Piaget and Bärbel Inhelder chart the growth of logical thinking and abstract reasoning. Philippe Pinel unchains the insane in La Salpetriere; they join SAG, and get bit parts in J. L. Moreno's psychodrama, "King of Hearts." R. D. Laing maintains that the world, not people, is mad, drops acid with patients, dies of a heart attack playing tennis in Saint Tropez. Mary Calkins helps us remember memory. Tommy Szasz argues that mental illness is a destructive social construct, a myth and nothing more (or less) than “problems in living.” Carl Jung has a midlife crisis, explores the occult, publishes "The Red Book"; Alfred Adler strives for superiority; Carl Rogers remains nondirective; Abraham Maslow actualizes himself in full view; Tom Harris assures us we're OK; Kubler-Ross stages death snd dying. The sixty-minute hour turns out to be fifty-minutes long.

Screen Dump 828

The religiosity of the morning coffee

spills onto hexagonal bolts in the hardware store

as if the street were cupping

under the weight of cringeworthiness

with you again out there . . . elsewhere . . .

vetting an assemblage of somnambulists

drowning in cartography

while sommelier-wannabes detonate

algorythmically-generated stoppers

slapdash in effect 

inadvertently deployed for schlock value . . .

then the hybridization of clippings

encased in resin

paleontology's breadwinner

form following form following form unmitigated . . .

a rendering . . . without transposition or apologia . . .

Ruven Afanador

I buy lots of books. I begin lots of books. Finish some. Maggie Nelson's Pathemata is one. OK, so it's only 80 pages, but - uh oh, cliché - I couldn't stop! See what you think?

Screen Dump 827

But what if it's all made up? . . .

Yeah, that too, I suppose,

as if the time spent doomscrolling

during a funeral service

for an ex-something or other

is a gambit for a throwback

to your elementary school

where a paperback writer

is hawking Endurance

gazing over Edwina's shoulder

to peek at her page numbers

while Sister Edward

bedridden but not brainridden

insists Growing old is for the birds . . .

your cremains sit on a mantle

in a silver vessel

staring down the vultures filing through . . .

then the moment refills

and the class visits classmate Billy

in his albatross of an iron lung

and later that summer,

handing over a quarter

to a carny in a side show

to walk through a trailer

for a look at a young woman

in her own iron albatross . . .

eyes wide open

upside down in the mirror . . .

the day slamming air brakes

on the momentum of life

in a one-horse before dawn's early light . . .

Gabrielle Rigon

Screen Dump 826

Moment-to-moment wheeler-dealers

intent on closing

argue Two-Factor Authentication . . .

But what's your plan

bulks up innuendo

despite the lowing of livestock

in fields of AI . . .

You had it all . . . well, almost

but at this iteration,

it doesn't matter, yes? . . .

Think volunteer sentences . . .

banal placeholders

for the actual thought

you wanted to express . . .

Disengaging social media

while assessing the pies

of local pizzerias

on crust, sauce, grease, cheese,

and holistic impressions

will buy you more than time

but is it worth

the loud, cavernous, out-of-sync brewpubs

you set foot into? . . .

And don't forget

the self-pitying pessimists

whose cynicism blankets all . . .

Costumed, you choreograph highs and lows,

ins and outs

redefine the niche,

juxtaposing hodgepodge

for transgressors on sabbatical . . .

Mario Stefanelli

Eight years ago today, a little over a week before his death at 90 on September 3, in his home in Hudson, NY, John Ashbery handwrote this poem, his last:

Climate Correction

So what if there was an attempt to widen

the gap. Reel in the scenery.

It’s unlike us to reel in the difference.

We got the room

in other hands, to exit like a merino ghost.

What was I telling you about?

Walks in the reeds. Be

contumely about it.

You need a chaser.

In other words, persist, but rather

a dense shadow fanned out.

Not exactly evil, but you get the point.

Screen Dump 825

Your dreamscape, littered with cots

for pedestrians from the 1870s,

circles ovals to the delight of the nosebleed section . . .

A gargantuan hydrangea

fills your head with words . . .

You board a bespoke shuttle with questions . . .

The morning splits into high and low

for skateboarders of different ilks

cresting airwaves in anticipation . . .

An aria would be nice . . .

Pensioners in rent-stabilized apartments

join newsworthy influencers

to discourage weekend narcissists

from bullying nature with cairns for selfies . . .

Rent-a-dove sees it all . . .

Katerina Plotnikova

Screen Dump 824

Memories trod the corridors of backstories,

a renewed connection to a lifetime of incidentals

demarcated with wax pencils

as the elements of style voice irrecoverable

from Fritz Lang's 1927 Metropolis,

with Brigitte Helm staging a robot's

seductive power foreshadowing the dangers of AI

as a portal into space-time's loosey-goosieness . . .

Shockingly blatant . . . the iffyness

feathering far too many nests

flopping around in culverts

trying to alert gandy dancers

and knock-knock jokers to the reality

of flesh-eating bacteria invading

kettle holes and streaming services

causing massive fragmentation

and higher-than-high rates of confusion and dementia . . .

Pick a flick or enter the water at your own risk

and be sure to arm yourself with a designer duffel bag

though I'm not sure why . . .

John Ashbery, who would have been 98 today, had this to say about understanding poetry: I don’t quite understand about understanding poetry. I experience poems with pleasure: whether I understand them or not I’m not quite sure. I don’t want to read something I already know or which is going to slide down easily: there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

John Ashbery by Allen Ginsberg

Screen Dump 823

Voices bounce off buildings slated to be razed

puncturing thought bubbles

in the latest episode of your theatrics

about the one that got away

pieced together and understood, yes? . . .

The tape rewound back to the backyard

and the stairs leading to the basement

where words accompanied costumes

in arrays that spun into constellations

of engagement . . . We were young . . .

The age-old drama

with you waving your magic wand

because if they can I can, yes? . . .

when all this and more were dished out

on paper plates with plastic utensils

that the resident hoarder insisted on keeping . . .

his life aclutter . . .

You have since applied for a sabbatical

to study abroad the waywardisms

of the porcelain-skinned . . .

a Proustian moment as indifferent as the runoff

riding a scattering of crumpled-up

brown paper bags . . . the instant Doppler

technology out to lunch . . . crossing a creek

on moss-covered stones, slipping into the current

with words resurrecting the events that shaped

the moments reopening the cold case . . .

Tim Walker

Screen Dump 822

You imagine another life of almost transparent blue

filled with small, unexpected hopes

eclipsing your impatience if nothing else . . .

Like the time you negotiated a bouquet of confusion

for the pundits at the gate

entering the scene, spiriting time, reclaiming mobility . . .

your memory expiring upon faux rocks

before moving onto yet another intellectual joust

coarse and aflame . . . impressive in its vacuum . . .

Odysseyites flattened . . . the arm subduing all passion . . .

Not a moment to spare . . . countdown flickering

in the distance . . . the hand paler still . . . until

your naked neck rose against happenstance . . .

Merry Alpern

Screen Dump 821

You had hoped to compile a Table of Contents

but your digressive sidebar blew that out of the water

so you returned to a consolation

of memory jacks . . . everything longer and thicker . . .

less rethinking the vatic moments you played

while streaming your backstory . . .

rewound and precipitous . . .

mornings to afternoons to evenings to nights

into eternity . . .

auditionees waiting with parted lips

as the rain came and went . . .

the night kaleidoscopic . . .

The shell of coziness did not fracture

as partakers looked past their own reflection

in the pool of happenstance

filling with the hopes and dreams that had made the deadline

while you waited in the wings . . . costumed and ready . . .

Merry Alpern

Screen Dump 820

You mean like a tracer round

to illuminate the path of the engagement

with odysseyites doing close reads

and you insisting it's time to pony up

as if the porosity is to be ignored? . . .

But there's no depth

just a going-through-the-motion sort of embellishment

as a feasibility run . . .

Exciting, yes, but retrospectively, I don't know . . .

Then the pushback . . . coded as innuendo . . .

Why are you reviewing your notes? . . .

You've encountered this menagerie before . . .

It's a Pick Up Sticks type of ploy . . .

The question of whether you will take up residence

in long-term memory . . .

in their Notes To Myself whiteboard

that they will return to, again and again,

as they prepare to enter the waiting room . . .

Anna-Liisa Liiver

Screen Dump 819

You're talking to the images of people

in the mirror behind the bar . . .

Are these people you know . . . or knew? . . .

People who play - or played - a role in your delicate life? . . .

The delicate lives in the empty storefronts

in this maelstrom of a mall

known for its catchy soliloquies . . .

Isn't it all about the metaphor of a waiting room? . . .

Still hiding behind your assumptions, yes? . . .

The clock quid pro quos questions . . .

What? . . . You know, the questions . . .

The questions you will have

after you enter the waiting room . . .

Isn't there another way? . . .

What do you mean? . . . like . . . rewinding the tape? . . .

rewriting the script? . . . googling? . . . AI? . . .

Just regurgitate the lines you were given, OK? . . .

All the world’s a stage

by William Shakespeare

                                        All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Will (by AI)

Screen Dump 818

Hide-and-Seek at sunset in the cornfields

of your 20s . . . those almost moments

where everything was so right yet so wrong . . .

Then the particulars of your life

covering Simon & Garfunkel's America . . .

the moon rising over an open field

hitting you in the eye like a big pizza pie

with options grayed-out for odysseyites

crowding into the Scarborough Fair

to snap Mrs. Robinson

who hid it in a hiding place where

no one ever goes after removing it

from the pantry with her cupcakes . . .

Life's geometries, yes? . . .

Does it matter? . . .

Do we have a say in the matter? . . .

I mean maybe at least . . .

But didn't we expect that

with darkness just around the corner

distilling spirits for trainspotters

looking for America . . .

identity thieves sucking-up passcoders

behind the wheel of a retro VW bus

in search of Joltin' Joe's America? . . .

The Graduate (1967)

And here I am, the

center of all beauty!

writing these poems!

Imagine!

          - Frank O'Hara

Screen Dump 817

The flippancy that greased the wheels of memory

laid bare a seductive dissonance . . .

There was no avid about it . . .

The app collapsed unremarkably

followed by a flurry of texts to the otherwise . . .

A cafe racer enjoying a coastal route

dotted with encounters

sprouted words to fill your journal . . .

the inconsistency puzzling, yes? . . .

You could have imposed a pattern

but instead ressurected the elements of then . . .

You left no trail . . .

Applying color takes up space

which is, I suppose, your way of doing things . . .

especially with morning trotting out its daily ritual . . .

There were hordes of others . . .

many in and out of dreamscapes

with all the accoutrements you could have imagined . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Paging Through Jung's Red Book

(reposted from Tuesday, December 27, 2011)

She was young, of course. . . .
          - Siri Hustvedt

You've misplaced your archetype and now
your unconscious is collecting itself and leaving.
You thought you had it all worked out
but every minute brings a change.
Restate your case.
You bought into the line breaks and realized too late
that the enjambments were a joke.
Your trust has made you untrustworthy.
I've heard it from you before:
I had to protect myself.
OK, are you now free to be the self you see
or are you clubbing onlookers
with that old - and very tired - I'm confused.
You're lucky you have time.
Those you've blindsided refuse to pick up.
I can't blame them.
Jung broke with his pal Freud over scrambled eggs
built a scale model of his childhood village
then with gaslamp proceeded to search for his self
carve it out so to speak
renew membership in the Square One Club.
You too can be an event horizon.
You too can block hostile takeovers by those
laying claim to your inner beauty.
It's all here in the pages of Jung's Red Book.

Screen Dump 816

You decide for sanity's sake to climb

into a different dream

your costume feathered

to ensure a lyric feast of words

spinning the mind beyond language . . .

You have come to enjoy

the catapults of edits

lobbed by holdovers

along the borders of the  margin . . .

The seduction of the blank page pins you . . .

The unrecognizable new awes you

the misconnection of dots

miscalling the nothing-really-here . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 815

But it wasn't everything always

the lines more different than alike

appropriated from Greek tragedies

by skeletons awaiting the call . . .

There are others in the wings . . .

There will always be others in the wings

finessing their choreography

with alphabetical certitude . . .

Outswimming your self

with devil-may-care strokes

you push identity-theft

to boggle the minds

of scaredy cats and leaf-rustlers

with grayed-out options . . .

Everything . . . and more . . .

within reach . . . in theory . . .

The slapdown bulks-up beyond the mirror-image . . .

You think it odd? . . .

Life out of balance . . .

The moment to moment is not the same . . .

The words . . . not the same . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 814

You hold the magic to an alternate reality

engaging passersby

with the opening lines to The Odyssey:

Tell me about a complicated man . . .

how he wandered and was lost . . .

And so the drama:

the camera, hand-held, tightens the frame

the fuzziness dissolves

at the edge of a beach softened by watercolor

soundtracked with trance . . .

Do you mean, nothing with nothing? . . .

No, surreptitiously . . . re-entering silence

as an arm enters a sleeve . . . 

Insisting on . . . what? . . . endless endings? . . .

The mute mouth to the deaf ear . . .

the camera panning the crowd . . .

Mayhaps in time

you will chance the lives you've imagined

trying on a different metaphor

to become who you are by not knowing . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 813

Deconstructing scripts in a restorative way

through Four-Star George's

glass, and darkly

the age-long strife I see . . .

proofs unfolding . . .

patterns and colorways of labyrinths

seductive equations

stepwise progressions with benefits . . .

Your grandmother's to-do, I suppose? . . .

A better way to open, maybe? . . .

I am become . . . whatever . . .

The answer? . . . Blowin' in the wind? . . .

Counters zeroed-out

I Am Curious (Yellow) . . . and in walks Myth of Man

an odyssey for your disbelief . . . suspended as it is . . .

Laura Rauch in Myth of Man

Screen Dump 812

No less marginal than a cover

of Strawberry Fields Forever . . .

You with a fortnight

of multiple choice questions

sticker shock

collapsing into pasteboard invitations . . .

the weather again unsure

of what to do . . .

The unsavory coupling, yes, that too,

meeting in dreamscapes . . .

inquisitive . . .

Drumming a little life into the countryside . . . 

Scads of to-dos . . . little matter . . .

There was a moment when you were sure

it would all come together

but it didn't . . . and you were OK with that . . .

comfortable with the unknown

en plain air . . . right down the middle

a come as you are kind of invite

especially now

with endgamers threatening tell-alls . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 811

Afternoons with straw figures

cavorting in delightful emptiness

in a surreal haven

with the unseasonable obtuse . . .

Where does your property begin again? . . .

Where do you begin again? . . .

At the spring? . . .

With the barn and its many matrices? . . .

Inasmuch as differences

clip the wings of understanding for some

you are welcome to settle in . . .

Tea? . . . a book, perhaps? . . .

Feel free to chill

before the requisite summing-up

propels messengers of redaction

back out onto the backroads of many . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 810

You're binging a miniseries about reincarnates

trapped in the blunt pretense of chance

not unlike those you've encountered

on your daily walk along the canal . . .

Connoisseurs of oblivion have at it

in brittle best sellers . . . patched together

with stepwise amplification . . .

The soundtrack to The World To Come, yes? . . .

I know it's on your list . . .

You awoke to a bath in the middle of the night

which put to rest your restless legs

and opened a door to an urge

to sit for a portait by the medievalist

who hawks indulgences in the virtual piazza

two towns over . . .

Antonio Palmerini

Screen Dump 809

The future catwalks an ultramarine puffer jacket . . .

Fast forward to destabilization

adjusting the required rhymes apart from the action . . .

You have immersed yourself in totemism . . .

Copies of postproduction notes

have been distributed to those on the brink . . .

So it's back to the basics, I suppose . . .

In no time, ashes . . . at the wellhead of a dream . . .

You don't want to call, trust me . . .

Confiding to a few intimates

will stem the tide of what, I'm not sure anymore . . .

Once captivating, now drudgery . . .

There are far too many shifts in this faux drama

meandering across the busy boulevard

spotted with coding samples from the latest release . . .

Take the funny and run, yes? . . .

Laura Zalenga

Screen Dump 808

So Double-Double-Toil-and-Stubble

takes the stage to assure the Academy

that he won't be egregious

acknowledging with record-setting windbaggery

that it can all go away . . .

His chewing gum thrown into a bath

of lemon and eucalyptus catalysts

begs a raging crisp outlined situation room . . .

uprooting doomed lovers

slumpingly caressing each scene

at the ruins of Ramesses II . . .

The red carpet frayed . . .

Acceptance speeches vaporized . . .

You too seem unsure of your lines

which regrettably is not all that uncommon

in these days of AI scripting

with writers and editors and influencers

tripping over one another

to comply with those signing their per diems . . .

Ramesses II

Screen Dump 807

You spent the morning scrubbing histories

of suburban notifications which seemed to have popped up

overnight in network logs . . .

AI spillage and then again what was it? . . .

You could have queried the odysseyites

who were eager to feather their maps with minutiae

spellbinding summit seekers . . .

You unfriended a chat by recounting the experience

of closing various gaps awash with celebratory shifts

to the astonishment of those in the antechamber

queuing up for the virtual red carpet . . .

Ellen von Unwerth

Screen Dump 806

Despite the after-hours rehearsals

there was never an overnight

just a quick wherewithal

and you were out . . . and about . . .

The flesh overrated, yes? . . .

And with that a different costume

supporting an expression of calm . . .

Surreal of calm, perhaps? . . .

No hint of disbelief . . . nope . . .

good, I suppose if you're determined

to argue a rewrite . . .

At least that's what was intimated . . .

Ellen von Unwerth

Screen Dump 805

And now they've returned to their respective lives . . .

The dry brush technique may save the canvas

and open a door to a more genial interpretation of events . . .

Over and over again, the enchantment

brought everyone together . . .

You worry the bluntness of your new bob

but those arguments are insinuations

foreshadowing a sequence of ups and downs . . .

And what about the yellow tux? . . .

Such a shame to have jettisoned the BLT . . .

Was it part of your weight-loss mantra? . . .

I think your proportions marvel exactitude

of whatever was implied by that intrusive handle . . .

Forewarned, you stopped just short

of the nomenclature waiting in the siding

for the perplexed locomotive

to accept the consolation prize . . .

Take it, yes, take it . . .

Now you're back in front of the class

with your trigonometric underpinnings

which have a history of wowing counterinsurgents

on leave in the high peaks

managing silence with admirable refrain . . .

Yet another cardboard castle nestled in the wood . . .

Ellen von Unwerth

Screen Dump 804

Excerpting obituaries might yield a clue

to the ornamentation favored by those

who think they're in the know . . .

The dry illumination will not help

despite what you've heard . . .

Sadly, they are no wiser for it . . .

You want to cut short the conversation? . . .

That could compromise the data

you've agreed to share . . . but I suppose

that happens more than we'd like to admit . . .

Falling as it does into the infinitesimal hole

in our consciousness, to plummet headlong

into the twenty-thousand leagues of notes . . .

A Captain Nemo type was found floating along

in an alphabetical undercurrent . . .

This has to be yet another wake-up call . . .

Hannes Caspar

Screen Dump 803

The fray resumes the fray

inundated with submissions for redactions . . .

It reminds you of everything

as if honing in on DNA

will unveil yet another double helix

in your backstory . . . 

At the feeders, black-capped chickadees,

whited-out, remain untroubled . . .

Autodidacts pay homage to autofictions

slanted autofictions

redacted autofictions

dripping in time to the musical notes

of someone else's autofiction . . .

The wizard . . . the wonderful wizard

spurns happenstance with remorse . . .

his almost comic anti-otherness

from the burnished depths

of his life as an accomplice

unfolds with complicity . . .

Missing persons clutter mental walk-ups

trying to insinuate themselves back

into your one wild and precious life

while Them-That-Got agree to convene

a solution . . . but there is no solution . . .

Noa Bachner

So I dumped my screen dumps into ChatGPT & got this reDump:

Worrying the linearity of it all . . .

Yet why embellish, twist the truth? . . .

Alright, so we’re all in on the trickery

of collapsing the distance between screen and self,

where nothing is truly as it seems -

as declared by those observing from the shadows . . .

the frozen breath of autumn clinging to the world . . .

But this puddle of prose still makes its way, yes? . . .

You see it, I see it, we all see it . . .

The fox moves easily through the frost

its coat, sleek and well-suited for winter’s bite . . .

Yet your voice, though layered, is fragile

tending to crack . . . much like Proust

dreaming of madeleine crumbs on the edge of memory . . .

Perhaps a subtlety hidden deep within

the algorithms of the next app update

or perhaps it’s the recurring rhythm of something else -

a subway car grinding through the quiet tunnels

hauling your restless thoughts from stop to stop . . .

Naturally, it’s all about perspective -

the point of view shifting like Joyce’s stream of consciousness

where words drift, ready to withdraw their invitation . . .

Will (by AI)

Screen Dump 802

Troubling yourself over the chronology of events . . .

But why the embellishments? . . .

OK, so the use of fourth-wall-pulverizing techniques

currently in vogue . . . bare bones judged idiomatically,

as announced, by the watchers at the gate . . .

the mortuary silence of winter . . .

But this cesspool of a script squeezed through, yes? . . .

You know it . . . we all know it . . .

Deer don't seem to mind the snow much

since their hair is hollow and a very good insulator . . .

But your words, camouflaged, are spindly . . .

prone to slippage . . . not unlike Mallarmé

holding a cigar in his hand

for Manet's portrait of him . . . 

Doubtless, a subtlety in Microsoft's latest release

with the clickety-clack on the trestle

of the train with its nightmarish boxcars . . .

Of course, the focalization or fragmentation

in Woolf's To the Lighthouse . . . words bobbing along

eager to terminate your membership . . .

Antonio Palmerini

 Screen Dump 532

(reposted from Thursday, November 26, 2020)

In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again

as my life is done in watermelon sugar.

          - Richard Brautigan

The iterations in needle towers lining the streets

trouble redundancy with their button-downess

and lucrative curbs . . . You sought monasticism

and safety and time off . . . eschewing the chatter

of masked players mired in the foibles

of middle and end games . . . escorting regret

at a moment's notice . . . Shocking, yes? . . .

the mess of moves that arrived with the pizza . . .

a meals-on-wheels sort of gig . . .

about to hold forth when your bishop pinned my queen

in watermelon sugar . . . and that was that . . .

We could consult the tale of the tape, I suppose . . .

Queen's Gambit Anya Taylor-Joy

Screen Dump 801

As if traversing Wordle's words

on a walking pad

through a supermarket's aisles of innuendoes

all life long . . . all life long . . .

An ancient pipe organ with meantone tuning

insinuates

all stops pulled

encrypted with comforter

and mug of Kukicha . . .

a passing fancy seeps into the day

drifting into the free-floating white . . .

The fray awaits your arrival . . .

The Late Middle Ages? . . .

The revamp? . . .

Why now? . . .

The shakedown . . . a faded fiction . . . explanatory . . .

The opening scene . . . muted, yes? . . .

The Director's cut . . . a fashionista's foreplay . . .

with outtakes no less

to make do with the trancelike snow . . .

Indeed, the polyphony suits . . .

Kali Malone

Screen Dump 800

The day seethes with algorithms . . .

ifs ands buts

its own talk-talk about all this . . .

the coding reprehensible

the need to fill in the blanks

with how-tos surfacing then receding

pulsating with an indifference

as if grasping at the straws of forgiveness . . .

It's not so much the illusion of indiscretions

colored for the moment

but something else, something ill-conceived . . .

Not the first time, yes? . . .

No, not the first time . . .

Dismayed by the lines

yet afraid of getting caught . . .

Getting caught? . . .

Yes, getting caught in a lie . . .

Not sold on that idea, at least for now . . .

Blaming yourself . . . hating yourself

you begin thinking

there must be a better way

mired as you are in autofiction . . .

Think about the medieval craftsmen

whose meticulousness is evident

even in the most hidden places of church pews . . .

Scarlet Rivera

Screen Dump 799

You doubled in spiked heels with a wooden

Louisville Slugger followed by a double header

for oglers-in-training . . . the gearbox

of your Suzuki mimicking the Uggs

you carried in your backpack

for occasional rock-a-days

shredding dirt bikes under the Passaic Falls

as bewildered as pointers in a perfumery

their words baseball trading cards

holding tickets to a Saturday Creature Double Feature

rarely searching for lost time 

as memorialized by a closeted deadhead

scalping instructions for Around the World with a Yo-yo . . .

The passing of notes in your cube

trialed the lifespan of Bics, scribbling spam

for residents of Williams's Ghost Town

awestruck by the pediatrician's It's all in the ear . . .

You journeyed elsewhere with a Moleskine notebook

capturing comments from the fringe . . .

your never-ending tour rivaling Rimbaud's Illuminations . . .

There were moments when it seemed to all come together

but those were dreamscapes from a Five & Dime

that shipped closeouts to dugouts

when security was busy resetting cameras

while superimposing fairytale footage for power trippers . . .

It turned out to be the luck of the draw . . .

Eva Tokarchuk