Screen Dump 211

Your dreams of curating an exhibit of shopping carts . . .
ooze seduction . . .
an overdosing on blue pigment . . .
a candying of the afternoon . . .
shoplifted . . . from performance spaces . . .
where dust refuses to settle . . .
Persons of interest . . . hiding in the wooden horses . . .
parading through the streets . . .
await the phases of your tongue which . . .
like the phases of the moon . . .
are well-versed in telemetry and round-robin competition . . .
reducing so-called experts . . . to blubbering blunderers . . .
paper-trailing their oblong lives . . .
with highlighted aftermaths . . .
as your delectability seeps through the cacophony . . .
bewildering those whose pages jockey for translation . . .

while the moon again engages 20 questions . . .

Andrew Yee

Screen Dump 210

You should have been carded
instead of fitted with full-body armor
as you spasmed awake . . .
his/her hands explicating your microcosms . . .
You began a journal . . .
while lilacs last in  the dooryard bloomed . . .
smoothing out the edges of sitcoms . . .
your glass in the mirror defying your losses
which soon increased exponentially
with the shapes and colors of the rooms
whose ceilings you'd spec'd for restoration
as you half-listened to nursery rhymes . . .
Your family and friends gathered
for deepest sympathies
but you were elsewhere . . .
tallying spiders in the trash bags
that befriended you
throughout your crusade phase . . .
You often overdosed
on the bald spots of left fielders
as they tongued third base . . .
This too became grist for your journal
dictated while your left hand
maneuvered the yellow Cobra
repainted red by migrant workers
who knelt before copies of your field notes
while regurgitating alma maters
and telephone numbers
from restroom stalls . . .
Concision drove you
to out-of-the-way movie houses . . .
You loved indies
and edgy outerwear
and the five o'clock shadows
that caressed your inner sanctum . . .
Independent studies became your mantra . . .
How often did you picture the Argonauts
as you mimicked
your favorite silent screen stars
who time and again stiffed you for the last call? . . .

Screen Dump 209

Illusory at best . . . but then . . . why not? . . .
The moments . . . peering through the glass . . . journal in hand . . .
When everything . . . and everyone . . .
What do you mean . . . save it for the judge? . . .
I have no intention of implementing a full-court press . . .
And . . . quite frankly . . . I don't care what the life coach said . . .
He too is just going through the motions . . .
He too knows full well that there are bigger fish to fry . . .
With the day turning wintry . . . let's try to recapture the play
as it was . . . or, rather, as we remember it . . .
Yes, we've lapsed . . . but that's what makes it interesting, yes? . . .

Craig McDean

Screen Dump 208

With you taken by digital fluff
I've decided to stop obsessing over . . . the fit and finish
of bodies in motion
and instead map the terrain of humdrum . . .
risking sweet confusion
with a tongueless loafer
in residence under the daybed . . .
idly strumming a guitar
in a Spanish cafe . . . with apps . . . no less . . .
Why wrinkle at the thought of dawdling
over the saggy moments
that will soon overtake us? . . .
Perhaps the days will turn into fresh loaves of sourdough? . . .
Something we can laugh about, anyway, yes? . . .

Wendy Bevan

Today or Yesterday

Today or yesterday
I took the 6:55 train to New York City.
I bought the ticket online
packed my backpack with a bottle of water
a new book of essays on Anne Carson
a book of poems titled
I Want to Make You Safe by Amy King
who teaches poetry
at Nassau Community College
and had John Ashbery
for a teacher at Brooklyn College
my Kindle Paperwhite
a yellow pad
a 1.3mm mechanical pencil (I like fat leads)
and a provolone and tomato sandwich
on sourdough.
I got there early.
The train was already there.
I took a seat on the river side of the car
facing forward toward New York City.
I put my backpack on the seat next to me
to discourage anyone from sitting there.
It worked!
I looked out the window at Albany
as the train left the station.
I was heading to the Guggenheim
to see the posthumous exhibit
of On Kawara whose artistic life
according to the April 2015 issue
of Art in America
was anchored
by the simple labor of painting
the dates of the days he lived through.
He began in 1966 when he was 33
and continued until his death in 2014 -
a painting a day for almost 50 years
including 3,000 paintings
of the dates on which they were made:
white sans serif text on red, blue, or gray
in eight sizes: from 8x10" to 5x7'
one selling in 2014
for over four million dollars.
Somewhere in the middle of an essay
on Anne Carson I fell asleep
and woke as we pulled into Penn Station.
It was a beautiful day.
I decided to walk the three-and-a half miles
up Madison Avenue to the Guggenheim.

On Kawara

Screen Dump 207

Again . . . you are in the back seat . . . with a redacted script
counting the exits . . . the entrances . . . the players and their parts . . .

Your OCD-fueled insistence . . . awaits Throwback Thursday

with its alternate interpretations . . . its alternate positions . . .

What would happen for example . . . if you encouraged others
to shed their masks . . . their gambits . . . their dreamscapes? . . .

What would happen if you opened yourself . . . to the Seven Levels?. . .

Would the candy store still hold its sweetness? . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 206

Connecting the dots of the day
magic markers bleed through the paper
the corners . . . unsafe at any speed . . .
Geese . . . honk approval
of coolheaded air traffic controllers . . .
Too many books soundtracking your life
too many pictures, yes? . . .
Reviewing the PowerPoints in your head . . .
The slides . . . and their seductive asides . . .
Too much? . . .
Moments . . . when all data are dumped
with the sunrise cajoling
and walking through a field
you find huge beasts . . . shadowing the sun . . .

Rachel McAdams in To the Wonder (2012)

Screen Dump 205

. . . fiercely wanting, as we all do, just a little more of life?
          - Mary Oliver

That's the funny thing about relinquish . . .
The Etch-A-Sketch world we inhabit
is improvisational
a table-read for a sitcom
wading through early morning pools
across mountains . . . and rivers
taking elements of calm with our coffee
before the exit interview
at a strange station . . .
You spend the day painting . . . en plein air
palette loaded with muted pigments
capturing . . . interpretations of your dreams
scripts . . . to be staged . . .
This is what you did . . .
This is what you wanted to do . . .
This is what you were meant to do . . .
We all have answers
some better than others
well, maybe not better . . . different, yes?
with tag lines that sometimes grab us . . .
and hold us . . . gently rocking us . . . in the moment
forgetting the edge
letting the body love . . . what it loves . . .

Today

The world . . . calls to you like the wild geese, . . .
          - Mary Oliver

to celebrate
I went . . . to the woods . . .
some snow still
the creek's gurgle
the trees
and then above . . . wild geese
return . . .
harsh and exciting . . .

Mary Oliver

Screen Dump 204

Your fixation on ancient obelisks . . . is a pinched nerve
demanding a steroid injection
a flippancy that derails dime-a-dozeners . . .
And now you're sweating the stylistic devices of S. Freud
and the probe of this poem
and the probe of something else not yet identified
finding yourself in the deli section
worrying enjambments . . . the accrual of lines
the orchestration of loneliness . . .
You're trying to score, yes? . . .
Trotting out the notion
that the poet creates and alleviates loneliness . . .
I think you're losing readers
with your otherness
with your self-conscious selfie . . .
They think they know what you're thinking . . .
I don't think they know . . .
What do you think? . . .
Let them continue . . . to talk to themselves
and propose their (unsought) intimacy . . .
The spin cycle is almost over, yes? . . .
Trying to figure us out? . . .
But inconsistency is our forte . . . our mise en scène . . .
Beginning with the line How should a person be? . . .
The nosedive . . . yes . . . is bound to happen . . .
It will give us something to believe in
if only for the moment . . . parlaying streaming options
holding us . . . stroking us . . . telling us to remain seated
for the entire white-knuckle construct
with complimentary mini-carafes of something mint-flavored . . .

Corpse Bride (2005)

Screen Dump 203

That experts disagree . . . threw you for a infinite loop . . .
Discovering something . . . then forgetting it . . .
A tollbooth in the middle of this line
making it impossible to determine if you are unhappy or sublime
compounded by the desperate obliqueness of the matter-at-hand . . .
I mean . . . Really? . . .
And those bystanders . . . texting like mad . . . How could they? . . .
Then to top it off . . . a diagnostic category crashes the party
and upsets the apple cart
oblivious to the nuances of those in the know . . .
Listen . . . Why don't we blow this joint . . .
and tab ourselves into Neverland . . . or Whateverland? . . .
C'mon . . . Did you think you could sustain the effort? . . .
What with the baggage that has obliterated your selfie
and colored your days with muted Hallmarkian ramifications? . . .

Ahmet Polat

Screen Dump 202

Dissecting the sameness . . . of long terms
the insinuations . . . despite the firewall
the momentary lapses
followed by naive mea maxima culpas . . .
How the morning begins with eyes above cups of coffee
stalls over croissants
jump-starts . . . in the afternoon
with a double-header . . .
Then a special delivery . . . on a hot fragrant night
reading between the lines
your imagination filling the gaps
because you need (love?) . . . closure, yes? . . .
You retreat to seascapes
to the sound of the surf
the waves licking the sand
below small coastal villages
wedged into the hills . . . of your short stories . . .
And the ambient gestures . . . of an intimate bistro
glasses of pinot noir
talking up the pleasures of silk . . . the fury of connections . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 201

You deal euphemism . . . and slip past security . . .
the music half-house . . . clouding the drone . . .
wandering with couldn't care less on inked sleeves
as if encapsulated messages
were selling for junk . . . on the street . . .
Indigents switch ingredients
for compassion's busboys . . . all this secondary
to the concentration on gesture . . .
the humor disguised as a fatalist's witty rue . . .
You jot notes . . . for transcription . . . amid the static
of traffic lights . . . OCDing night's follies . . .
too wired . . . too close . . . to close . . .
rethinking alternatives . . . even when he/she soft focuses
the context . . . with promises . . . of other worlds . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 200

You have choreographed the phrase in perpetuity
and now hold questions for ransom
their depth and dimension reminders of your years
of indentured servitude . . . feeding lines to woebegones
exiting the stage . . . waiting to be wrung out . . .
You have nailed the moves . . . and more
playing subjectivity to anomaly
unmellowed by time . . . and the river
your dance . . . a study in mirror-image
taking no prisoners . . . comparing pleasures
with those who have come . . . and gone . . . and come again
bearing words . . . best appreciated in silence . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 199

You appear in a crack in the surface of the code . . .
and pick through vinyls . . .
sandbox memories of players . . .
in baseball caps . . . worn backwards . . .
auditioning for a seat in the eye of the beholder . . .
the difference between here(s) . . .
between his/her reply to your suggestion . . .
changed the rules . . .
notwithstanding their superfluousness . . .
and . . . again . . . you are . . . on the brink . . .
waiting for an arm to reach out of the sky . . .
the sky that David Bowie enshrined . . .
while teasing . . . metonymic memories . . .
of Penetration Dialogues . . .
You can't imagine, yes? . . .
Holding forth with insignificant others . . .
waiting at a bus stop . . .
leaking delusions of travel . . .
promising a destination . . .
Not one to hold anything against anyone . . .
You roll the dice . . . for today . . .
channeling Caesar in the Rubicon . . .
and tap your fingers . . . until the craving passes . . .
Is this how you want it to be written up? . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 198

No regrets, then . . . hunkering days . . . here in this backwater . . .
Reviewing your Norman Conquests . . . journaling happenstance . . .
Playing croquet with paper-thin walls . . .
Voices retreating behind Acts of Contrition . . .
You signed on for the tour, yes? . . .
Everyone's dreams . . . everyone else's . . .
You may as well order takeout
fire up Netflix
and hire a driver for the rented dump truck
that cameoed in your tween fantasies
when he/she invited you to a Monopoly sleepover
and began with unbearable lightness
that plowed through 233 pages
before you passed Go . . .
Perhaps the desire to fictionalize your life, a bit? . . .
As when we suicide ourselves for survival . . .
in what some call a Kierkegaardian Third Remove . . .
Your dreams are now 100 years old . . . and counting . . .

Paulina Otylie Surys

Screen Dump 197

The days . . . like paper . . . curl at the edges . . .
This is a paper day! . . . This is a paper town! . . .
The bandoneon . . . paper . . .
The restaurant . . . paper . . .
The wait staff . . . paper . . .
How we'd grab lunch . . . at KFC . . . aka The Dead Colonel's . . .
on our way back to the office . . . black-eyed Susan . . . shadowing . . .
The red taillights mutter something . . .
Participles in tow . . .
You begin with a tale of entrapment . . .
Your voice . . . incantatory . . .
The communal voice jarring in its intimacy . . .
Please spare me your vivid imagination . . .
Now you're going on about papyrological evidence . . .
Yes, of course I remember Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Mummy's Tomb . . .
Do I detect an insurgency in your voice? . . .
Are you sure you want to go there . . .
now that the bargain basement blatherers have come and gone . . .
retreating with their wash-and-wears to their nomadic hideaways . . .
GPS'd with a .01 level of confidence? . . .
Are these events queued? . . .
I'm in a subjunctive mood . . .
I'm ready for ready-mades . . .
I need to cull a few more fragments . . . from slush piles . . .
It's all about evading artifice . . . isn't it? . . .
I mean that's where we will surely find authenticity . . .
out back . . . having a smoke . . .
with Jim Jarmusch's Only Lovers Left Alive . . .
Forget the blithering obits . . . with their avid avids . . .
and their connect-the-dots sensibility . . .
The trouble you identified . . . is off . . . and running . . .
The interim chair . . . with his/her new do . . . had it down pat . . .
as evidenced by the doors . . .
opening and closing in time to Mary had a little lamb . . .
The fleece . . . connective tissue . . .
The after-hours mix the what-ifs . . . with the whatevers . . .
The clock forgetting where it is . . .
You pick up your story from the top . . . with you on top . . .
plotting the quickest route . . . between here . . . and not here . . .
the bags of groceries . . . in the trunk . . . moldering . . .
the bags . . . under your eye-shadowed eyes . . .
playing hangman . . . in the back seat . . . with the whomevers . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 196

Time to page forward . . . scanning . . .
hoping that perchance you missed it . . .
the invitation . . .
the extended hand . . .
the quiet word . . .
This talk of elliptical relationships . . .
of the difference between suspend . . . and pause
at the end of your sentences . . .
As if time were irrelevant . . .
As if the profusion of peculiarities
was enough to circumvent the dull day-to-day . . .
And now you're clearing your throat . . .
Preparing for what? . . . An ultimatum? . . .
How often have you spun around
only to find yourself in the same place
the same people . . . the same you? . . .
As perfunctorily, yes? . . .
He wanted a profusion . . . No! . . . No! . . . No! . . .
She wanted a profusion . . .
Noise, please . . . and chatter . . .
You are poised to go the distance . . .
We all are poised to go the distance
however . . . whenever . . . wherever . . .
The pieces themselves . . . and their wonderful integrity . . .
Your complete . . . and independent life . . .
Hanging on scraps of conversation . . .
Tell me . . . again . . . about detachment . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 195

If you had been on top of things . . . as is typical . . .
you could have set them straight . . .
or at least hooked them up with . . . executive assistants . . .
charged with emailing releases . . .
to focus groups . . . convalescing from bum knees . . .
and other such inconveniences . . .
When did concatenation become a hassle? . . .
Everything mashed-up . . . mashed-together . . .
with few downloadable eBooks . . .
which though burdensome to some . . .
occasionally spell things out . . . in black and white . . .
A landscape . . . of fading inconsequentials . . .
will soon appear in your viewfinder . . .

Tiiu Kuik

Screen Dump 194

You are about to open . . . as the Once and Future Queen . . .
in an off-off-Broadway production . . . of Goshawk: The Movie . . .
a regression line . . . a line of best fit . . .
for your short-shorter-shortest story . . . of alchemy and falconry . . .
The word on the street is that you consulted with Merlin . . .
that you got free tickets . . . and limes . . .
and that the two of you . . . threw back a few . . . talking old times . . .
In the heat of the moment, the scroll wilted, yes? . . .
But the Method stepped in . . .
What about the burned-out pizza man . . .
and the other character actors on your To-Do-Me List . . .
that you kept waving in our faces at the ribbon-cutting? . . .
Yes, the temps have been off-putting . . . I'll give you that . . .
sparking images of sandy beaches . . . and envelope stuffing . . .
Perhaps we should call their agency . . . and return . . .
to your Binky Days . . . which you unknowingly opened the door to . . .
with an inadvertent speed-dial . . .

Binky Daze

Screen Dump 193

Haunting data dumps for identity thefts . . .
Assigning numbers . . . to players in your fantasies . . .
whose epidemic of namelessness . . .
crowds out sleep . . . and the counting of sheep . . .
You are among strangers . . . fun, yes? . . .
The freedom . . . to be . . . or not to be . . .
to do . . . or not to do . . .
The new you . . . costumed in shades of gray . . .
inhabiting the margins of blurry-eyed websites . . .
teasing coders and first-person shooters . . .
with objects of desire and launch dates . . .
and fleeting moments . . . of screen-capture . . .
Kiosks double as security checks . . .
with clickable protocols . . . and farm fresh fruit . . .
for those wasting time in the waiting line . . .
Surely this will morph into an eponymous best seller . . .

The Zero Theorem

Screen Dump 192

I've got Blue Light Specials on the brain
and telepathic cats
whose ho-hum antics flip some of the days of my life
forestalling the inevitable
with voluminous digs
and elephant handlers from bedraggled circuses
whose answers to five of the BIG TEN questions
tell the rest of the story
a story that begins with loose ends in the uninformed Midwest
when arcades were all the rage . . .
They were all the rage, yes? . . .
and sodbusters busted sod for pennies . . . and promises
and free passes to Miss Kitty's . . .
I thought I knew what you were talking about
but I was wrong . . .
Maybe it's me but now you're wandering the basilica
bemoaning the fate of urban survivalists
and their camo'd beneficiaries
who took to the streets . . . once too often . . .
and now . . . barbarians are storming the gate
with rainchecks . . . and apps from midways
of sepia'd carnivals
brimming with aging-out clowns bumping bulbous noses
with trapeze artists . . . left hanging . . .
Did you think you could look them in the eye
and not see your selfie? . . .
The selfie you Photoshopped . . . while the audience slept
and magicians emeriti sprang from top hats
with a velocity that Feynman himself
would have chuckled over . . . while banging his bongos
faster than spawns on speed
costumed as amphibians auditioning for a remake
of Creature from the Black Lagoon
which incidentally was the first flick I saw in a theater
with my mother . . . and bag of popcorn . . .
You haven't been yourself lately . . .
I'm not sure who you are
and trying to figure out who you are
is costing too much time . . .
I had planned to begin the new year with warm-ups
and adult education classes
and independent living
but now with warm weather flooding the transom
I'm ready to attempt another channel crossing
or collect misfit canisters at the Himalayan base camp
rubbing shoulders with the polloi
for pocket change . . . and wheelwright dibs . . .
The other day, for example, I had a senior moment . . .
not quite Still Alice . . . by a long shot . . .
but . . . nonetheless . . . a junior-senior moment
and I was off . . . channel surfing
for lost causes . . . and incidentals that could . . .
maybe . . . possibly . . . hopefully . . . tingle . . .
with a tax shelter to die for . . .
Is it really all in the cards? . . .
Or have I too been misled . . . into a kindergarten
populated with multiple personalities? . . .
Now wouldn't that be the stuff for an HBO microseries? . . .
Little consolation here . . . or anywhere, for that matter . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 191

That you could have read the script . . .
without the interruptions . . . the ooh la la's . . .
without the strip malls and their queues . . .
without those who - oh no! -
fell down the rabbit hole . . .
SoundCloud echoing their anthem . . .
The morning after . . . is also the morning before . . .
Where would you be . . .
if you had been able to read . . .
your words before you wrote them? . . .
before you were pressed into another run-through? . . .
Imagine the excitement in the first page . . .
the principals lining up . . . behind the curtain . . .
your words rising from their moorings . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 190

Encumbered by the finish fetish
you reach for your jawboned Field Guide to Getting Lost . . .
and welcome the prophet into the room . . .
An opportune Q&A
with plenty of white space to stretch out in . . .
It's good to ignore the caveat . . . before silence grabs the mic
and launches into one-liners
so flat they get lost in the crowd . . . immediately . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 189

Mass is a numerical measure of inertia.
          - Sarah Gerard, Binary Star

We all have indentations . . . you're no different . . .
We all worry critical mass . . .
the nominal fees . . .
the exhortations . . .
slouching towards somewhere . . . Neverland perhaps? . . .
The other day for example for whatever reason . . .
I experienced a momentary lapse . . .
numbers tumbling into orbit . . .
a metronome insinuating itself into a few measures . . .
the cellist having forgotten her bow . . .
What is there to say? . . .
You place your chips in the eclipse . . .
You snowshoe into white silence . . .
Channeling Emily and random acts of pulchritude . . .
lowering her basket of cookies to neighborhood urchins . . .
Your puzzle rearranges itself . . .
with or without your OK . . .
Acceleration always bests gravity . . .
The table . . . like your trailer . . . is double-wide . . .
The fellowship . . . is still yesterday . . .
Something new . . . something unheard of . . .
from your late middle ages . . . would be nice . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 188

There are lightning bolts in your cereal bowl . . .
You have become true north . . . again . . .
Gerrymandering the neighborhood . . . in provocative teamwear . . .
Usernames on the back in iridescent blue . . .

Earwormed since Thursday . . .
How long, O Catiline, will you tax our endurance? . . .
How long will that madness of yours escape us? . . .
To what ends will your unruly boldness hurl itself at us? . . .

The bullet-holed replica of something really important . . .
Grapefruits . . . for better or worse . . .
Irrespective of your height, you carry it well . . .
Institutionalization will squeeze into your mastery . . .

What is requisite, here, anyway? . . .
Roll back the years? . . . I don't think so . . .
Yellowing with age, I couldn't help but think of the foghorn . . .
in that little bistro on the corner of homeplate . . .

Remembering the biscuits we threw at our hunger . . .
and how after the entrée, you insisted on itemizing your deductions . . .
before it was too late . . .
Frankly, my dear . . .

Tiiu Kuik

Screen Dump 187

You . . . as red carpet junkie . . . aliases stuffed in pockets . . .
Names dropping from the ceiling . . . Any resemblance . . .
to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental . . .
You insist on farmhouses . . . and aqueducts . . .
and emails routed to an unmonitored inbox . . .
Fine with me . . .
A quick pick-me-up . . . a probiotic . . . might do . . .
The deductible, however, is still there . . .
staring you down . . . Not that easy to lose, yes? . . .
You came . . . you saw . . . you came again! . . .
Reveling in the lips of the neighborhood . . .
Stepping into the morning after . . .
trailing a cast of identity thieves . . . with false lanyards . . .
milling around the fax . . . after the awards . . .
Too much fidgeting . . . and you know what that means . . .
Full disclosure yields facial tics . . .
which more often than not are dead giveaways . . .
I'd rather not go there today . . . or any day . . . for that matter . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 186

It all seems derivative . . . every last element . . .
Theater-of-the-absurd derivative . . .
Drama of exposure derivative . . .
Standing-on-the-shoulders-of-giants derivative . . .
Not all bad, yes? . . .
A matter-of-factness . . . a cultural moment . . .
in which self-display . . .
fronts for fear of self-disclosure . . .
or revelation . . .
Like you've gotta watch everything you say . . .
and even then . . . you're sure to get nailed . . .
The buzz in condiment aisles . . .
Your head stuck in a graphic comic . . .
featuring your avatar . . . gussied-up no less . . .
Can you imagine the itchiness . . .
as you crumple the note . . .
tossed into your car window . . .
while you waited at the crosstalk? . . .
What did it say? . . .
And now you're back in your room . . .
blanketed up to your eyeballs . . .
waiting for your surrogate someone . . .
to deliver hot chocolate . . .
Using the app Cyrano to text someone by someone else . . .

Lydia Roberts

Screen Dump 185

There are only so many ways one can connect . . .
So many ways to document the emotional upheavals of passing . . .
You'd think the alternative would abide . . .
But then you check their footwear . . . and you know . . .
Searching for the perfect ramen can be like that . . .
You know enough . . . after a while . . . to drop it . . .
Drop it onto the collection plate . . .
If only parenthood could be planned with as much finesse . . .
The effort to ward off the delusional . . . in a word, Triumphant! . . .
It would seem only logical, yes? . . .
I mean . . . the multifaceted . . . and all that . . .
By the time you get to Phoenix . . .
The phoenix will have risen . . . above the quay . . . and steel mills . . .
leaving you holding a charred, autographed copy . . .
of the program for the current year . . .

Lydia Roberts

Screen Dump 184

You wore matching thunderstorms to your latest audition . . .
and delivered lines from Machiavelli . . .

Sorry for what you consider discourtesy . . .
I tried to keep everyone informed . . .
It was my idea last year . . .
So I figured I would take responsibility for doing it this year . . .

And so . . .

Moviegoers will again be fed reruns . . . and remain confused . . .
between mouthfuls of buttery popcorn . . .

Retreating with your boxed set of heirloom purple amulets . . .
You're good to go . . .
Rewinding the misreading . . .
Its pulsations - 12-a-minute - match your breathing . . .

Duct tape adorns the wobbly diorama . . .
Carried aloft by a bevy of bees . . .
The flight plan . . . mimicking Daedalus's . . .
seduces Icarus to rise . . .

Later . . .

Mid-afternoon . . . snowshoeing the whiteness . . .
There will be no pussyfooting . . .
or double-entendres . . . however enviable . . .
Your sincerity . . . the space between parentheses . . .

Did I, like you, miss something? . . . Yes, Virginia, . . .
the new is too new . . . for some . . .
High-fiving Major Bowes and Ted Mack . . .
Have you taken your vitamin C? . . . and your selfie? . . .

David Benoliel

Screen Dump 183

. . . the absolute inanity of calling anything a fictional essay.
          - Anne Carson

You talk at length with Keats . . .
You ask about his words . . . which you want to believe . . .
were written in rooms with high ceilings . . .
You ask him to look at what you're working on . . .
He says he will . . . but then runs out of time . . .
There is no way back . . .
You worry the final exam . . .
Later you are able to define infidelity to your satisfaction . . .
though it isn't . . .
Strange how quickly the principled departs . . .
and leaves you in the middle of a busy intersection . . .
sans clothes . . .
Have you forgotten to call the plumber about the leaky faucet? . . .
I thought so . . .
The voice of God sounds human, yes? . . .
It's nothing . . . just the reluctance to admit the fool . . .
And your obsessions? . . . Are they reality? . . .
Shouldn't they be? . . .
If the problem is systemic . . .
Yes! Yes! I know . . .
But then when was the line actually crossed? . . .
You mean crossed so that we both knew? . . .
Your words float downstream . . . farther and farther . . .

Sarah Moon

Woman XLVI

instead of sleep
I scan images of her
costumed
dancing
my finger blue
from swiping the screen

Katerina Plotnikova

Screen Dump 182

I can’t watch the sea for a long time or what’s happening on land doesn’t interest me anymore.
          - Monica Vitti

Forget as well the alchemy of your zipcode . . .
A good idea . . . but not scalable . . . by any stretch . . .
Besides, there's nothing there . . .
nothing more than the placement of two objects . . .
next to one another . . .
filling pages (?) with stars . . . underlines . . . dog-ears . . .
The talk . . . outside yourself . . . is good . . .
Stepping over the rambunctiousness of words . . .
Releasing the binders . . . before it's too late . . .
Before the chopping block . . .
Before the cue . . . for the final scene . . .
These borderline personality mockups . . . have taken their toll . . .
Despite all, they'll do what they damn well please . . .
dining with Nero . . . so to speak . . .
in his rotating banquet room . . .
Pandemonium? . . . You bet! . . .
You've seen this coming, yes? . . .
in the moments before you left . . . hands full of condiments . . .
and compliments . . . trashed . . .

Screen Dump 181

Opulence? . . . Forget it . . . that was yesterday . . .
or the day before . . .
Today . . . we're all about collaboration . . .
How not to drop the ball . . . if it's ever handed to you . . .
And of course the enigma of pupillary response to collaboration . . .
Channeling the undiscovered beauty of pupillary response . . .
When necessary . . .
OK, let's play this: you're at the gym . . . on the elliptical . . .
The trainer-in-training is circling the room . . .
You worry exposure . . .
But intrigued by the idea of collaboration . . .
How much to pump? . . .
What angle is best for maximum burn? . . .
Open your McGuffey to page 7 The Maniac . . .
You mean like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance? . . .
No! No! No! . . . Not that!
Our bodies intersect at the cicumcenter of the triangle . . .
whether we like it or not . . .
Back to back, belly to belly, I don't give a damn, I done dead already . . .
But let's not go there just yet . . .
Today, it's collaboration, remember? . . . c-o-l-l-a-b-o-r-a-tion . . .
Someone requested input, yes? . . . Make it new, yes? . . .
This is the scary part . . .
Like Bela descending the staircase, saying . . .
Listen to them . . . Children of the night . . . What music they make . . .
And Renfield . . . sated on flies . . . ever the realtor . . .
Focus on the feet . . . as if you were back in your basement studio . . .
Cranking out canvas after canvas . . .
Which, by the way, I really liked . . .
Decades pass . . . bridges are burned . . .
Dylan thanks many . . . and spears the critics . . . at MusiCares . . .

Come gather 'round friends
And I'll tell you a tale
Of when the red iron pits ran empty
But the cardboard filled windows
And old men on the benches
Tell you now that the whole town is empty.*

Suspend disbelief . . . take something for your Shock of the New . . .
A magnificent series and book by Robert Hughes . . .
which incidentally I picked up for a song . . . in a minimart . . .
where the Marx Brothers featured . . .
and many of us boarded the ship of shtick . . . some never to return . . .
You, however, lived as you always did . . .
Rewriting scripts to fill the bill . . .
Happenstance intervened . . . and led you away . . . or astray . . .
Following nature's headlights . . . Not a bad thing, yes? . . .

*Bob Dylan, North Country Blues

Jennifer Beals  in Flashdance

Screen Dump 180

Apparently someone else made it all the way through . . .
and tried on the vernacular . . .
You've seen these parlor tricks before . . .
We all have . . . last year . . . in fact . . .
So let's do them again . . . and get really ho-hummed . . .
Always good to go to the white board, yes? . . .
Re-up (as they say) . . . and get pumped . . .
You're only as good as? . . . Really? . . .
Is that it? . . . Well . . . I'm OK . . . if you're OK . . .
Even if you're not OK . . . OK? . . .
Watch out for sedentary recluses crossing against the light . . .
Make it happen . . . and look what happened . . .
Approximations of the examined life . . .
but with a generous retirement package . . .
drop-kicked from the 10th yard line . . .
And please don't forget to enter the drawing . . .
for Opera Maven of the Year . . .
Streamed . . . every hour on the half . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 179

Parking a silver Bentley Mulsanne in your back pocket . . .
with miles to go before you sleep . . .
the sleep of innocents . . .
picking through a bin at the corner iCandy store . . .
your finger in the pages of Murakami's Strange Library . . .
even more hushed than usual . . .
You have videotaped hours of makeovers . . .
and found yourself nights in the editing room . . .
with frosting on your doctored nose . . .
pockets bulging with parking tickets . . .
posing as Lottery tickets . . .
By the way, your iPhone called in sick . . .
The times? . . . They are indeed a-changing . . .
It's not so much do this . . . do that . . .
It's something else . . .
A new do, perhaps . . .
A reworked scene . . .
Whatever it is . . . will be massaged . . .
like the donor's heart . . .
to answer the questions that have been airdropped . . .
and to be corrected analyzed blue-penciled . . .
and returned . . . for revision . . . later . . . in the month . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 178

If there was no term for something, it might be thought that the
commodity is of small importance.
          - Donald Richie, A Tractate on Japanese Aesthetics

Pocketing onomatopoeias . . . or onomatopoeiae (either) . . .
The line from here to there . . . from me to you . . .
With you leaning out . . . bookmakers - especially - leaning in . . .
Celebrating life's fine-tooth combs . . .
A time and a place for that too . . .
What if you were called to provide expert testimony . . .
on this or that? . . .
Could you . . . at a moment's notice . . . pick up where you left off? . . .
And now . . . the day done . . . Can you imagine? . . .

Olivia Frolich

Screen Dump 177

Intrigued by the fetishism of bending the air . . .
Emigrants from the edgelands . . .
carefully toe the deep end of the pool (hall) . . .
A mathematical reluctance . . .
a devil-may-care attitude . . .
now that pretty much anything can be undone . . .
The unofficial countryside . . .
of patterns . . . and proofs . . . and gaps . . .
The lost encores swelling the scene . . .
populated with players on the edge of your memory . . .
Your finger on undo . . . just in case . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 176

You ride out superfluous comments . . .
passing a room of garrulous mannequins . . .
whose painted-on eyes . . .
prevent you from doing the right/wrong (circle one) thing . . .
The times change . . . elsewhere . . .
You worry the consternation of some . . .
after consulting a dictionary . . .
feeling energized by alphabets . . . near and far . . .
especially those for multiple platforms . . .
It's time for the future . . .
You are thankful you have done your homework . . .
and smitten with the thought of more . . .
But then you learn there is something deeper . . .
something hiding in the shallows . . . a deeper consideration . . .
appropriating words . . . willy-nilly . . .
from award-winning crossword puzzles . . .
This is only the beginning . . .

Adamo de Pax

Screen Dump 175

With you . . . glittery gowned . . . examining the aftermath . . .
afraid that too much happened . . . too soon . . .
A plate of spaghetti forgotten . . .
Your lush life reflected . . . in too many mirrors . . .
Before you know it . . . you are recast as an opportunist . . .
or an optimist . . . which is it? . . .
who will do anything to curry favor . . .
for a dime bag . . . of antioxidants . . .
You sleep in the spare room . . . within its spareness . . .
within its untrammeled willingness to accommodate . . .
within its DSM-5 single axis assessments . . .
to say nothing of its outlandish vistas . . .
There are voices in the walls of the spare room . . .
narrating the pixels of your unexamined life . . .
dealing anecdotes on the sullen streets of your city . . .
You feature countless times . . .
and appear . . . a moment too soon . . .
on several occasions . . .
Little of import happens . . .
until the players . . . with their parts . . .
enter the spare room . . .
relinquishing their passed-over lives . . .
all spiffed-up, of course . . .
just like in the good old days . . .
when spare rooms made for exaggerated expressions . . .
by players escorted therein . . .
following the dotted line of the body's shadowy escarpments . . .
and where by chance . . . and only then . . .
would the truth of the matter rear its head . . .
Three sheets to the wind . . . again . . . and again . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 174

You have sped through intersections . . .
and gotten away with murder . . .
in a surprising conjunction of opposites . . .
When was the last time you checked your email . . .
for walk-ins . . . interlopers . . .
and other borderline personalities? . . .
In absentia . . . can be fun . . .
and you will have enough time . . . this time . . .
to complete the assignment . . .
should you choose to do so . . .
and . . . it would behoove you to do so . . .
The intimacy of the bubbles . . .
slipping out of Jobs's dent in the universe . . .
is good . . . and wishful . . .
We should be happy . . . and we are . . .
despite the bloodshot eyes of time . . .
which never close . . .
Your therapist has been briefed . . .
to see or not to see . . . which meds . . .
do the trick . . .
the trick . . . not unlike priming yourself . . .
by scanning lines . . .
from a few of your favorite reads . . .
I myself will go with the aftershock . . .
of discovering misspellings in ATMs . . .

Akif Hakan

Screen Dump 173

Riding the buses was like being trapped in a Samuel Beckett play.
          - Lance Austin Olsen

As if these award-winning vignettes . . . informed your life . . .
The steps to . . . and from . . .
Your life as hypertext markup . . . with sidebars . . .
for family . . . and friends . . .
La familia de Cecilia . . . remember that . . . from freshman lab? . . .
Recording five piano suites . . .
commemorating imaginary events . . . in your life . . .
Isn't this what matters? . . .
Little consensus here . . . As expected? . . .
A knock on the door . . . the scene begins . . .
with widescreen guitar rock . . .
Field recordings . . . and why not? . . .
Improvising on the script . . . always a trip . . . and he/she knows it . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 172

Never use the definite article . . . with me . . . she said . . .
I realized then I was wearing a tie . . .
and fiddling with it . . . fiddling with it . . . fiddling . . . with it . . .

Emmanuelle Seigner

Screen Dump 171

The gaming tables open with rhetorical questions . . .
and you . . . dressed for the roll . . .
insist on the provocativeness of Polaroids . . .

There is always something else . . .
always something cutting into the rapprochement . . .
always something that needs to be done . . . or should be . . .

Building an argument for change, for example . . .
Your pins reflecting wanderlust . . .
as if you have been waiting all your life for the barbarians . . .

You tally moments . . . archiving appropriations . . .
with an eye toward sitcoms . . .
Off camera, you worry perspective . . . and momentum . . .

This is not the first time . . . or the last . . .
Taking what's happening now . . .
and imagining what would happen if it kept happening . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 170

You like to start the day . . . with your own coffee . . .
in your own cup . . .
despite the distress of your heels . . .
on the sidewalk . . . at four AM . . .

You never stay the night . . .
What would you talk about in the morning? . . .
You're speaking in a rumor of pentameter . . .
as Dante's Francesca . . .

You have stepped outside for a smoke . . .
taking notes . . . codifying liaisons . . .
(You're tempted to tweet but there's no cell service down here) . . .
The thought of beauty provokes rhetorical escalation . . .

but the winds in the Second Circle . . .
make it impossible to interview Phlegyas . . .
who has taken on the role of tour guide . . .
as if on a London double-decker . . .

What's with the coins in the passengers' mouths? . . .
Doesn't this boat have autopilot? . . .
And why is it so damn hot? . . . I could use a drink! . . .
Where's the waiter? . . . The service here sucks! . . .

Your husband's brother, yes? . . .
Ten years, yes? . . .
And now? . . . the game over . . . the word out . . .
banished . . . forever . . . to this maelstrom . . .

How often did you sillify encounters . . .
dismantling the false sincerity with jelly dripping from your lips? . . .
How often . . . in your excitement . . .
did you drop the hardcover into the bathwater? . . .

Screen Dump 169

You fill your notebook . . . with admonitions . . .
Not bothering to correct misspellings . . .

Screen Dump 168

You take a number and stare at the meats in the deli case . . .
You have survived another trip to Neverland . . .
where incomplete sentences are diagrammed in full view . . .
and pieces of jigsaw cavort to exhaustion . . .
Oblivion changes color . . . again . . .
You are tempted to phone a friend . . .
The deficits of seduction stare you down . . .
Not since . . . you can't remember . . .
An RV goes by . . .
brimming . . . with circus performers . . .
from your old neighborhood . . .
friends who spent far too many nights . . .
brushing with whiteners . . . while asking ATMs . . .
over and over . . . How do I look? . . .
Could it have been any other way? . . .
Review . . . again . . . your options on the drop-down menu . . .
the ones not grayed-out . . .
The caged bird sings off-key . . .
dreams of coloring outside the line . . .
lip-syncs Pulitzer'd composer John Luther Adams's . . .
In the White Silence . . .
You begin to fog from Abilify . . .
when images of your analyst texting . . .
while you spill your guts . . . slap you back . . .
A session In the Night Kitchen would upend his redacted ass . . .

Screen Dump 167

The unmooring . . . abandoning the original phrasing . . .
losing the delightful peculiarities . . .
of playing rubato . . .
as if the subtext from Bergman's Scenes from a Marriage . . .
had made its dispassionate way . . .
through cyberspace . . . into your inbox . . .
You are between scenes . . . between roles . . .
between lovers . . . between . . .
an exemplar of élan . . .
of sweetening the stakes . . .
which more often than not plays out in your favor . . .
as the lights of time quench the sky . . .
with the warm repetition of place . . .
The motion to open has been ignored . . .
or misplaced . . . whichever . . . the redundancy resurfacing . . .
reassuringly . . .
as votaries engage an infinite loop . . .

Marie Fleur Charlesworth

Screen Dump 166

Reading between the lines to new ways of listening . . .
Curatorial duties aside . . .
Who knows? . . . You could be next . . .
With those ramifications . . .
Snowshoeing? . . . On a shoestring? . . .
Into Great Silence? . . . To hear what you see . . .
Pirating conversations with yourself . . .
with others . . .
then doing a one-eighty and returning to your yurt . . .
far from the insistent irrelevancies . . .
of ubiquitous machines . . .
Say again? . . .
Several are impressed by the way you handle intrusions . . .
Wild nights - wild nights! . . . Were I with thee . . .
Not that you couldn't shine . . . if pressed . . .
Have you read the latest doggerel . . . per whomever? . . .

Screen Dump 165

It matters if you want it to matter.
          - Maxine Kumin

But what about contextual heft? . . .
Words corralled from undergraduate syllabi? . . .
Cashing in before stepping out . . .
or stepping on . . .
or stepping over . . .
Always the problem of irrevocability . . .
Of crossing the bridge . . .

For work? . . . Pegged pants and cable knit sweaters . . .

Act 2 Scene 1 . . . In the red Cobra . . .

My height intimidates players . . .
They love it! . . .
Especially after googling wine lists . . . as if . . .
Always the same sluggish words . . .
Where are you from? . . . What do you do? . . . blah blah blah . . .
I traffic in consumables . . .
Packaged as in . . . As You Like It . . .
I hold the aces . . .
Control the scene . . .
Flip the roles . . .
But always . . . Far from the Madding Crowd . . .
I never anticipate counting ceiling tiles . . .
Make the most of a (sometimes) pathetic situation . . .
Ready or not, here I come . . . Oh yeah! . . .

The food networks . . . among others . . . want in . . .
As was Sappho's choice on Lesbos . . .
And now? . . . All accounting? . . . Retrospective . . .
Appropriated and - ideally seamlessly - embellished . . .

Take me in . . .
Feed me . . .
What big lips you have . . .
All the better . . .

David Benoliel