Screen Dump 234

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

Screen Dump 233

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

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 232

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

Louise Ebel

Screen Dump 231

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

Screen Dump 230

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

John Galliano

Screen Dump 229

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

Paolo Roversi

Pocket

          - for Diana, my once and future wife

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

Screen Dump 228

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

Agnes Martin

Screen Dump 227

It's not what you expected . . .
First Netflix . . . and now? . . . the table read? . . .
Why think otherwise
when experience has spelled it out on the whiteboard? . . .
Editing the one-act might be the way to go
at least to buy time
before we go in for the full catastrophe . . .
tap dancing with bells and whistles
not unlike those who preregistered
for the cancelled  course . . .
The life of a delusion can be edifying . . . and fun . . .
certainly seductive . . . for most . . .
who instead of skipping to the last chapter
linger among words elsewhere . . .
letting the letters slide down their cool bodies . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 226

Incidentally, the sidebar was a hit
accolades from the second floor
vying for a seat behind home plate where it always seems . . .
You could have at least tried
but, no biggie, I rarely expect more . . .
It's just one of those things
that seems to gain momentum . . . with each stroke . . .
Your dreams of gymnasts
before suiting-up . . . or suiting-down
for your latest foray . . . into the Land of Reps . . .
all eyes on your prize-winning muffins . . .
A trophy case in a dusty doilied parlor
Grampa at the Stromberg-Carlson
the days when (k)nights were bold
and steeds were prancing
with poor Miniver growing leaner by the nanosecond . . .

Kate Moss

Screen Dump 225

. . . nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.
          - E. E. Cummings

Your n of 1 experiment . . . or experiments . . .
where I - and many - have never traveled
though I'm sure our dreams have dipped in a toe or two
testing the water with a fragility so intense
its texture colors other lands
and summons players . . . to the play
conjuring the slots in Atlantic City
where . . . in another time . . . your look unclosed the odds-and-enders
lost in the snows of high summer
mesmerized by the sound of the bangles
encircling your thin wrists . . .
your voice . . . the color of rain . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 224

But then someone says . . . Oh, forget it . . .
So what's the point? . . .
Yes, we all mix fragments of memoirs
into what we would like to think are tasty stews . . .
puff . . . puff . . . puff . . . the Magic Dragon . . .
The Etch-A-Sketch approach to lingua franca . . .
Your meal tucked into Styrofoam . . .
Your friends . . . back to worrying gingivitis . . .
Please don't blame them . . .
Ask yourself how often you staked the wrong claim
quibbling over the placement of tchotchkes
your voice lifting . . . into a marginal climb . . .
the hometown favorites benched . . .
And now, Maestro? . . .
Pinning your spitshined accomplishments
as if those in the know knew . . .
A terracotta trophy supersized for the winner . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

70 Lines Randomly Selected from the 2,593 Lines in the 137 Poems
Composed in my 70th Year Using the Random Integer Generator at
random.org on my 70th 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 Lexicon of the Ancients . . . and then some . . .
Ticking off insignificant others . . . who played a role . . .
Your pics of random lives . . . were scanned . . . and planted . . .
I believed in you up to the last umlaut . . .
There's a time and place for such levity . . .
These things happen . . . I was told . . . in fourth grade . . .
Can you imagine? . . .
Asking yourself Who wrote that? . . .
Do you fear being called up? . . .
Or shortsightedness? . . .
You have rubbed the relationship raw . . . the reality balderdash . . .
Passing you on the way to the subway
but worry HIRD (Hip Internal Rotation Deficit) . . .
Losing track of fiendish departures . . .
The momentary loss . . .
Having a smoke? . . .
Into the Twilight Zone . . .
You contemplate settling for even less . . . most do, yes? . . .
New morphological evidence appears . . . on your desktop . . .
You as steampunk . . .
The anchovies engaged in their own trancelike deceptions? . . .
Checking your email for holiday doodads
and lonesome grins
you highlight . . . the (pen)ultimatum
skitter out of earshot . . .
Can compel you to tweak your memories . . . your incidentals . . .
Pics . . . of you . . . 10, 20 years ago
sucked in by the makeover . . .
Now what? . . .
It's not so bad . . . Not bad at all in fact . . .
Of both open and closed mics . . .
If the green's good . . . it's all good . . .
The nitty-grittiness . . . and all that jazz . . .
You collected empties (not new)
rarely returning before 4 AM
far from the insistent irrelevancies
as votaries engage an infinite loop . . .
An RV goes by
from your old neighborhood . . .
Building an argument for change, for example,
and other borderline personalities
all spiffed-up, of course,
just like in the good old days . . .
The sleep of innocents . . .
You have videotaped hours of makeovers . . .
And to be corrected analyzed blue-penciled . . .
You've seen these parlor tricks before . . .
You're only as good as? . . . Really? . . .
This is the scary part
next to one another . . .
Using the app Cyrano to text someone by someone else
staring you down . . . not that easy to lose, yes? . . .
Yellowing with age, I couldn't help but think of the foghorn
before it was too late . . .
Your words rising from their moorings
is costing too much time . . .
Surely this will morph into an eponymous best seller
and other such inconveniences . . .
of the difference between suspend . . . and pause
however . . . whenever . . . wherever . . .
I mean that's where we will surely find authenticity
to the concentration on gesture
to the sound of the surf
talking up the pleasures of silk . . . the fury of connections
oblivious to the nuances of those in the know . . .
The spin cycle is almost over, yes? . . .
Connecting the dots of the day
magic markers bleed through the paper
of coolheaded air traffic controllers
at Nassau Community College . . .

Tintern Abbey

Screen Dump 223

You're prattling on . . . about barometric pressure and migraines . . .
Hiding under sheets of sound . . .
trying to make the most of the nose-thumbing day
threatening to botch the weekend . . .
Release the algorithms
but please try not to frighten the newly-hatched
who have their own 12-step program to master . . .
A hummingbird's cue
and you're into the next chapter and verse
tallying the circumstances that squeezed through the aperture . . .

Lydia Roberts

Screen Dump 222

. . . if you scratch an actor you will find a child.
          - Sir Richard Eyre, Utopia and Other Places

I have no idea what you're talking about
but please continue . . .
I will set the periodic table as requested
and master the misquotes
which should do well on the open market
despite the niggling problems with fair trade coffee . . .
Haven't the cormorants done a masterful job
shepherding the summer? . . .
Who would have thought? . . .
The fascination with constellations
has sent minions running for cover . . .
I don't understand the point of newsfeeds . . .
Please be patient with the ATM . . .
It's all we have . . .

Marilyn Monroe

Screen Dump 221

Funny how costume changes expose our inner brush strokes
and pave the way for unannounced site visits
by philatelists worrying event parking . . .
Ballet dancers with their tight tendons
and tight buns
and tight demeanor know this . . .
know that with the right moves
you can take yourself to the edge
straddle it
and jump off with absolute control . . .
Playing name games is fun and flirty . . .
Just ask twizzle-dee and twizzle-dum . . .
Ha, I knew the bathwater was implicated . . .
There have always been cover-ups
and TV dinners with missing chapters . . .
You had hoped to dispel worry . . . but it managed to steal home
with an abridged version of summer
as recommended by those counting down the minutes
to the opening gambit . . .
Incidentally, when was the last time you forked over leftovers
to passersby who went on to write reams
about the drudgery of off-color junkets? . . .
Time to adjourn to the Cape, yes? . . .
Not that you haven't a history of availing yourself
of every opportunity you heard about on Staten Island . . .

Sylvie Guillem

Screen Dump 220

The earliest form of adornment, shells used as beads,
is thought to date back about 100,000 years.
          - Jenny Diski

It was on the tip of my tongue but fell through the cracks . . .
Foraging through trash won't cut it
but rest assured you'll have plenty of time
when the rain drives everyone inside . . .
The year-end party, yes? . . . overtures . . . what not . . .
Did someone say Mom and Pop? . . .
They've been out of commission for years . . .
Time to redeem your coupons for new place settings . . .
The past is too slippery to hold on to . . .
despite your delusions and good dental hygiene . . .
Besides . . . it's never as good as you think it was . . .
Google it if you think I'm all wet . . .
Something will trigger something else . . . and then . . .

Paolo Roversi

First Lines From a Baker’s Dozen of Kindle Samples

All on the baker's list, Mrs. Breen said.
          - James Joyce, Ulysses

It is June.
I had always wanted to be a jongleur
to leap from the shoulders of another
to fly and tumble
to dare myself in thin air
with nothing but my arms and legs
to land me safely on the ground.
Quite the aqueous callithump, her dad mutters
inching their Honda Element forward in the traffic
easing the volume up a tick.
I was looking at the map when Stephen swerved
hit the rock, and occasioned the miscarriage.
The station wagons arrived at noon
a long shining line that coursed through the west campus.
Lots of things are overrated.
Etta sang as she walked.
I am the only person in the world
who might have been able to shed light
on the mysterious death of Urbino Vanoski.
Jeff Koons had just got up from his chair
enthusiastically throwing his arms out in front of him.
From July of his sophomore year in college
until the following January
all Tsukuru Tazaki could think about was dying.
At three in the afternoon I woke up
and there was Jilly Rudolph out on the deck
flipping through the local paper.
The longer my father lived in this world
the more he knew there was another to come.
Sometimes writing a sentence can be harder than serving one.

Screen Dump 219

The game is afoot.
          - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

The costumes for kayaking will kick it up a notch
stroke . . . for stroke . . . for stroke . . .
the line in the parking lot
waiting to be crossed . . . at the creek . . .
Why spend time categorizing snores? . . .
This is NOT OK! . . .
You excel at pantomime . . . and schadenfreude . . .
Segueing . . . at will . . . to questions of
provenance . . . and grayed-out menu options . . .
Is there a way around the question of importunity
where poor choices are commonplace
and the sloshing is enough to drive some bananas? . . .
Preconditions? . . . Of course! . . .
A smattering . . . of odds and ends, perhaps? . . .
Whose words are these anyway? . . .
Have you run the 5k past your lawyer? . . .
I demand a recount . . . and a transcript of the deposition . . .
We all know the bigger picture's call-waiting will only wait so long . . .
Not unlike your own fait accompli, yes? . . .

Jennifer B. Thoreson

Ornette

          for Ornette Coleman (1930-2015)

It seemed chaotic . . . cacophonous even . . .
And still does . . . sometimes . . .
But I like it
I like the invitation . . . to come along on the adventure
to throw out everything
to go abstract
to say whatever you want to say . . .

Screen Dump 218

Was I the same when I got up this morning?
          - from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

A labyrinth of incomplete sentences stalks you through a minimart . . .
Your OCD . . . on Facebook . . .
How often have you colored the moment monochromatically
or flashed gym rats while directing a PowerPoint? . . .
Later, in the parking lot . . . you'll have plenty of time to pay homage
to nose jobs and rubbery rules . . .
Plenty of time to resurface . . . in a bowl of Wheaties
as the gluten-free leave their shoes at the door
which revolves . . . in time to a somnambulist's theme . . .
Deleting emails surreptitiously? . . . Why not? . . .
Please don't ask . . . if I knew . . . I now don't . . . or do I? . . .

Screen Dump 217

Filling in the gaps . . . you can't imagine how it's possible
to manage beyond the here and now . . .
Excavating . . . to find a new role
then dropping back . . . as if to dust the body for prints . . .
A car enters . . . and exits . . . and enters . . . on cue . . .
Like many, you believe
Kid yourself into believing? . . .
Have the jokers been removed from the deck? . . .
It's your turn as bouncer
as the one who handles situations
the whatevers of crowds . . . the somethings-or-other . . .
I should review my notes . . . again . . .
Funny how words keep changing
bouncing into acceptabilities . . .
What's that? . . . The acceptabilities part? . . .
I don't understand . . . the drama of midday . . .
Of course, you do . . .
Of course, you've seen it coming . . .
Of course, we've all seen it coming . . .
The muted tones . . . the outrageousness of being . . .
And nothingness? . . . C'mon, drop the name, Sartre, yes? . . .
Standing . . . sitting . . . lying . . .
Returning to the scene . . . or trying to . . .
Is this your . . . as they say . . . comfort zone? . . .
Just out of reach . . . until . . . BAM! . . .

Andrew Yee

Screen Dump 216

They said they're on it . . . I have no reason to doubt them . . .
What about you? . . . Have you given it any thought
beyond Bo Peep's lost sheep? . . .
Don't sweat the effluvia of the current moment
or the cash bar . . . with its sharp edges
and penchant to stymie . . .
You have pinned many bogglers to the mat
and though the outcome has the potential to become tiresome
go with it . . . phone it in . . .
Unfasten the kayak . . . give it a paddle . . .
The morning's yawn . . . sparks a twitch . . . dormant for semesters . . .
Yes, this is! . . .

Screen Dump 215

Your days fill with the rigmarole of incidentals . . .
And now the weekend . . . with its pudgy demands
and misapprehensions . . .
Can you pick up the tab? . . .
That's a start at least . . . let's go . . . from there . . .
Why forfeit your ability to engage
by claiming ignorance . . . of the material
covered last week . . . in Chapter 11? . . .
You were tested on it, yes? . . .
The incomprehensibility you're experiencing is part of the lure . . .
And the hat? . . .
Was it the unfunniness of undressing
before Letterman's last hurrah
or something as irksome as plantar fasciitis? . . .
Wash and wear the evidence
adrift in espionage . . . with those avatars of yesteryear
so quick to pounce on inklings . . .
I know what you're thinking . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 214

You try on Saturday . . . for the weekend . . .
The lure of the costume . . . its episodic fringe . . .
Little or nothing unwanted . . .
What about the delicatessan . . . or subletting . . . for that matter? . . .
Your bedroom eyes . . . jumpstart my ego . . .
We need to forward the email
lest interested parties will lose interest . . .
Then we'll have to wade through the cursory intro
doubtless written by an underling
trying to score points . . .
How many times have you gone there . . . on a lark? . . .
Those days . . . my dear . . . always come back
to haunt you . . . in or out of character . . .

Andrew Yee

Screen Dump 213

The streets fill with widows . . . and widowers
leashless dogs . . . nightmares . . .
What's going on here? . . .
Sorry for the interruption . . .
Please continue hitting up liaisons
for lunch money
while I sort through pocket change
for tokens . . . totems . . . talismans
of past players . . .
Look, here's Enzo Ferrari
fresh from a sabbatical
pieced together . . .
You remember . . . the champagne
hugging curves in your all-night gymkhana? . . .
In uniform, yes?
Meanwhile, homebodies suck up to succubi
ignoring installation instructions
and labels on mattresses
This may cause dizziness . . .
Do not operate machinery . . .
Don't say we didn't warn you! . . .
Maybe it's the type of year . . .
a Michael Jackson type of year . . .
an Elmer Fudd type of year . . .
tonal registers . . . bottlenecking . . .
trash piling up with unreturned returnables . . .
We have seen the enemy, etc. . . .
Open a window . . . will you please? . . .
The next chapter opens with . . . what? . . .
The executive chef distracted . . . by wallcreepers . . .

Adamo de Pax

Screen Dump 212

Recalibrating the unnecessary . . . as always . . .
The lines blur . . .
You escape into your obsessions . . .
The day arrives amid . . . stars and stripes . . .
of conspicuous deletions . . . and evacuations . . .
Clocks lose their patience . . .
with out-of-pocket co-pays . . .
and recurring beginners . . .
Do something . . . in an effort to . . .
or have you too fallen through the cracks? . . .
Really? . . . If you think about it . . .
I mean . . . if you really think about it . . .
Certainty peppered with arugula . . .
Too many covers, yes? . . .
I would have liked to hear the acoustic stuff . . .
from their first double album . . . of indiscretions . . .

Paolo Roversi

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