Screen Dump 292

You open yourself to experimentation . . .
to the edge of the virtual (visual?) cliff . . .
Bemused subjects . . . some with nosejobs . . . follow suit . . .
costumed . . . for understudy
leading you back to the blank pages of your grammar school
where nuns . . . in full habit . . . patrol the halls . . .
dispensing indulgences with warnings . . .
The doorbell rings . . .
you answer it . . . and vanish . . .
for seven or eight years . . .
assuming various identities . . .
selecting menu items from both columns . . .
Admittedly, not much of a musical talent . . .
Offshore, an Evinrude sputters . . .
Newsprint crawling on all fours teases
grammarians emeriti . . .
the walls of your apartment besmirched
by an unknown stand-up comic . . .
You decide not to pick up where you left off
burying yourself instead in a dogeared Whole Earth Catalog . . .
convinced that double-reeds are the way to go . . .
a contrabassoonist satisfying your oral fixation . . .
This person who shall remain nameless . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 291

Life can only be understood backwards, . . .
          - Soren Kierkegaard

So I threw it into reverse
but still couldn't make out the Christmas carolers
the decked halls
the pristine lines . . . enjambed
my grandparents' wedding day
the tête-à-têtes
the in-absentias . . .
though I did hear the jazzers . . . faintly . . .
Then I got a new bicycle . . . a Rollfast . . .
red with red streamers . . .
Hey, where'd ya get the two-wheeler? . . .
From the bicycle shop in the lagoon
owned by a pod of sperm whalers
who were able to make a go of it
with the help of a small business grant . . .
It pays to know . . . you know? . . .
They ran through the specs of my bike
and filled me in on the whaling industry
circa 1800s . . .
the ghost ships that still roam the high seas
searching for missing children . . .
Like the Rachel or Terry Riley's In C? . . .
You got that right! . . .
Can you come out and play? . . .
No, I've got to finish shucking corn
and scoring gooseberries . . .
My life as a gooseberry . . . the sequel . . .
It's Canada not Canadian . . .
A bushel and a peck . . . and a rat-a-tat-tat . . .
Lying on a futon
in front of The Late Late . . . Late Show . . .
on a cool summer evening
Colin Clive as Victor Frankenstein
It's alive! . . .
the permutations . . . the combinations . . .
the out-of-the-box footage . . . knit one . . . purl two . . .
the cereal box mazes . . .
with shadows awaiting the heat of the sun . . .
a window to . . . Whereverland . . .
being clueless . . . the ecstasy thereof . . .
Falling asleep . . .
entering the room of a dream backwards
where she arrives . . . on a Harley . . .
I am all of 75 . . .

Screen Dump 290

Pronouns are . . . bossy and noisy.
          - Maggie Nelson

Plasticity spells adaptation . . . and suddenly
you know the next steps
suddenly you are the next steps
and the wherewithal . . .
and the noteworthy elements essential to the day . . .
to all days . . .
telling others they were at the concert . . .
telling others they are the concert . . .
There are no bigger fish to fry . . .
upstream or downstream . . .
Go out . . . see for yourself . . .
Was Leonardo DiCaprio worrying proper footwear
at the end of The Revenant? . . .
Weren't the embellishments so very very cool? . . .
and how about the sound trays
in their accoutrements . . .
introduced in the final two minutes
or was it the stranger . . .
or strangers
behind Door #2
awaiting the sound of your footsteps at 3 AM? . . .
arms filled with accents . . .
I'm tap dancing with language . . .
tap dancing with words
my feet are words . . .
Clarity? . . . I don't want to give everything away . . .
Who gives everything away? . . .
There's always a sequel, yes? . . .
If not, there should be a sequel . . . several! . . .
I hope I'm not too far off base here . . .

Laura Zalenga

Screen Dump 289

You seem to have these labyrinthine moments
in which 1001 strangers hang on your every word . . .
well, maybe not every word . . .
and printers' devils brown-bag the New Narrative
with finger-lickin' goodness
retrospectively, of course . . .
Like when you are regarded spot-on . . .
Suddenly, the clouds part . . . leaving you where? . . .
Leaving you here . . . in this difference of opinion
this semi-detraction
this double-wide
this then and now . . . of nail nippers
reportedly able to cut through bone . . .
It's quite obvious that you've been fiddling again
with the (place) settings . . .
Have you been taking your meds or are you out on a limb
with the go-betweens straddling bipolarities? . . .
The oblivion of being both is contraceptive, yes? . . .
I have felt this from the false-start . . .
Then doing a walkabout with the architecture buffs
though being able to regard each with a finer metric
is a good thing . . .
something worth going to bat for . . .
like the ever-present sexuality of the so-called moment . . .
the labyrinthine moment . . .
when the next installment arrives in the inbox
long after the deadline . . .

Laura Zalenga

Screen Dump 288

[a choral piece for seven voices]

v1: We are gathered here today to . . .
v2: Yes?
v3: Disregard the mirror's embarrassed reflection
its sameness . . .
neither stated nor implied
not unlike trying to find a mismatch in the sock drawer.
v4: Huh?
v5: Quibbling over the blueness of blue
and how over time most bow to convention.
v6: Fractured Fairy Tales!
v7: The fractured refuse to engage . . . for shame!

v1: A new cast awaits the green light.
v2: Bravo!
v3: We all occasionally buy into fools, yes?
v4: Grumble.
v5: C'mon, aren't we suppose to be sharing misnomers?
v6: But I've been unfriended!
v7: I continue to be distracted by the horizontality of positions.

v1: That happens . . . see Wittgenstein.
v2: Me too! To say nothing of the horizontality of arguments.
v3: You must remember this . . .
v4: Casablanca?
v5: I think I need to rethink.
v6: Rethink what?
v7: I'm locked out of my email and . . .

v1: I can't get (it) up!
v2: Like rain? The not-so-small hands of rain?
v3: But what if I expect otherwise?
v4: What if I misread the fine print?
v5: I need to rethink where to begin.
v6: Begin at the beginning, of course.
v7: Now look at what you've made me do!

v1: Look at what I've made you do?
v2: Hiding . . . again . . . behind your micro-softened words?
v3: Will I feel crushed? Is it OK to feel crushed?
v4: I'm the needle for the email thread.
v5: Cue the violin choir.
v6: Let the SUV careen off the edge of the screen.
v7: Epitaph? . . . What epitaph?

Mighty Aphrodite (1995)

Screen Dump 287

Period is too final . . .
          - Anon

Dylan's One Too Many Mornings greets you . . .
Ghosts carry on about the arbitrariness of hookups . . .
Feckless endangerment? . . .
You miss the subway stop of your childhood . . .
run through a run-through of the street scene
with homegrown players
table-reading not-so-modern versions
of Orpheus and Eurydice . . .
A traveling geometry
brings angles to the encrusted . . .
trawling shallows . . . stocked with unnatural monuments
to the ones that got away . . .
trawling shadows for 3D printings
of Shakespeare's First Folio . . .
But did they? . . .
In this poem, you are milking one too many mornings
as an homage to Dylan's tweaking . . .
You were enough . . . and then you weren't . . .
But it's coming around again . . . so . . . sit tight . . .
in your hallowed domesticity . . .
I've seen the farther reaches . . . exceed your grasp . . .
Study it . . . parley it . . . sauté it . . .
Figure this: you were entropied . . .
and you were entropied without permission . . .
And they were pissed? . . .
Few could have imagined the fiasco . . .
Please submit profiles of those few . . .
But I'm sure it was there . . . especially on moonlit evenings
when caramelized onions trumped caramelized apples
and minions engaged in repetitious acts of contrition . . .
the phoniness overwhelming . . .
So . . . where does that leave us? . . .
Please beg the next question
with your bedroom eyes aglitter? . . .
Of course, there was a semblance of whatever
but he/she left the mancave (womancave?)
without a paper trail . . . without a paper cut . . .
We'd like to hear about it because . . .
as with Fence Books we like to be stopped dead in our tracks
by challenging writing distinguished
by idiosyncrasy and intelligence
rather than by allegiance with camps, schools, or cliques . . .
Parlez-vous . . . the global language we all share? . . .
The suddenness of disclosure . . .
You have mapped the downstate venues of your travesties
where back seats were retrofitted for come what may . . .
and you came . . .
and that's when you arrived . . .
and that's when you were memorialized via Super-8 . . .
and someone's stubby Ticonderoga . . .
You decided you wanted to do this . . . and you did . . .
So there . . . charming bus stops in the Old Country
irrespective of their downtrodden heels and flimsy facades
await you with bated breath . . .
Might there have been another way to go about this? . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Screen Dump 286

[and with that the paradigm shifts]

Why now . . . after all these years? . . .
No idea! . . .
Please continue . . .

OK, as I was saying the court stenographer is off the charts
so don't expect a transcript any day soon . . .
Just a thought . . .
We all have them . . . occasionally . . .
Distance yourself . . . see if that makes a difference . . .
Perhaps the eroticism of stomping grapes? . . .
What? . . .
I kid you not . . .
You mean like Lucy and Ethel . . .
on the round-screen Stromberg Carlson
in my parents' doilied parlor . . . circa 1956? . . .
No, no, no! . . . I mean like Anne Carson
in The Beauty of the Husband . . .
her fictional essay in 29 tangos . . .
about a woman paralyzed with desire
for her feckless but beautiful husband . . .
After driving a friend to Montreal for eye surgery . . .
I went to McGill where Carson was teaching ancient Greek
and picked up a copy in the bookstore . . .
Anyway, in Husband Carson and her then husband Law
are stomping grapes . . .
His name was Law? . . .
Yup, here's Carson . . .

You cannot imagine the feeling if you have never done it –

like hard bulbs of wet red satin exploding under your feet,

between your toes and up your legs arms face

splashing everywhere –

It goes right through your clothes you know he said

as we slogged up and down

in the vat.

When you take them off

you’ll have juice all over.

His eyes moved onto me then he said Let’s check.

Naked in the stone place it was true, sticky stains, skin,

I lay on the hay

and he licked.

Licked it off.

The eroticism of stomping grapes, yes? . . .
Carson . . . now remarried to Robert Currie
aka The Randomizer . . .
does this collaboration masterclass called EgoCircus
a writing workshop in which there is no writing . . .
Imagine that! . . .
Exactly! . . . Imagining performance pieces
that will make writers better writers . . .
Anne Carson: The Poet of Perversities . . .
that's Laura Passin writing in The Toast 2015 . . .
But . . . I digress . . .
Hookups "R" Us . . .
our raison d'être, if you will . . .
And I hope you will! . . .
Nothing wrong with that . . .
Rejoinders . . . now there's a paradigm shift for you . . .
Rejoinders make for accomplished bedfellows . . .
Sweating through the final paragraphs
I was convinced that the ventriloquist's dummy
was about to deliver the 12 soliloquies
from Shakespeare's lost plays . . .
Huh? . . .
Go ahead . . . google it . . .
You even checked Strand's rare book section, yes? . . .
As if I would know one bowling alley from another . . .
Yeah, right, like Wittgenstein's grammatical confusions:
If you have nothing to say, say nothing . . .

Ellen von Unwerth

Screen Dump 285

Happenstance happened . . . igniting a firestorm . . .
the screen door ajar . . .
letting in the flies . . . and what not . . .
The door to the mind springing open . . .
to poetic freedom . . .
to artistic integrity . . . washed down with a Red Bull . . .
hearing a cacophony of stories . . .
trying to sort through the morass . . .
of random acts of so-called kindness . . .
Those on the clock suspicious . . . as expected . . .
But he/she is not wrong . . .
Oh, really? . . .
And what will you do after the dust settles? . . .
Ha, I read in your other poem
that the dust never settles . . .
when it comes down to
the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind . . .
or the spotted mind, or the spot-on mind . . .
I forget which . . .
especially now . . . with all sales . . .
final I should add . . . being extended . . .
Arguably . . . an insufficient amount of airtime
on getting the word out . . . to the shortlisted . . .

Philip Messmann

Woman XLVII

She consorts with puppets . . . no strings attached . . .

in a room filled with bobby-soxers

where she is subjected to the free passes

of agents who feign muteness

to fake Stradivari's signature

while playing stoop-ball with bassoonists smoking joints.

Weed is dressed to kill.

She loves basement bashes . . . un-posing . . .

and underclothing worn out.

The streets criticize her player-piano introductions

bottlenecked on bridges during rush hour.

Her wherewithal has caught on

with post-coital interviewers

who tweet at double-headers

where triple plays are as commonplace

as nosebleeds.

Costumed for night . . . she seldom rides shotgun

saving her literary lollipops for footnotes

and phony phone numbers floating in her wake . . .

her long legs spanning one and a half sidewalk cracks.

Gisele Bundchen

Screen Dump 284

Your Elements of Style are not my Elements of Style
are not her Elements of Style or his . . .

The dust never settles! . . .
I came to this aha moment as if by steam train . . .

as fool-proof as the watering can sitting out there on the deck . . .
which reminds me . . . It's time to turn the soil in the garden . . .

I await a transcript of the testimony . . .
an oblique view of the events as they unfolded . . .

"Do not color outside the line"

warned Sister Aloysius Joseph, my first grade teacher . . .

I got whacked on the knuckles with her twelve-inch ruler

when I colored outside the line . . .

I erased Humpty-Dumpty's name with such anxiety

I put a hole in the paper, and got whacked again . . .

The naughtiness of assignments sparkles the redundancy

of the day-to-day . . .

The naughtiness of Chekhov's Olga . . .
atop Seattle's Great Wheel . . .

rain-soaked . . . Facebooked . . . body parts color-coded . . .
accoutered with L. L. Bean relaxed outerwear . . .

Why sweat the backdrop? . . .
The Elements of Style await an out-and-back road race . . .

I think I'll wrap them up . . . in brown paper . . .
before the deer return to the wood after their morning feed . . .

Liliana Karadjova

Screen Dump 283

I am my own derivative . . .
my own non-sequitur . . .
A committee of one . . . pocketing delusions . . .
sweating square pegs in round holes . . .
retrofitting my Facebook presence  . . .
Far be it from me to emulate . . .
let me think . . .
to emulate a postulate taking final vows . . .
how's that? . . .
I vow to eat my spinach . . . but that's about it . . .
That we should all have evidentiary moments . . .
moments when we are knocked off our high horse . . .
moments when selfies
bleed through . . . the paper
and let go a Whitmanesque yawp!
that shakes the condiment aisle
condiments flying off shelves
condiment-missiles targeting fast-foodies
aisles where vicious circulars clutter
the faux-cobblestone floor
and florescent lights
induce close encounters . . . of the text kind . . .
with Language Nazis . . .
out for a night on - or off - the town . . .
harkening back to a time when . . .
A time when? . . . A time when
harkening back was Punch and Judy orgasmic . . .

Liliana Karadjova

Screen Dump 282

Everything, indeed, is at least double.
          - Marcel Proust, The Captive

You draw a line . . . in a sandstorm . . .
recalling moments when everyone seemed a double
when you wished everyone was a double
when rehearsals were contagious
and life was lived . . . by connecting dots . . .

I tried this . . . it didn't work . . . so I tried that . . .

No problemo, dude! . . .

I come here to hide
to try to connect the end to the beginning . . .
naming names to avoid confusion
intimating nothing . . .

There is a loneliness here
an underwhelming
warped facades . . . forsaken by cameras
aimed to capture the day-to-day . . .

The line shape-shifts . . .
into a world of understudies . . . with benefits . . .
wheeling dealing free agents . . .
with unfair trade promises . . . and closed source stories . . .

Stories begin and end in oblivion . . .

Players run amok

skipping paragraphs
chapters

crossing lines . . . willy-nilly . . .

You learn your lines . . . inside and out . . .
enter the scene
deliver them . . . in a panel truck . . .
without embellishment
without the unsolicited recap
without the blithering omniscience . . . of those in the know
without recrimination . . .

You manage this . . . despite the swirling madness . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 281

This then is the episode we salt and pepper . . .
Like listening to Chet Baker sketch out My Funny Valentine
through a mouthful of metal and plastic
after drug dealers knocked out his front teeth . . .
It's the behind-the-scenes that grabs us . . .
How things are versus how they seem . . .
Quentin Tarantino's The Hateful Eight . . .
the opening scene like the other day
hurling us back into whiteness . . .
O. B. Jackson driving six horses . . .
trying to get to Minnie's Haberdashery
before a blizzard eats them alive . . .
a ball-peen hammer striking a lovely bunch of coconuts . . .
sucking us in . . .
as when in the penultimate moment we collapse . . .
in awe of the world . . . in all its wonderful imprecision . . .
Always something, yes? . . .
But . . . it's all good! . . .
like being ignited by Lucia Perillo's poem Foley . . .
where everybody has a story
about intimacy's lowest common denominator . . .
and love's faulty disposition . . .
as if phone sex . . . across the fourth wall . . .
reminding us that
the body tells a story / mostly about loss . . .
Do you know it? . . .
But I am at my best when . . .
Of course, of course, you are! . . .
Especially after the black screen . . .
again . . . at the beginning of The Hateful Eight
Ennio Morriccone's notes coming from somewhere . . .
out there . . .
stopping us in our tracks . . .
and we forget . . . where we are . . .
we forget . . . everything we were meant to forget
when we agreed to enter the ring . . .
only to find ourselves asking
Why couldn't things be like this? . . .
that strange alchemy
of black . . . and white . . .
of what we expect . . . and what we get . . .
of what we have . . . and what we have not . . .
and . . . of the world . . . in all its wonderful imprecision . . .
in spite of . . . or . . . because of . . .

The Hateful Eight (2015)

Screen Dump 280

Chapter One . . .

Why continue to revisit failed love poems? . . .
The answer my friend is blowin' through the skulls of hyenas . . .

Chapter Two . . .

You find yourself weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic . . .
You worry neutralization . . .
a recurring dream . . . through eyes wide shut . . .

Chapter Three . . .

The Paper Chase . . . as always . . .
You'll have the honor of last billing . . .
and an imagined proof hammered into the record books . . .
The word tangential keeps butting in . . .

Chapter Four . . .

Your managed theatricality? . . .
It's got the best of you . . .
And your autobiography?
Whited-out . . .
Yet, language seems to matter . . . to some . . .
And they know who they are . . .

Chapter Five . . .

Irrespective of the flaws in translation . . .
everyone deserves a life . . . in words . . .
its irksome footnotes tumbling through darkness . . .

Chapter Six . . .

Just what is this thing you have for augmentation? . . .

Chapter Seven . . .

The musicality works . . . it really does! . . .
despite the barbs of fishmongers . . .
and inane enjambments . . .
submitted for someone's approval . . .
Facebook friends . . . perhaps? . . .

Chapter Eight . . .

Notwithstanding extras . . .

Chapter Nine . . .

The Kryptonite Diaries: A Leg Up . . .

Chapter Ten . . .

Why worry bric-a-brac . . . bus schedules . . .
downtrodden flâneurs . . .
dispirited by manifestos from every Tom, Dick, and Harriet? . . .

Chapter Eleven . . .

Out with it! . . . Please! . . .

Chapter Twelve . . .

Fascinated by the limelight . . . as we all have been . . .
or are . . .
compromising our role as MC of the here and now . . .
wrinkle-proofed . . .
tugging away at unfathomable junctures . . .
for the attention of animators . . .
who couldn't care if less is more . . .

Chapter Thirteen . . .

How's that? . . . You could have at least . . .
Something . . . not exactly sure what . . . but it will come . . .
it will come . . .
when honeysucklers join with chamber players
on off-days . . .
and play the roof off the joint . . .

Liliana Karadjova

Screen Dump 279

Fear not the logorrhea of the unblocked . . .
The calamity of driving a golf ball into rush-hour traffic . . .
a scene from You Are There . . .
Sundays . . . 6:30 . . . with Walter Cronkite . . .
when parlors were doilied . . .
and the livin' was easy . . .
We run out of oxygen . . . again . . . and again . . .
in our search . . .
over . . . and under . . . under . . . and over . . .
chasing the maddeningly elusive center . . .
You've been there . . .
and scribbled rejoinders worthy of Shakespeare . . .
flagging insurrectionists in your dreams . . .
ordering IKEA furniture online
along with Jobs' launching of a perfect cube . . .
SRO to hear a machine say Hello . . .
And now . . . the underlining . . .
anointing a string of words for the next patient
fretting a toothache in a dentist's office
walls adorned with images of kids and vacation spots . . .
and instructions for flossing . . .
Hooray for those with a day-pass . . .
You've scanned . . . and uploaded . . . your Kodak moments
You will never forget them . . . nor they you . . .
no matter how hard you try . . .
as your insinuations morph into comedy . . .
and exit through the gift shop . . .
Miles's Blue In Green jostling for attention
alongside your students
omniscient . . . indifferent . . . whatever . . .
shepherded into the bipolarity of adulthood . . .

Screen Dump 278

This syndrome of impossibilities . . .
It would behoove you . . .
Really? . . . And I thought you cared . . .
About what? . . . Far-flung admonitions? . . .
Family members, notwithstanding . . .
I am ready to resume . . .
Why hesitate? . . .
Oh, now I see that the ON button has a tendency to stick . . .
Submit a requisition . . . posthaste . . .
The aftershock is always . . . perplexing? . . .
You are aware that this offer will expire, yes? . . .
Fortunes . . . made . . . and lost . . .
despite your attempt at entrepreneurship
at the last feature . . .
when the opening scene brought down the house . . .
Are you ready to face the music? . . .
I believe it's John Luther Adams's Become Ocean . . .

Anja Niemi

Screen Dump 277

With less than a lifetime to play 20 Questions
you decide to re-enter the fray . . .
pining for a rainy afternoon . . .
the entropy of the moment swooping down
with felt-tipped pens for talons . . .
You could have taken an easier way
but hysterical blindness is driving the bus . . .
so that's that . . .
Incidentally . . . slowly is off-putting . . .
especially in the middle of the naked truth
when gaggles of tourists . . . sweating vinyl seats . . .
barge in . . . aiming iPhones . . .
and waving permission slips from elementary school principals
bemoaning lost weekends . . .
Right about now I want to thumb through a magazine . . .
(I can't believe I just typed "tight" for "right") . . .
But enough of this fantasia-sport . . .
I for one grew into adulthood with knees bent . . .
and suede elbow patches . . .
miming the director of that mini-doc
I've forgotten the name of . . .
Ending with a preposition? . . .
You bet! . . . My swipe at the inefficacy of rote . . .
Eyes on the prize, I suppose? . . .
Let's not think this all the way through, OK? . . .
I want to savor the fortunes of a few . . . I mean it! . . .
I want to drop everything . . . for something . . .
I want to stick cuspidor into this poem . . .
There, I did it! . . .
Distracted by your description of things coming to a head
when, for whatever reason, the endgame arrived early
and we were taken aback by the thought of leftovers . . .
junior varsity ball-handlers mentally dissecting your jeggings
with the pump of tin men exiting a motivational seminar . . .
I began thinking about those lazy hazy crazy days of summer . . .
to say nothing of the vibes we got
from insignificant backpedalers . . .
who kept wandering in and out of the cottage . . .
letting the screen door slam
which for better or worse in sickness and in health
is now or soon will be on the tip of everyone's tongue . . .

Andrew Yee

Screen Dump 276

Driving on the wrong side of the looking glass . . .
Irrefutably Heathcliffian . . .
Again, the story . . .
Trying to get the story straight . . .
The story . . . a smattering of misapprehensions . . .
neologisms . . .
return trips . . .
lost in the aisles . . . of a used bookstore . . .
jostling for immortality . . .
not unlike Xboxers who
freely associating your solemnity with past escapades
now stand on their heads
in the queue at Mickey D's
waiting for their grilled chicken sandwiches . . .
in their minds . . . a healthier alternative . . .
Examine the crossbeams of your gingerbread house . . .
the crossbeams of your thoughts . . . your regrets . . .
while I interpret the shadow
of your half-smile
matching it to the shape of your hands . . .
the shape of your lips . . .
exposing your offerings
to the down-the-hatchers . . . and down-and-outers . . .
who have fallen for your Youtube flirtations . . .
kicking back on off-days . . . and on on-days . . .
engaging Throwback Thursdays . . . without remorse or endives . . .
your stubborn refusal (is there any other kind?)
best approached head-on . . .

Alice Through the Looking Glass (2016)

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. . . doesn't every poem confess something?
          - David Kirby

You audition behind a screen for a seat in the pit . . .
the fanfare . . . Chanticleerian . . .
before stopping . . .
at the corner pub . . . in shorty . . .
the opening gambit . . . unpremeditated . . .
awakening video endgamers . . .
with a shuddering rise . . .
coming . . . again . . .
as if in service to Nefertiti . . .
taking a village . . .
letting the incidentals fall onto the gameboard . . .
moves . . . you invented . . .
gripped as you were
in the pre-sainthood days of martyrdom . . .
when every instant was up for grabs . .
the auction block loaded with requests . . .
(You do remember them, yes? . . .
not necessarily the sticky specifics
but the gist of the encounters . . .
some played by ear within earshot
of the players assigned to the rack . . .
the real point of the action) . . .
while outside the mist parlayed the rusting hulks of seafarers . . .

Fabio Chizzola

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People like to think that I was frustrated. . . .
          - Rose Wylie

Hickory, dickory, Doc Martens . . . evidently . . .
and then some . . . a full tank of gas . . . is not enough . . .
is never enough . . .
I celebrate my selfie, and sing my selfie . . .
as if bygones were . . .
while the looney tunes in the loony bin
soundtrack an unexpected darling of the art world . . .
glaring from beneath her pewter-gray bob . . .
seeded with happenstance . . .
nomenclature . . . a loose cannon . . . or canon . . .
wrinkling the thinking of those in the know . . .
Stop a moment . . .
and take issue with the troublesome minions . . .
especially now in the aftermath of an opening . . .
Disneyfying Dickinson . . .
Of course, you saw them . . . we all did . . .
so please drop (stop?) that line of questioning
before you're benched . . . two minutes on the clock . . .
with Klee, Taking a line for a walk . . .
The afternoon cometh . . . stalked by flurries . . .
It's not yet time to count sheep . . .
with a Hey, diddle, diddle, . . .
and free passes to the Auto Show . . .
And now you . . . with your camera . . .
memorializing moments for eternity's collage
awaiting the green light . . .
the steam train chuffing out of the station . . .
your unexpurgated memoirs . . . in tow . . .
through the woods . . . to grandmother's house . . .

Rose Wylie

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Sparring with place settings . . . at low tide . . .
as if rationalizing utensils with a sense of know . . .
accordion dreams back-pocketed . . .
tomorrow's version . . . on the tongues
of news anchors mired in flotsam . . .
Hum along . . . if you like . . .
with the dissonance of the Jersey shore . . .
where tête–à–têtes gasp their last
on the Bayone Bridge . . .
during rush hour no less . . .
and Roxanne tweeted something
about lumbago and Leonardo DiCaprio's
most-tweeted Oscar moment of all time
surpassing even Ellen DeGeneres's selfie . . .
Can you imagine? . . .
And just think . . . when the circus comes to town
you can suit-up for stand-up . . .
on the high-wire . . .
your four-inch heels . . . excuse me, five-inch heels . . .
just what the doctor ordered . . .
Playing ICU . . . at the light . . .
your coming (out) attraction . . . Oscar Night . . .
on the red carpet . . .
awaiting your cue . . . coat-racked against calm . . .

Per Zennstrom

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You thought you could unravel the laughter
aloft in strange machines
piloted by novitiates grown weary of story telling . . .
When the time comes, yes? . . .
The ink dissolving . . .
The audience exiting . . .
Remarkable in your post-Vanna White protocol
smoothing archaeological ruin from the third century BCE . . .
Surprisingly easy to walk the straight and narrow, yes? . . .
How many have adjusted contrasting embellishments
and resumed play . . . as if it were nothing? . . .
Pawn to Queen-Four . . .
Happenstance knocking at the door . . .
Time to re-enter the crinkled photos
when box lunches rode roughshod over delegates . . .

Begin mute . . .

Make a left turn here
while the voiceover is catching its breath . . .
Imagine circumvention . . .
Count the number of bagels in a baker's dozen
to help you regain a firm footing
and face the unknown with a patchwork quilt
and matching ambiguities . . .

End mute . . .

You will see what you believe
absent the existential interview and/or debriefing . . .
As you wish . . .
the main character was heard to say
before remembering forgetfulness
as if one two three threw open a portal
to a magic kingdom . . .
We are reminded of incidentals
echo chambers
classrooms filled with images of recipes
for navigating life's eddies . . .
The traffic ramps up
inspiring us to confront the dilemma of remainders
as if jumping the gun meant more . . .
Your six-year-old can do this, yes? . . .

Screen Dump 271

Incomprehensible regurgitations . . . overtake many of those
who seek solace in the balladeer's tongue . . .
conjuring the self . . .
while outside snow speaks makeshift lyrics . . .
We are released early for good behavior
to rouse the ire of the nasty weather . . .
pocketing vials of Teflon for the folks back home . . .
The streets clown us . . .
There will be no escaping the night . . .
especially now with your diary veering into unconsciousness . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 270

This standstill is senseless . . . but necessary . . .
Let's recap the past few hours days months . . .
You gave (head?) at the office . . . but didn't inhale . . .
while arch-conservatives polliwogged their way to keynotes . . .
We need to listen to clusters of notes before we decide . . .
No one note alone is good or bad . . .
Hours spent squiggling on the Freddie Freihofer Show . . .
its juxtaposition of arms and legs spawning footnotes . . .
some pages long . . . not unlike DFW's . . .
athletic . . . at the very least . . .
Good that you sloughed off the accusation of redundancy . . .
There's an aesthetic consciousness
in this gaggle of blunt assertions . . .
this mess . . . if you will . . .
this close encounter of the pathological kind . . .
Fear not! . . . the green light . . . the applause . . .
the key to the hidden room behind the bookcase . . .
in the library . . .
will temper in time . . .
Yes, the butler did it . . . with the candelabrum . . .
shuffling off his mortal coil . . . to Buffalo
with a windchill in the negative tweens . . .
But aren't most? . . .
John B. Watson for example knew exactly what he was doing . . .
before his stint as Mad Man . . .
bedding down his graduate assistant Rosalie
while conditioning Little Albert B . . .
who was never counterconditioned . . . to fear fur . . .
Never forget the basement of the Alamo, yes? . . .
You too have had hybrid encounters
and a reluctance to reveal your userid . . .
to anyone but your hairdresser . . .
in your 50-minute hours on Skype
bumping up against The People's Court . . .
litigating the littlest legalities
(if one chooses to call them that) . . .
while taking inspiration from she who must be obeyed . . .
Evidently . . . came up . . . again . . . and again . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 269

You spend afternoons with homonyms . . .
connecting dots of primordial images with the speed of a python . . .
In the free-weight room at the gym . . . language evolves . . .
The blinds withdraw . . .
Amanuenses appear . . . for St. Valentine's Day . . .
You continue to pump iron . . .
adjusting the sweats you took a shine to . . .
without a sense of dread . . .
The costume . . . as Book of Days . . .
as notations sanded smooth by prevailing winds . . .
runs deep . . .
Close encounters of some kind ensue . . .
You tap your smart phone to the beat of his/her enunciation . . .
Three sets of 12 reps, yes? . . .
You are reminded of . . .
those times . . . late at night when you . . .
enraptured by your Kindle . . .
keep adjusting its brightness . . . for better or worse . . .

Screen Dump 268

Cartesian luminaries . . . of the most outlandish . . .
brought in . . . at the last minute . . .
on ferryboats . . . saturated with artsy stuff . . .
Where to put in? . . .
My dreams paralyzed . . .
demanding answers to questions
orphaned in blue books . . . long ago . . .
You are heartbreakingly, disarmingly funny . . .
illuminating the what ifs
so dear to many . . .
especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays
when the bagels are at their mouth-watering best . . .
Back and forth . . . and again . . .
Imaginations rekindled . . .
Smooth faces in fun house mirrors . . .
with words . . . Frostian . . .
catapulting a mind of winter
into the present tense . . . with all the fixins' . . .
Instead of communion . . . a solo foray
within which words come alive
and lead to salvation . . .
and/or to that place for pondering the afterlife . . .

Charlize Theron

Screen Dump 267

Circumlocution . . . if only . . .
mired in reruns . . . the solace of the familiar . . .
taking a break . . .
assembling rationales for the hiatus . . .

you find plant life . . .
a crack in the glass . . .
from moment to moment
and then the drying out . . .

moving on . . .
folding yourself into an envelope
with instructions for re-entry . . .
riffling through dog-eared pages

transfused . . .
as if in the narrows . . . boats bottleneck
then begin without waiting . . .
But waiting . . . for what? . . .

The blank page? . . .
The incomplete sentence? . . .
You too cast off
then rethink

lines from your favorite books . . .
your favorite films . . .
By why now? . . .
Now when the others are about to arrive? . . .

Anka Zhuravleva

Screen Dump 266

Big-haired backyard barbecuers
dance feverishly
in yellowing collages of pics . . .
zigzag through the neighborhood
trafficking in incidentals . . .
fingers . . . keyboarding songs
swollen in possibility . . .
sheer happenstance
and garage band coloratura . . .
Recall the duct tape
its iterations
when what to my wondrous eyes should appear
cascades of ganglia
interspersed with large drops of rain . . .
This will take some explaining . . .
Is this the winter . . . of our malcontent? . . .
The song and dance continues . . .
Dogs and ponies celebrate
proof . . . of existence
logging roads and junkyards
vying for a place in the annals
of small town etiquette
and independent films . . .
Of course, you can do it! . . .
Well, there's always a first time
(don't deny it) . . .
but with ancient history snapping at our heels
it feels new . . . as if Scene 1 resurfaced . . .
in REM sleep . . .
How many years ago was that, again? . . .
Furniture music
the invasion of smart devices . . .
takeaways thrown away . . .
One could fashion an excuse (I suppose)
architectural embellishments
pock-marked with red anthills
kicking back with a beer
at the corner pub
the ongoing conversations
finessing flirtations
as if the countdown had begun
and locals had taken to the high ground
fearing floods
triglycerides
broken promises
from others earmarked for their contributions
to adult coloring books . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 265

Quizzical stares lead to a room where empty nesters
eager for the next assignment
take the scenic route to work
slip through metal detection . . . and into cubes
to engage their fantasies . . . before lunch . . .
Something bodes well here . . .
gaining momentum with Ashberian clarity . . .
wrestling with the script . . .
high water marks notwithstanding . . .
The new millennium continues to strut its stuff . . .
Santa will find out who's naughty and nice, anyway . . .
Some prefer not to carbo-load . . .
Some prefer to pick them up and put them down . . .
in full view of a diorama of articulated porn stars
sporting incidental galoshes . . .
speaking exponential volumes
brimming with architectural references . . .
Is this working? . . .
Is it making a dent in the indeterminate afterthought? . . .
It's time to cut to the chase . . .
to stop picking lint . . .
There is no story here . . . no landfill . . .
no hooks . . .
nor ax to grind . . .
nothing beyond your metric . . .
a drop in the unimaginable bucket of leftovers . . .
X + Y + Z = more . . . or less . . .

Dree Hemingway

Screen Dump 264

Someone should record this . . .
Absent condescensions . . .
You can do this . . . assume ownership of the character . . .
Meet yourself halfway . . .
OK, into the darkness . . .
Then? . . .
"All the world's a stage," yes? . . .
In Friendly's . . . with interlopers . . .
Can we start over? . . .
No idea . . .
Stop . . . already . . . with the analyzing . . .
Ditch the script . . .
I'm cutting and pasting . . .
I am in a restaurant . . .
Tap the app, already . . . please . . .
OK, OK . . . I'm reading the menu
looking for a theme . . . a conceit . . .
What? . . . Drop the formalities . . .
Find the door into the character . . .
But the character has disappeared . . .
Wing it then . . .
Sans this . . . sans that . . . sans this and that? . . .
Squabbling with those in the know? . . . in the front row? . . .
Break through the Fourth Wall . . .
Only you can prevent usurpations . . .
This time without backup . . .
without the profile . . . which was sketchy at best . . .
I am "at" my best . . .
Without overworking? . . .
Pace . . . Isn't that it? . . .
Now look at what you've done . . . the audience has disappeared . . .
But this is good, yes? . . .
You are by yourself . . .
No next line . . . no next scene . . .
freeing yourself to _____ (fill in the blank) . . .
No dropdown? . . .
No dropdown . . .

2001 film adaptation of Samuel Beckett's "Play"

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Late nights on rickety scaffolds . . . soliloquizing . . .
fractals costumed for clubbing
and something looser . . . less will in the world . . .
pumping regulars for chump change . . .
ignoring irregulars
who engage mindfulness . . . with a takeaway . . .
then sweat repercussions
while noodling entropy . . .
Alt-Shift and you're home free . . .
tapping out melodramas at 4 AM with Cinderella heels . . .
providing sanctuary
to bread truck drivers
who get more than your autograph . . .
then favorite you
while peeping through shutters . . .
You map a different route for yesterdays . . .
but your GPS sends you off-course . . . into doldrums . . .
Do you know enough now about the ins and outs
the ups and downs
the sidelong insinuations
of window-shopping
of playing hangman . . . on bridges
in the middle of snowstorms? . . .
The makeover cut to the chase, yes? . . .
with its run-through of opening scenes
players . . . teary-eyed . . .
reviewing crumpled pics . . .
You played your hand to the max
rode out your long-legged addenda with insider trades
and short-term hookups . . .
cascading schemes until further notice
from incumbents who didn't know and didn't care
as if rent-a-gargoyle was in cahoots
with the weary ghosts shuffling through the crystal castles
featured on the front page of that rag
you picked up checking out of Motel 6 . . .

Wendy Bevan

Screen Dump 262

But the lines are throwaways . . . the perspective trumped . . .
compartmentalizing your demons . . .
Act 2 Scene 2 Line 33 . . .
Wherefore art thou [insert name]? . . .
I see . . . the parched facade . . . the blemishes . . .
But don't we all? . . .
Foreshortening may work . . .
Allow you to appraise past escapades . . .
Can you deal with the attention . . .  fresh off the omnibus
on which you were held . . . per your wishes? . . .
Because why? . . .
Ah, yes, because you were engaged in developmental studies
with their Type II errors in abeyance . . .
and a loose cannon tethered to your toned calf . . .
Of course they're looking . . .
your backpack or attaché
brimming with paperwork . . . bound for glory . . .

Steven Meisel

Screen Dump 261

Doing time in the fun house . . .
the mirror reflecting your syllogistic somatotype . . .
believing the words of buskers
the slow curve to home plate
and the swings in the old neighborhood . . .
Tell me when your password expires . . .
and I will enter the magic room
where cats brew tea for associates
and wigglers wiggle . . .
What's with the latest installment in your biopic? . . .
I love the costumes . . .
Magnanimous of you . . . indeed . . .
but now he/she expects to be included in the loop . . .
like the puppy whose wet nose is pressed
against the pet store window . . .
Guaranteed to wane? . . . You bet! . . .
This posturing . . . in public no less . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 260

Look, you have to have a little faith in people.
          - Mariel Hemingway, Manhattan

Short chapters . . . make them short! . . .
Like The DaVinci Code . . . or Utopia? . . .
Woody and Diane on a bench beneath the 59th Street Bridge . . .
They had to bring in the bench, you know . . .
I've had to bring in a bench . . . many times . . .
Because you wanted to be romantically involved? . . .
Channeling Lord Byron? . . .
Mad, bad, and dangerous to know . . .
Spoiler! . . .
Cut to The Grand Budapest Hotel . . .
Piecing together a life . . . from scraps . . .
Why are you so depressed? . . .
Not just depressed . . . but so depressed? . . .
Fair question . . .
Because of my agoraphobia? . . . my phobophobia? . . .
In your own words, please . . .
OK, I've been at this for hours . . .
for days . . . months . . . years . . .
Everything eclipses everything . . .
I shouldn't have begun . . .
I should've left the notes in the nightstand . . .
The nightstand has taken wing . . .
Angels . . . are pissing and moaning . . . as well they should . . .
Do something before it's over . . .
OK, I'm rewriting the script . . .
I'm going to ditch the multiple choice questions . . .
Multiple-choice questions? . . .
Yeah, can you imagine? . . . Multiple-choice questions? . . .
Hundreds of them . . .
Life deserves an essay question . . .
An essay question . . . with extra time . . .
and additional blue books . . .

Manhattan (1979)

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The committee convenes to determine when a work of art
cannot be fixed or restored in the traditional ways . . . and
must, instead, be replicated.
          - Ben Lerner, The Custodians

Using 3-D printing to fabricate sculptural assemblages
of body parts . . . some bodies take in the exhibits at the museum
others scrub toilets . . .
An old-timer the color of dust rides shotgun in a pickup
the color of your scrunched hair . . .
Using the remote to switch roles . . . again? . . .
Why monkeyshines? . . .
Your mother dead 15 years thinks you're out walking
your big black mutt along the eerily-elevated High Line . . .
Thinking re-purposed artifacts? . . .
A jumping-off point . . . so to speak . . .
Mystery? . . . Yes! . . .
Warning: In the current show of Internet art . . .
the complexity is not indicated in the placard
beside the sculpture . . .
Reprinting your past scripts in 3-D? . . .
The endgame cometh . . .
Wooden players adjust their digital timers . . .
I will join them after I load the boiler . . .
Insignificant treasons . . . of the heart . . .
You await the remake . . .
summoned by mockups . . . of past odysseys . . .
trailers expelling intricate engines from the Renaissance . . .
I knew you would . . .
Embracing naiveté . . . ignorance . . .
Hover . . . then drop . . .
your ultrasounds . . . off the charts . . .
Forget Into Great Silence . . .
Cage's 4' 33" . . .
There is no perfect silence . . .
Act 1 Scene 1 . . .
You are (at) your own best . . .
nose pressed to the still-visible constellations
double-blinding players
whose hand-held buzzers emit subtle patterns of the mortal . . .
the body and soul . . . one . . .
You recall their lines . . . their movements . . . their gestures . . .
the rehearsals . . . the retakes . . .
It's all good! . . .
Feral cats skim the edge of trees . . .
There are others . . . as well . . . clamoring for something . . .
avatars . . . frosted with Facebook
ready willing able for leaps of faith . . .
their marginalization duly noted . . .

Screen Dump 258

Yes, I know you saw it coming . . .
hard and fast and in-your-face
gaggles of oom-pa-pa's . . . within earshot
seeking professional words
in their curmudgeonly way
while buying time on the parking meters
of their gratification . . .
Lots of hootin' and hollerin' . . .
which was supposed to be a big surprise . . .
but that was last night . . . now . . .
with its wilted line of happy questioning . . .
and one-too-many-overnighters
from past odysseys
when enigmatic avatars held sway
and curiosity was heavy metal . . .
Come to think of it . . . arms akimbo
would have been a nice touch . . .
therapeutic . . . indeed . . .
which according to telemarketers
is guaranteed to elicit dismissive looks
from passersby . . .
who know not so much . . .
But we know better, yes? . . .
Remember the shore . . .
with words sulking between the lines . . .
on the hot sand
when out was out and in was in? . . .
Premature, perhaps? . . .
It can be reversed . . .
if you're willing to go the extra mile . . .
don a costume . . .
for the duration of the interrogation . . .
speak iteratively in phrases
clandestinely applied with a camel-hair brush . . .
Not so? . . .
Check out your carbon footprint . . .
Can you honestly say you've eliminated salt
from your past life? . . . lives? . . .
Food preparation qua reparation
an inter-ocular undertaking . . .
if ever . . .
standing half-naked in the kitchen
mutated banjos dueling in the background
stirring up trouble . . .
What better way, yes? . . .

Fabio Chizzola

Screen Dump 257

Why be facetious . . . using non-words with binary flavors? . . .
Feeling foolish? . . . At this time of the year? . . .
Neologisms? . . .
No, the transits are in transit . . .
and the scenes are falling into place . . .
As if there were an overseer? . . .
Happenstance . . .
Ah, serendipitous, yes? . . .
Have you again forgotten your lines? . . .
You never had a problem entering a club and winging it . . .
On the fly . . .
Searching for a delusion to grab onto . . .
Not unlike the rest of the cast . . .
with their exits . . . and their (en)TRANCES . . .
their offset gypsyisms . . .
and monocular perspective . . .
We have tangoed outside the lines . . . many times . . .
Humpty Dumpty as spotter . . .
as serial list maker . . .
as drone . . .
You have waxed and waned with . . . uh, I've lost count . . .
Little matter . . . the taxonomy . . . though Procrustean . . . works . . .
That is what it's all about, yes? . . .

Alina Lebedeva

Screen Dump 256

What if there were a hidden pleasure in calling
one thing by another's name?
          - Rae Armantrout

In a voiced community . . . A reasonable facsimile? . . .
Rehabbing yourself . . . again . . .
you find remainders . . . of close encounters . . .
under the floorboards . . .
and begin running numbers
applying algorithms . . .
posting weary pics from yesteryears . . .
You are positioning the stars over your bed
for a takedown . . .
This will not make a difference . . .
Revisit the maps of your years
parse sentences
rethink the selections for today's menu . . .
Transcriptions of your names fetch big bucks . . .
This is not for public consumption . . .
Can you imagine the confusion
when the heat from the lamps begins to burn the skin
and the History of Loneliness begs to differ? . . .
Why now? . . .
I have no idea . . . None whatsoever . . .
Perhaps reviewing the dailies one more time
will shed light on the contents of the missing chapters . . .

Akif Hakan

Screen Dump 255

As if mummification were a side effect
of your (re)scribed meds . . .
a loophole in the quagmire of holidays
the back halls decked
with Morandi's dusty hues . . .
I am conversing with the thens and nows . . .
sidestepping altercations
and alterations
pining for takeoff from the cacophony of selfies . . .
The oblivion of the uninformed yet all-knowing . . .
intimations of immortality
recollections of Malmac place settings . . .
when visiting the lavatory
required permission  . . .
Quickly, the parking lots are filling
with blustery giftees
who desire a return to the state of un-giftedness . . .
Is there indeed an equivalent . . .
to the humdrum of breakfast drinks
that make palatable the blah blah blah of anchors . . .
sweating global warming
on what seems like every street corner
while dusting off between texts
their honorary degrees . . . of freedom? . . .

Gabrielle Rigon

Screen Dump 254

Your histrionics are history . . .
now that the plants in their embellishments have been watered
and taken out . . . for a test drive . . .
Tire Pressure Monitoring Systems . . . TPMS . . . have it all . . .
especially when the downside is backing into a parking space
with eyes on the trial balloon . . .
The elementary foci of gyroscopes . . .
coupled with the insignificant pages at the end of a book
hoist groping for meaning to a new . . . albeit preempted . . . level
where ifs ands and buts hold sway . . . with shape-changing dismay . . .
I would be among the first to crease the corner . . .
marking my territory (so to speak) for the unspoken
who are always ready to chime in with hot chocolate suggestions
and other post-time swizzles . . .
Please continue bailing . . . until we spot land . . .
or a reasonable facsimile . . .
which, when faxed to Battlecreek, MI
will bring you know who fame and fortune . . .

John Galliano

Screen Dump 253

You worry adjacencies . . . and grand rounds . . . and line-ups
and find yourself mugging . . . in a mirror
with someone twice . . . perhaps thrice . . . your EQ . . .
dancing with the frightening thought of tenure . . .
in the sad playgrounds of retirement communities . . .
The notion of absenteeism . . . of disappearance . . .
bumps you into a faster forward . . .
beginning with closer encounters at Bruegger's . . .
You know you can always didgeridoo . . .
And, yes, circular breathing will again release you . . .
buy you time to weather the latest in ultrawear . . .
your inner aborigine morphing into the next sonic terrain . . .

Ticki Stamasuri

Screen Dump 252

Elsewhere, you experience a rare biography . . .
a biography of postulates . . .
of opposites . . .
double meanings . . . squared . . .
labyrinths . . . hidden panels . . . and then some . . .
What is it? . . .
Putting in time . . . chockablock . . .
ingratiating yourself
if only for the sake of getting your bearings
in this Land of Unsound
the electronic infrastructure cradled in your lap(top) . . .
You have encountered these compositions before
in the thin hours of clubbing
asking for nothing . . . Yeah, right! . . .
You should begin to feel somewhat composed
in a few bars . . .
better to hear yourself
and the common ground shared by art and albatross . . .
The introduction less harrowing, yes? . . .
especially now that you've begun mastering the tracks
of your chosen form . . .
Think nothing of it, he/she said,
and you will garner praise
from the minions lining up for free samples . . .

Mario Sorrenti