Screen Dump 7

Too many (themes?) withheld . . . or forgotten . . .
Like you wanted the password . . .
In good company . . .
Isn't that how it goes? . . .
Withheld before taxes . . .
Walking out because you know the unknown . . .
And the attendant trials and trails . . .
Happy trails to you . . . until we meet again . . .
It makes me want to laugh . . . or cry . . .
Toggling your image . . . in a snowstorm . . .
Toggling your image . . . in a snowglobe . . .
Are you ready for the season opener? . . .
Switchbacks are fun . . . sometimes . . .
Toggling through switchbacks . . .
Especially now with your credentials . . .
The opening scene was obscene . . .
My popcorn popped . . .
It's good to be asked to leave . . .
Dear Diary . . .
The first time I scrolled through the profiles . . . I skipped yours . . .
Despite its seductiveness . . . its general good nature . . .
Seems as if we could revisit it . . .
Re-shoot it . . .
Would that sit well with you? . . .
Would it make a difference? . . .

Sarolta Ban

Screen Dump 6

Something about the accumulation of exchanges . . .
The stifling  accumulation of exchanges . . .
Trying to rekindle exchanges . . . but why? . . .
Trigger points for happy sad good bad love hate . . .
I follow the dotted lines . . . get quizzical looks . . .
I've gotten them before . . .
Boxfuls . . .
No rhyme or reason? . . .
No expectations? . . .
Yeah, right! . . .
Look where we are now, Ms. No Expectations! . . .
Anything you say . . . can and will be used against you . . .
Retractions make for exciting bedfellows . . .
Ya think? . . .
Read through the entire script . . . then decide . . .
We both know snow is on the way . . .

Deborah Turbeville

Screen Dump 5

Parrots parrot my thoughts . . . ruffle their feathers . . .
Ask if I've paid my dues . . .
I knew I should have passed . . .
I need to cut back . . .
Is there a better word for indifference? . . .
It just seems to go on and on . . .
Well, at least there's time left on the meter . . .
Freud's Pleasure Principle is anything but . . .
Over the top? . . .
I try to immerse myself in chores . . .
To your gloved hand . . . fondly . . .
Is counter-transference an option? . . .
OK, so I wanted to read about your cutting-edge indiscretions . . .
Do you have a problem with that? . . .
Why should he/she have all the fun? . . .

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Man-Hole-Girl-Man-Hole

I brought my ghost to your man-hole. You were costumed, and being ogled by an ejaculator, who lost it when you measured him with your tongue. You took him home with Japanese on your motorcycle. He loved the miso, and licked your crayons into dawn. You asked him to jumpstart your new job. He opened wide, rang your bell, turned on the Super 8. The stream buffered. Your legs grew. The ogler and I stared as your therapist's transference lucked into your green mannequins.

Screen Dump 4

The closed-circuit TVs of the 50's spoke nonsense . . .
There were handprints on the windows . . .
And names missing from the guest list . . .
Moments were filled with traffic lights . . . and three-ring binders . . .
And The Late Show . . .
You left with a ne'er-do-well . . .
Whose hands reminded you of your father's . . .
And drew upon your inner beauty to wade through loneliness . . .
Of course you remember the maitre d' . . .
The entourage of hangers-on . . .
Everything was written down . . . everything . . .
You tried to re-shoot the scene . . .
But they mumbled their lines . . .
And couldn't be heard above the clues to today's Minute Mystery . . .

Screen Dump 3

Winked into dissolution . . .
As if it would all come together . . .
As if it held the key . . .
As if it could dance with a throat-singer . . .
But it didn't . . .
So I reread the end of The Hours  from Yes, Clarissa thinks, it's time . . .
And re-played Liberal Arts . . .
And used artisanal  in a sentence . . .
Conning myself into thinking I have more important things to do . . .
Does hunkering-down really work? . . .
Especially now with its hint of snow? . . .
Someone asked Why so serious? . . .
I wikipedia'd . . . and thought twice . . .
And tap-danced . . .
Then resumed . . .
Why play dumb? . . .
Is this a risky read . . . a PG-13? . . .
Brouhahas are like that . . .
Insinuating themselves into the lives of others . . .
Insinuating themselves into your life . . .
When you least expect it . . . or need it . . .
Despite the admonitions penciled in the margin . . .
Despite the warnings on the label . . .
Do not try this at home . . .
We've all  tried it at home . . .
How else are we able to put our foot in our mouth? . . .
One foot in front of the other . . .
Shuffling the minuscule deck as if with gloved hands . . .

Irma Haselberger

140 (or fewer) characters on . . . Flurries

the day blisters with a hint of snow
emails about dental insurance
a short story by Joyce Carol Oates

Irma Haselberger

Screen Dump 2

Your institution green eyes reflect the Bela Lugosi of your dreams . . .
With the flagrancy of youth . . .
Though you continue to take pot shots at clay academicians . . .
And lesser-known wannabes . . .
There's something sad about that . . .
And something to be said about that . . . but I'm not sure what . . .
Walmart is as good a place as any to start . . .
Never trust alabaster cockatoos . . .
Or blue-light specials . . .
Or, for that matter, people named Iridescent, or Iri, for short . . .
I did . . . several times . . .
Trying to make the most of it . . .
But I thought I was invited for that reason . . .
So I dove in . . . over my head . . .
A roomful of talent minus one . . .
The made-for-TV villain was the voice of pastiche . . .
Dancing his/her amendments . . .
I've been mining prose for revelations . . . since day one . . .
Engulfed in pretension . . .
Picking and choosing from both sides of the menu . . .
What matters . . . really . . . is . . . what matters . . .
Be well, do good work, and give it a rest . . .

Bela Lugosi

140 (or fewer) characters on . . . After Apple Picking

deer arrive

with the orange of sunset

to feed

on the drops

Unhitched Suburbanites Are Sleeping with Repo'd Subarus

Unhitched suburbanites are sleeping with repo'd Subarus
in phone booths silent and abandoned
as if they'd tried but failed to find a vacancy
in the landfills of telemarketers decked out in triple Spandex
their closings leap-frogged
their coarse-furred marmots having been reblogged,
recalled, redirected, and retrofitted with snows.

They are ready for the New You.

Your friends have been texting you blue
having mastered the requisite tongue-twisters
as evidenced by the number of gnats
circling above your brown-bagged bottle of Bacardi.

You know one when you see one.
Not a problem.

You have retooled your profile, chatting yourself up
as the other darling of three-star forensic menus.

You have weathered the plague of muscle spasms
and been nominated
for the Erectile Dysfunction Hall of Fame.
You are as ready as ready.

Do you recall tweeting the party of the first part
while Moon River fondled the wind chimes
in the SROs of your childhood composition books

or are you about to fold your card table and remove yourself
from the list of attendees?

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Fairly Good Footage

A voice in heels welcomes you with the answer.
The je ne sais quoi of close encounters, yes?
Driving through a drive-thru, you tick off ways to improve
now that you've pruned tricks from your bag
under the watchful eye of the neighborhood watch.
You can't wait to unpack the layers,
especially the earworms of vacant storefronts
featured in mock-u-mentaries.
You cameo as a walk-on in a portraiture class
thinking This is where I will find myself.
The odds appear in an email after months on the Most Wanted.
Why are the plates at the Culinary Institute so large?

Gravity Was Everywhere Back Then

Another Ordinary Morning

Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing.
          - Mark Strand

The leaves coax the light into a snow sky. A simplicity of one, costumed, belabored, fraught with delusion lingers in a dream of the shore. The voice at the door continues the story. The organs of day engage a Netflix world, spiriting you away. The cat remains noncommittal. Late at night when you lie awake, tell yourself that you love who you are, that your half-concealed life is not without promise.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Screen Dump 1

If poetry is dead . . . then good.
          - Chelsey Minnis

Your follow-up was detrimental to strung-out marionettes
and you were ticketed for low-tech gaudiness . . .
Please remain online for the entire coupling . . .
You will know the ending before . . .
Of course without interpretation but then this is not something new . . .
I know what you're pinging . . .
You wanted to use collapsible grammar . . . but you sleepwalk . . .
I too would have walked
especially with those whatever they're called . . .
I've heard you were nailed by your therapist for pithy disclosures
and for not being experimental enough . . .
Not to worry . . .
The binary code as cracked by binary poets
isn't all it's cracked up to be . . .
So now you're trafficking in what? . . .
Several have said that you were lavishly costumed
and that your characterization was stop-motion
and that your ars poetica  was off the charts . . .
Third-way scribblers have a way of  rewriting the world as we don't know it . . .
Tick-tock tick-tock . . .

We'll always have Paris, Texas

You've relegated the dogeared script to a siding
and taken to the boards
ready to descend the staircase with your Method-y accent
Rhett's reasonable facsimile pacing the wings.

The wardrobe people are here too
having replaced their needles and threads
with Happy Hours.

It's time to forget your veiny feet

and the mole on your chinny-chin-chin.
It's time for the mad dash through your therapist's ulterior motives.
The Witness Protection Program has been hopscotched to death.

Deborah Turbeville

The Phonetics of Ukuleles: Revamp Three

I would rather have a Gucci bag than a poem.
          - Chelsey Minnis

Too funny is too funny . . .

Stephen Colbert's too funny is too funny . . .
Sometimes . . .
Too funny can turn on you like an angry pit bull . . .
An angry pit bull guarding a grow room . . .

Stephen Colbert can turn on you like an angry pit bull . . .

The ukulele beneath your window . . .
The ukulele player beneath your window . . .
He/she can be too funny . . .
He/she can turn on you like an angry pit bull . . .
Whispering sweet nothings in your bad ear . . .

An angry pit bull playing a ukulele . . . beneath your window . . .
whispering sweet nothings in your bad ear . . .

Or . . . into a cornfield . . .

Greengrocers in a cornfield with a television crew . . .
A mini-series . . . or docudrama . . . or ukulele . . .

A docudrama about a cornfield of ukuleles . . .

Too funny is too funny . . .
Living life at a remove . . .
Too funny . . .
A smartphone . . .
A smartphone with spinning wheels . . .
A smartphone with spinning wheels can turn on you . . .

Living life at a remove from smartphones that can turn on you . . .

Equal equals too funny . . .

You can do this . . . or . . . you can do that . . . is too funny . . .

Trying to hold it together . . .
Trying to let it go . . .
A ukulele player playing Lotto . . .

Trying to live life at a remove while playing Lotto . . .

Trying to do the right thing . . .
Or . . . the wrong thing . . .

Or . . . trying to write a wrong ukulele . . .

Too funny . . .

Tweeting at 11 PM . . .
Ordering takeout on the subway . . .
Ordering takeout on a spinning wheel . . .

Ordering takeout on Wheel of Fortune . . .

Pat Sajak as Stephen Colbert . . .
Too funny . . .
Nothing from nothing is The Twilight Zone . . .

Ordering takeout on a subway . . . in The Twilight Zone . . .

Too funny . . .

Rod Serling as Pat Sajak as Stephen Colbert . . .
as an angry pit bull . . . playing the wrong ukulele . . . at 11 PM . . .
in a cornfield . . . beneath your window . . .
in The Twilight Zone . . .

Too funny can be too funny . . .

Bemoaning a Foothold

You try texting but lose the signal.
This usually happens when words bottleneck
which they so often do
when you're driving too fast.
And then there's the whole warm-up thing:
you know, the windup, the pitch
the corner
the cab to the outer reaches
the Nile rerouted
gondoliers on holiday.
Oblong days saturated with polyrhythms.
Back seat drivers who keep GPSing.
The muses step up to the plate
and paint you into a corner.
Did you fail to deliver?
Did you fail to hand in the report on time?
You will not pass Go.
You will not collect $200.
You will be banished to a Draft Folder
to sit there, in a corner, bemoaning a foothold.

Sarolta Ban

The Infatuation of Connections

I paint to figure out how it works.
          - Robert Ryman

You fall asleep watching Scenes from a Marriage (for the third time)
and awaken to a brighter palette:

the confluence of material, brushstroke, support, scale
how music can jack up the spirit

the change in your pocket jingling with memories
the exchange of emails shepherding new worlds.

Running on the fumes of texts makes for an exciting journey.
This time you have read the manual

studied the expressions on their faces
reviewed your notes, practiced survival skills

as suggested by counter staff
at Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks.

They too were familiar with the sketches you shared
and seemed to understand your reasons for trying to get it all down.

Irma Haselberger

Grammarians at the Gate

And I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life.
          - Roberto Bolaño, By Night in Chile

There are too many shrugs here with blank stares.
Too many blanks.
Too many open-ends.
Too many starts and near-starts.
Too many speed traps
for time travelers in search of the elements of style.
The word on the street is a memory.
Several are at a loss.
You remember the kiosk as if it were tomorrow
the paths through the dark wood
the pleasantries exchanged
the counterintuitives costumed as consenting adults.
Cases and tenses.
Introductions.
How to begin.
Where to begin.
When to begin.
How to begin again.
How to sit with Mother Tongue.
The event horizon cluttered with discards.
Wasn't it superfluous to connect with so many so soon?
There are rules and regs for that sort of thing.
The Blah Blah Blahs can stymie you
when you least expect it.
Stick around long enough, and your train of thought will derail.
But the instructions said . . . .
The instructions said nothing, yes?

The Eroticism of Trees

You're transcribing the sounds of late summer: the secrets of trees, their openings, their closings. A breeze catches your skirt, and the eye of an event photographer qua accordionist. He morphs into a sapling, his notes fluttering to the ground.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

New Salinger Bio Ships!

Voices, then the driving around in circles,
and you on the floor - teletubbying - holding onto your braids
for stability, the ferry wobbling across the River Styx.
You thought you could outfox UPS
but the package arrived
(or at least the torn wrappings would seem to indicate).
You spent the next few hours (which seemed like days)
on the couch, ready to beeline.
At the launch, texts bottlenecked.
Doesn't it seem as if these scenes play out again and again?
An HBO miniseries, perhaps?
No need to convalesce.
Click Accept, and with your credentials and EZPass
you'll be able to sail though tollbooths
disregarding the implied rule of dinner party conversations
that stipulates tone over content.

Reshooting the Penultimate Scene

These things are there.
          - Randolph Henry Ash, Possession

And now you're talking about uncharted territory,
how you can't believe how you feel, how you are bound to get hurt.

In the penultimate scene, Maia, surrounded by butterfly bushes,
runs down the hill and lets go of the note. She will never see it.

Docents clutter the walkway with empty pizza boxes.
Killing the dreamscape seems the only level-headed thing to do,

and you pride yourself on your level-headedness and pragmatism.
At night, cynical about your feelings, you check your messages,

and the secrets strangers have failed to pry open.
Room to room. Room to room.

Why go there?
Think of the momentum of this 18-wheeler when you hit the brakes.

Or how . . .

Or how the music cycled . . .
And the movie . . .
Or how the street disappeared . . . and the people . . . and the sounds . . .
and time . . .
Or how your lips . . .
And your skirt . . .
Or how you said I have to . . .
Or how the waiter knew . . . and the others . . .
Or how you sat back . . .
And your eyes . . . closed . . .
Or how your fingers . . .
Or how your bracelets guided my hands . . .
Or how you sang . . .
And danced . . .
Or how your legs . . . and arms . . . and shoulders . . .
Or how . . .

Instructions for Dancing

I love it, when you sing to me.
          - Peter Gabriel, The Book of Love

The whole thing enigmatic.
You can hardly keep up
with inquiries, so you shift down, and begin recalibrating.
Her shoulders seduce,
their angularities the kind that sell.
Vendors arrive, and fishmongers.
Wine glasses mingle.
Her bracelets speak of other worlds.
And now you're crossing the street,
and she's asking . . . something?
Sit down on this bench, please, take a break, rewind the tape.
Meanwhile, The Life of Pi  in the park.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

No Filter

          for DD

The sound of her anklet
in the darkness
carries
hundreds of miles.

Run Through

. . . probing what we feel we know for some kind of truth.
          - John Hollander (1929-2013)

The rewrite, darker than riddles, upends you.
Is this how it is?
You return to your room
and the tented books
and your search for a common theme
in last chapters.
The voices continue.
The feeling of motionlessness . . . again.
Did you think the misunderstanding had settled
after that morning in the coffee shop
when she asked about the book?
Turn the page.
Read. Please!
Go through the motions.
The chat was inevitable. Insignificant.
The font size a diversion
resurrected from long ago summer evenings.

Deborah Turbeville

Saturation Row

The slippery slope as uninvited guest:
redeeming coupons at the door, insisting on backordered colors.
You've tried to placate some with your whimsicality
but words bottlenecked
and you were left holding empty seats.
The sun did come out tomorrow but went back in
the Do Not Disturb saying more than we needed to know.
And you're wasting time weeding?
Translate the next chapter.
Don't be put off by Sanskrit.
It's only language, one, in fact, that encompasses immense musicality.
Your earbuds will be prancing along
as happy as a summer fly before that thoughtless hand
that continues to put a damper on things.

Deborah Turbeville

Coasting Along in a Clown Car

And so you begin telling a story . . .
a short story . . .
a short story with an unhappy ending . . .
just to show off . . .
just to show that you can . . .
tell a story with an unhappy ending . . .
about the Founding Mothers . . .
and Founding Fathers . . .
who tried to lord it over . . .
riding around town in a clown car . . .
not unlike you . . .
coasting along in a clown car . . .
until the gig backfires . . .
leaving associates picking nits . . .
standing on their heads . .  .
in the rain . . .
picking nits . . .
the water level rising . . . .
On the other hand . . . nothing . . . .
This could be a wake-up call . . .
a wake-up call . . .
at an inopportune time . . .
but then you knew what was coming . . .
you'd read the menu . . .
outside . . . on the door . . .
before you entered the fray . . .
before you entered the restaurant . . .
and now you're being seated . . .
and it's too late to return . . .
the damaged goods . . .
too late . . . to return to . . .
the damaged players . . . .
You've overshot the grace period . . . .
You've overshot the grace . . . period . . . .
You could have at least tried . . .
to repair the plumbing . . .
to repair the roof . . .
to flip the bungalow . . .
to make reservations at a Three-Star . . .
but instead you decided to tell a story . . .
a short story . . .
a short story with an unhappy ending . . .
just to show off . . .
just to show that you could . . .
just to show . . . whatever . . .

but I know you better . . . .

Woman XLII

She says she'll be wearing a tunic.
I think Lawrence of Arabia.

Sustained Effort

Demonstrating the proper form for free weights
on the flimsy scaffold in the winkling of a storm
then the absence
the break in the purpling days and nights
the nights rife with howling
time witnessing the palpability
sauntering through the early morning railroad flat.
Perhaps you are still overwhelmed
despite the smothering insistence of imposters
who keep arguing
You think it; you did it.
One thing leading to another . . . then another . . . then another
the Rothkovian blur between love and hate rubbed raw
the principal inducted into the minority of givers.
How sweet it is?
Your first thoughts? The accoutrements of passion?
All part of the con hung out to dry
within view of the nosebleed section in this miniseries.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Coming Full Circle . . . Again

Stuck (in traffic) these however-many years?
Evidently there have been other pilgrims in the breakdown lane
counting grains of sand, the relentlessness of we
driving them through the drive-thru at Dunkin'.

But I need more time to decide.

You're reading from the monitor, yes?
No! No! No! Everything looks good.

Everything is good.

The colors change over time, you know.
You begin taking missteps, thinking adventures,
thinking Now it's time for me!

And maybe it is, but more often not.

The full catastrophe at the door, refusing to buckle down
and repair the roof, micro-managing as if nonchalance.

Tennessee Mountains circa 1800s

Woman XLI

Twining psychological insight
with anthropological acumen
she nails my motives
leaving me curbside catching my breath.

Abbey Lee Kershaw

Not Just Yet

Your eyeliner tells a different story.
Cartons upon cartons upon cartons delivered
in a misrepresentation of facts.
And where in the stream of events did you place yourself?
There's no telling when you too will be dropped.
Waiting for. Waiting for.
Insinuations jumping out of the woodwork
without regard for the other players in this mini-drama
which airs Saturday evening on cable.
Come out with it, already.
You know you're bursting with others.
The excavations bronzed.
The heat-stroked field always a good excuse.

Midnight at Hannaford

Something is rotten in Deli, and there's a delay in Dairy, and the Sirens in Pastry are rehearsing like crazy. I'm trying to decide cart, basket, or gondola, while making small talk with condiments. Something's out of balance. The theme's been changed to Detroit, and Kukla, Fran, and Ollie are opening in Produce. A memorandum of understanding is causing confusion in Meats, and the Blue Light Specials are turning green. And now look! The butcher in the bloody apron, the baker, and the candlestick maker are throwing tantrums in aisle 5, and Little Miss Something or Other is again complaining about the curds and whey. She's demanding double coupons, and calling for backup. The Manager has called in the Bomb Squad. Perry Como is crooning over Philip Glass's Koyaanisqatsi, and my grandmother is here from the grave, ready to Polka. I'm rethinking understudies, and the number of times. Ride it out, put in for a lateral, max out your sick leave.

Redacted

And then you get this text
about trying too hard,
and you think,
this was yesterday,
the indescribable conundrum of we
as in we had decided this.
So you look out the window -
which is streaked with rain -
to see who's running the show
and you're stopped
for speeding,
the overdue books in the back seat
staring at the melodrama
of two fingers.
And now you're asking me what?

Sarolta Ban

Short Stack

Someone's ordered pancakes.
Someone else has ordered an omelet
but you're counting the words
in this morning's fax.
The genie doubling as cabbie
is taking a shortcut
to avoid the bottleneck at the bridge.
It's a different bottleneck
and a different bridge.
Another hot one
the sidewalks costumed
colorful crowded
cloud banks on the way.
The garden veggies will be happy.
What about you?
Have you been here before?
Have the 20 questions upended you?
You'll have plenty of time to tweet
after the downpour.
Besides, we still have two wishes left, yes?

The Questioner of the Sphinx by Elihu Vedder (1863)

The Lonesome Vigil of Wind-Ups

You say you're not into the long-term . . .
The insouciance of the neighborhood pins you . . .
The moms and pops . . .
And the arias . . .
When the moon hits your eye like a big . . .
(Sing along with me) . . .
Your excuse is legendary . . .
You have enough points . . .
Your life as facade is beginning to read like a new Chapter Four . . .
Your sense of balance back . . .
(Just ask the shared bicycles) . . .
Think about us in the we hours . . .
Demand directions and seconds . . .
And thirds . . .
The spuds are delicious, and an excellent source of renewable energy . . .
Wait! One more thing: you too are here and here and here . . .

Woman XL

And then she says . . . I want to clown around and around . . . and around . . . and around . . . and take that out . . . and put that in . . . favorite color? . . . three . . . I enjoy variations on that theme . . . don't you? . . . especially in A minor . . . I've told you that in the summer I sometimes do . . . and I sometimes do not . . . I will only respond to emails from endangered species . . . a cigarette? . . . never . . . of course I've tried that . . . and that too . . . and three . . . and four . . . I was there, you know . . . in the wings . . . with wings . . . poetry is TMI . . . courting poor taste? . . . we are all collapsible . . . combustible . . . collateral . . . a contextualist? . . . a constructivist? . . . blah blah blah . . . I am consumed by the game . . . I am costumed for the game . . . I am the game . . . of chance . . . of choice . . . your choice . . . your move . . . P-QN4 . . .

Proof

Let x equal the cold.
          - Anthony Hopkins in Proof (2005)

The mathematicians with half-lives are checking your proof
talking their way through the axioms on Knife's Edge
the conjectures at Herring Cove
the theorems along the Mohawk,
shepherding you past the rentals, the SROs, condos, two-families;
the faces in the windows of your landscapes
reflecting the ambiguity of your words.
Your still lifes passed the rigor of bicycle days,
coaster brakes waiting behind package stores,
ifs, ands, and buts triangulating the derivatives
barely visible through the brushstrokes,
armatures buckling under symbols shape-shifting with the wait staff,
your chalk drawn and ready.
You check for the rewrite; launch into the monologue.
The amphitheater begins to fill with iterations of the same person.
A stranger. You were told this would happen.

Woman XXXIX

She says she wants to ride
and pulls up on her Harley.
I roll my Schwinn
back into the garage.

Woman XXXVIII

She crosses her Ts
and her legs
and dots her eyes
with innuendo.
She has mastered
the art of wordlessness.
Seeing her
in a summer dress,
I am born again.

68 Lines Randomly Selected from the 2,088 Lines in the 118 Poems
Composed in my 68th Year Using the Random Integer Generator at
random.org on my 68th Birthday over 3000 Miles from Tintern Abbey

. . . thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence.
          - William Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

the angles spellbinding, infectious with singsong
and then, again, you decide to look at the sketches of domes in cities
as you follow the directions
carrying a Louis Vuitton bag
you'd think solutions would drop from the sky
who are we to downplay the Hallmarkian tentacles?
it is tomorrow, yes?
ambling along under cover and without a mean streak
as items on a grocery list
meaning?
everything? anything? nothing?
the tide turns just when we think
to their delicate lives backstage
things have changed
I think not
there are too many people here
fill in the gaps
as fearful as feared
you will know them when you see them
you're pontificating again. I thought you were over that
yet unconvincing, as if the bell lappers knew all along
there was no turning back
titled Mangled Hands
another with tickets to a double-header
how we got from there to here
and I was back at Barnes & Noble
but they're going ahead with the auditions anyway
you googlemap the directions from here to there
time now to plow out
it was a close encounter. one for the archives
the windiness of cities
nonchalance. then trying something else. as mediocre
everyone's trying to hide
stuck in traffic
the lights flicker. valets exchange glances. the monitor lapses into a
this time you will not be unhinged by reflections of your former selves
a dawning? who knew?
creating havoc, scenes colliding, mounting to confusion
and that something is filing past as we speak
as she fills her eyes with world-weariness
only to default to comforters
but you know that you do
solitary moment will wrap its arms around you and guide you to the
engaged by the same old same old
challenging our identity flatten as one who knows
but that's for another poem
I for one want my writers blocked
the players at the foot of your bed await direction
a woman in white, a small boy, a girl, a small dog
and then?
there was no church. ask around. no church
especially now with the neighborhood Velcro'd
by her areola
ideally suited to multitaskers
yourself in the cutlery but then repaired to the foyer where a well
everyone seems to think that's OK
the clock's face again pokes in
with Dylan singing, I'm sailing away, my own true love
the tingling ebb and flow
maybe it was Bob Dylan
something about Rothko's rooms
to secure a small stipend to tide you over
who - let's face it - are in it for the freebies
creating havoc, scenes colliding, mounting to confusion
for her stats
you know that lately it's been a rabbit hole
there will be no setting the record straight
boys and girls, children of all ages

Tintern Abbey

Woman XXXVII

She pores over Kafka's words,
muttering something about
an unreliable narrator,
tells me he never read ads
because he didn't want to want.
She quotes him and says
a book should serve as an ax
for the frozen sea within us.
We become vegans.
She starts calling me Gregor.

Irma Haselberger

Incidental Music

How often this frivolity?
This bluntness of perception?
Compared to what?

Just the other day, we were up, up, and away.
Our eyeballs free of regrets.
The breeze through the open window (finally).
The discord quieted.
Trees resonating.
Nothing foreshadowed
yet the evanescence of the moment with its free passes
to the matinee of your choice at the Bijou.

Here the limo awaits with the patience of a koan.
The driver unruffled.
Dare you pass?

Later, with the grocery shopping behind us
a quick jaunt around the lake
(which wasn't there yesterday)
the well-oiled machine and all that
out of hock, out of doors, out.

Poring over reams of paper stockpiled on the rolltop.
The dusty charm of leather
and you with your amplitude
whispering through the moonlit eve
mourning doves having flown the nest.

How could they not?

So many newscasts bubbling past.
So many identity thieves lurking.
Are you sure you are who you think you are?

The roadways befuddled.
A class action suit ready to take you to the cleaners.
Is there anyone at your beck and call?
Is there anyone you can call?
Where is it written?

The final quarter ticking down.
The prize vintage uncorked.
A riff coloring the enigma
floating balloon-like over a distant hamlet -
a woman in white, a small boy, a girl, a small dog.

Where did all these lawn chairs come from?
And who at last is responsible for this moratorium?
This quiver of insanity?
This obliviousness?

The workaday as always waiting around the bend in the river
engaged by the same old same old
sloughed off while running after the runaway train.
Cable streaming with life.
Finger-licking goodness edging out the competition.
Birds of all feathers flocking.
Bike messengers weaving.
Traffic lights like cluster flies.
The edge of illusion with its quick fix
beguiling residents on their off-days
leaving them remixing covers.

The invisible pleasantly besotted.
The Dairy Queen in her opulence
and the nonchalance of cats
especially the super's
who comes and goes as she pleases (don't we all  wish we  could?)
counting her change
while inspecting trash cans for late night tête-à-têtes.

Why wait for the next four-star melodrama?
Why worry the convalescence?
The wingnuts?

Going to the dogs in a handbasket isn't out of the question.
Isn't beyond the realm of the usual.
So what, you say?
Far too many have gotten away with it
winsome though they were
without flinching (come to think of it)!
A right, a left, and it was out of the park.

Look at those cowpokes at the barre honing their plies.
Imagine!
The other state of Dakota
with it marvelous saplings
waiting to be embraced.

And who disguised as Clark Kent
in a double-breasted suit so yesterday?

A voiceover from your past reminds you
to pick up a quart of milk on the way home.
A spate of unemployed fact checkers awaits the starting gun
checking off their mealtime selections
while checking into detox units at the local Motel 6.

You have no messages.
No texts.
No tweets.
Nada.
And there's that voiceover again.
And here comes another lucrative deal.
Another leveraged buyout.
A garbage scow chuffs across a dingy harbor
then lapses into a hissy fit.
Such behavior will no longer be tolerated.

Butterflies caressing winter's dwindling sun.
A baby carriage with the brake on at a bake-off.
The Post with its stark reflection.
The checks cashed, the tollbooth looming.

Herve All

Vis-à-Vis

Promises among the often forgotten?
Air brushing the aftermath?
The preening of memory
scanned by recent CIA graduates
bemoaning the downsized menu -
seemingly blue in the face of going green?
Did you think it would last?
These are a few.
There are others
simmering on youth's backburners.
Try motoring absentmindedly
or while perusing the Greenhouse Effect.
The insinuations are marvelous,
and neat to watch
from the deck with a cold one
night after night after night waiting.

E. Wiskovsky

A Woman Leans Over

A woman leans over to paint blue curves between her legs.
          - Lyn Hejinian

So easy to misplace the definite article
in the folds of flesh that titillate you
juggling five balls
while trying to answer the 20 questions
from this morning's inbox.
Enchanted by the movement
of the moment
the slightest twitch pinning you
to a recurring dream
dressed in the cloth of summer,
it begins.
Your online backordered item has finally shipped.

Bill Brandt

With the Creek Rising

          for Dennis Sullivan

Somewhere Hannibal is negotiating with elephants -
gunmetal gray in their magnitude -
worrying the guest list for the weekend barbecue.
He has texted his lawyers
whose pop-ups intrude upon my online reading
of Anna Karenina.
Someone has just chimed in with something
about the London Tube
but that's for another poem.
I was thinking - among other things -
about high water marks
and whether they will make the grade.
The semester is almost over.
I guess I could shop at the greengrocer's
or refer to Ed Smith's BIBLE (yes, all caps!),
and begin building a raised bed.
It's all about wide rows, deep soil, and organics.
Not unlike most things, yes?

The Blue Terry Cloth Self

I'd be at a loss to put my finger on the precise moment.

In those days reliability was an add-on
not unlike cargo pockets on your camo shorts.

I'm not saying they don't aim to please
but doesn't it seem as if
showering has become a retreat into the self?
In Walter's day, for example, we switched on You Are There
and popped Orville's corn.

Options trumped options
which stymied some
mostly those who were on the cusp
of an ah-ha moment.

3-In-Oil was touted as a multipurpose lubricant
ideally suited to multitaskers
who were good at jigsaw puzzles, PB&Js, and transformations.

Nothing was said about seductiveness.
I guess it was assumed a given.

What better way to spark the mood?
To face the mix?
I'm sorry. What was your question again?

Deborah Turbeville

Retracing Our Steps to Utopia X

The dance, of course. Always the dance.
And the new steps.
Always the new steps.
Taking notes.
Out of habit?
Trying to recall the sequence.
How we got from there to here.
How we got to where we are.
How we came to know.
You too have become curiouser and curiouser.
And now the fourth quarter.
Out of time-outs.
Out of recaps.
The dress rehearsal scrapped.
The rainbow's armature ascending.
The grammar ungagged.

Irma Haselberger

Retracing Our Steps to Utopia IX

Your accusation is a bit fuzzy
but I'll wear it anyway
like a noisy suit of armor
scarred from battle.
The moment keeps recycling.
Groundhog Day's petty palette of inconveniences.
You could have at least given me the heads-up.
Do you believe in magic?
Of course you do.
My blindside rutted with trespass.
Again? Did you say "again"?

Irma Haselberger

Retracing Our Steps to Utopia VIII

Each rewrite hazards an equation,
irrespective of the aftermath
which enters the room as an  attraction.
But I thought we had agreed.
Well, yes, my mistake.
The flight leaves in two hours.
You have just enough time to learn your lines.
Just enough time to re-sketch your image.
Not to worry.
The world as furrowed brow.
Think of the indecipherables and ephemera,
all eBayed.
Does it matter?
Did you even know they were missing?

Deborah Turbeville