Screen Dump 314

Endless arrays of costumes . . . their subtlety . . .
The clock . . . mimicking the art of the play . . .
the art of the players . . .
their parts . . .
chatting some up . . . bells and whistles . . . and all that . . .
Enlightenment on hold, of course! . . . otherwise . . .
Otherwise, what? . . .
Otherwise, . . . stop gaps . . . transpositions . . .
lost in the labyrinthine aisles
of supermarkets . . . and superstores . . .
Throw who a bone? . . .
Oh, really? . . .
Do you think . . .
Start over . . .
OK, how about this . . . Is there no other way? . . .
You could have at least waited for the credits to roll
yet knowing how way leads on to way? . . .
Time can move forward . . . and backward, yes? . . .
Why then waste time . . . in the waiting line? . . .
Subtraction as metaphor . . . as deal breaker . . .
as long lost . . .
Stop sign innuendos . . . fiberglass juxtapositions . . .
And you? . . . shortlisted . . .
here . . . in your bunker . . . a notch or two . . . up or down . . .

Kate Barry

Screen Dump 313

The Fall Before the Winter . . .

Act One, Scene One: The Agoraphobe . . .

A tilt-a-whirl ride in October’s unseasonal heat . . .
with you going on about the difficulty controlling
the unleashed vulnerability . . .
Your weeping willows . . . and pale matadors as such . . .
and your nostalgia . . . surely counterintuitive . . .
but so what? . . .
Hot prospects jam the queue . . .
Icebreakers . . . with pilsner (eye)glasses
as if Wittgenstein's half-smile
or Dylan's Nobel . . .
Hammering it out with Miles's Someday My Prince Will Come . . .
You decide to err on the side of happenstance . . .
lost in the strictures
of adult coloring books . . .
To seek refuge in a momentary lapse . . .
The incredible luminosity of such
with your ducks all lined up, yes? . . .
X marks the spot
where you began one of your maiden voyages . . .
To be continued . . .
But I thought the pervasive Dadaesque spirit of invention
was a matter of course . . .
wigging out over a red herring . . .
Notwithstanding? . . .
The question of balance comes up to the stage . . .
And I suppose you have others to spare? . . .
There’s a bagginess to it all . . .
a looseness . . .
nothing to steer the course . . .
You left in search of common ground
which you know as well as I
will quarrel with the provocative ensemble
inserted as an addendum . . .
You have been selected for tricks . . . and treats . . .
But aren't you already on someone's to-do list? . . .
Read the next paragraph to yourself, please . . .

Bruno Aveillan

Screen Dump 312

But I am done with apple-picking now.
          - Robert Frost, After Apple-Picking

You order a side of slaw from a waitress in a faded yellow uniform

and worry the humdrum of participating in a mass transit Q&A

as if the bottom were about to fall out . . .

Books are remaindered in times like these . . .

A Netflix devotee with a fat queue trots out an old something

you don't quite get . . .

You think leeks . . .

probably because Dr. Oz extolled their benefits yesterday

on several flat screen smart TVs . . .

Just how smart are they? . . . No idea . . .

When will they ever learn? . . . Dunno . . .

Raindrops keep fallin' on your head . . .

The morning meet-and-greet is a rain check . . .

The wet grass . . . and then? . . .

And then the concubine in you appears . . .

against the world of hoary grass

to announce that she too is done with apple-picking now . . .

Future prospects cast a baleful glance . . .

foreshadowed by ossification and entropy . . .

And so it goes . . .

the after-hours dramatization

the playing hooky in the aftermath . . .

Stymied . . . and overwhelmed . . . with delight, I might add . . .

sinking your teeth into a covered dish

as passersby scratch stubble . . .

and dream of becoming swingers of birches . . .

The standing room only room spins . . .

and fills with surrogate ventriloquist dummies

riding bicycles built for two . . .

By then you are three, four, five . . . maybe even six or seven . . .

Screen Dump 311

There was no misnomer . . . in retrospect . . .
No mistranslation . . . misinterpretation . . .
Naughtiness rendered as daguerreotype . . .
rendered kaleidoscopically . . .
Tests of insignificance at the .05 level invade your sleep . . .
raise hell with the books on the shelf . . .
say nothing when the garden is readied for winter . . .
The overcast morning gives way to a detour . . .
gives way to a mind of winter . . .
I marvel at your driving . . .
And you with your vegetable mindset . . .
a vegan's way of looking at a menu . . .
Destry Rides Again . . . Excuse me? . . .
Cyclists spinning . . . around second base . . . grandstanding . . .
practicing voice lessons . . .
vocal folds encircle Gregorian Chants
in the first inning of a triple header
on the Williamsburg Bridge . . .
Sonny Rollins . . . on the Williamsburg Bridge . . .
circa 1962 . . .
Returning to Brooklyn . . . in the back seat . . .
lipstick smudges . . .
lipstick smudged . . .
As if the body were a stop light . . . snagging the unsuspecting . . .
As if rigor mortis were about to set in . . .
And you . . . odyssey'd . . . hanging by the threat of a garter belt . . .
by the threat of a garter snake . . .
and it's summer . . . fall . . . winter . . . spring . . .
and it's Howdy Doody Time . . .
with Clarabell (all three) . . . and Buffalo Bob . . .
and it's your wedding day . . .
rewound to the first time . . .
Stick women . . . in bustiers . . .
Naughtiness . . . under layer upon layer upon layer of tulle . . .
Come right in! . . . only to count out thirty pieces of silver . . .
Just the other day I was reminded
of Penfield's memory experiments . . .
We forget nothing, yes? . . .
Pontificating on Windows 10 Internet speed degradation . . .
But I'm worried about consuming huge system resources . . .
and deconstructed grocery lists . . .
Caution! . . . Wet Paint! . . .
the wrong color . . .
the wrong place . . .
the wrong time . . .
There was no wreckage . . . in retrospect . . . but now look . . .

Sarah Moon

Screen Dump 310

But it doesn't have to mean . . .

For example? . . .

Goethe . . . the German Shakespeare . . . the poet of affinity . . .

a lively color but one devoid of gladness . . .

And so? . . .

Your weeping ages you . . .

I can see it in the smoke and mirrors . . .

and in the black canvas of your next project . . .

The prestidigitator's attempt to forestall the inevitable . . .

irrespective of the curfew dictated by the peanut gallery . . .

Why your favorite book? . . .

Your favorite author? . . .

Why now? . . .

This morning's talk through the woods . . .

past the kitties' burial site . . .

how your favorite colors relate to your favorite films . . .

Anything there? . . .

You tell me . . .

I mean . . . but it doesn't have to mean, yes? . . .

The fingerpainted reinterpretations of your odyssey . . .

The players . . . and their parts? . . .

Your intrusive necessary whistling . . .

I know as well as I can . . .

Intrusions are just what the doctor ordered . . . sometimes . . .

A side order of fried green tomatoes would do well about now . . .

Bruno Dayan

Screen Dump 309

The matter-of-fact streets of your makeshift childhood crowd with regrets over the empty candy bins in May's News, the corner store stuffed with cigars, cigarettes, comics, skin mags, soda, ice cream . . . where daily you were dispatched for a double chocolate . . . and the number . . . Done . . . and done again . . . And why not, yes? . . . It's all there . . . in the pianistic improvisations of Frederick Nietzsche . . . who . . . like all of us . . . dreamed of the paper city of Carpe Diem . . . elbowing his way through a table-read of Bela Tarr's The Turin Horse . . . a revitalization sequel to the twelve steps as leaked to NPR . . . I was asked to remind you that the marquee for the The Last Picture Show awaits your edits . . . And you're filming this for a surrogate? . . .

Screen Dump 308

That it doesn't always work out . . .
this cup-and-saucer world of water-resistant fonts
where Harry meets Maggie
and your search for totemic images
inflates to Jungian proportions
with parking spaces
brimmed with backstory metaphors
and exotic asides -
the nuts-and-bolts of Dunkin' Donuts . . .
the spiraling down
with heel lifts calling the shots
eight ball in your hip pocket . . .
You await word from persons of interest
displaced to the farther reaches . . .
The fits and starts of unknowns . . .
The morning after the day before . . .
You continue to imagine
the beginning middle and end
of most excuses . . .
the popcorn days of your apprenticeship
tapdancing the good life
with deposits from sticky bottles
recycled from the Tour . . .
and the sparring over putting pen to paper
with eyes on the exit
transforming lockups into the lockdowns
of summer's documentation . . .
the trash Instagrammed . . . and posted . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 307

Foodshopping for answers to the 20 questions
double-parked in your brain . . .
you exhume a meta-metaphor for use in this poem
bridging then and now . . . and then again . . .
Players from your odyssey costumed as extras . . .
reappear . . . and begin texting . . .
vying for a seat on the Argo . . .
But why here? . . . Why now? . . .
Back to the woodshed . . .
back to rehearsing the audible improbability
of life's irrepressible ups and downs . . .
Irrepressible? . . .
Alas, poor Yorick! . . .
You too knew him? . . .
Shakespeare's 400th? . . .
On the white beaches of P-town? . . .
Bicycles like puppy dogs lined up on the fences? . . .
Yes, of course! . . .
the betting windows at Saratoga
the ponies of August
the ghosts at Yaddo . . .
and the times when your thoughts were blanketed
by unknowns shadowing you . . . and your other . . .

The Bicycles of Provincetown

Screen Dump 306

You crack open a Bud Lite and make yet another
act of contrition . . . arm wrestling with Mallarmé's
creature of ancient and evil plumage . . .
the memory studded with the illogic of machines . . .
the stage sprayed with artificial mist . . .
The day swells with a sudden summer shower . . .
You are dumped into a grammatical cul-de-sac . . .
Snappy tourists and tourist-wannabes
dream of accompanying happenstance on a drive
along a winding coastal road . . .
highlighting your online CV with images
of past players pumping doldrums
in the mirror of an empty free-weight room
in one of the many cities you've never lived in . . .
You make a mental note to re-up your membership . . .
On second thought, you contact customer service
and ask about their return policy . . .

www.thepoetrybrothel.com

Screen Dump 305

. . . some sorry-ass grave digger grown bone-tired of the trade.
          - Maggie Nelson, Bluets

A sense of brutal honesty . . . perhaps not often . . .
or . . . not often enough . . .
Why bother with the examined life on the examination table? . . .
With accretion . . . nothing lost . . . including loss . . .
The images fuzzy . . .
Is retrospection by nature . . . fuzzy? . . .
by nature . . . faulty? . . .
As when you look back and get drenched in blue . . .
A sweet sensation? . . .
And you insisting you always drove the bus . . .
Doubtful . . . she replied . . . mid-costume change . . .
as if . . . in the middle of lovemaking . . .
someone walks in . . .
I know my lines so please stop with the prompts . . .
Rallying around . . . and what not . . .
The loneliness of long distance silence . . .
Not a chance, my love, you have parlayed that conceit . . .
Trawling for eyes . . . mouths . . .
Awaiting the shuttle back to Neveragainland! . . .
Floated by some . . . There must be a reason for this . . .
Sucker-punched . . . and then . . .
conceding that it may help some . . .
those holed up in themselves . . . living life . . . off camera . . .

Aron Demetz

It's August, and the Ponies are Running

(reposted from Monday, August 1, 2011)

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my better judgment,
my better half, my worse half, my other half;
they're running away with my vacation, my vocation;
with my kids' education, my salutation, my edification;

they're running away with the plump-lipped waitress
in her too-tight uniform, in her too-short uniform,
in her tu-tu uniform;
they're running away with the short-order cook,
the dishwasher, the window washer, the windshield washer,
the loud customers, the cleavagers, the spin doctors.

It's August, and the ponies are running away
with my expectations, my aspirations, my inclinations;
with my best intentions, my worst nightmares;
with the free tees and handicappers,
with the gamblers, the scramblers, the midnight ramblers;

they're running away with the long shots,
the long run, the long ball, the long haul, the big fall;
with the potheads, the potholes,
the hotties with their rubberneckers,
the one-armed bandits and double-deckers,
the card sharks, the loan sharks, the great white sharks;
with the stacked decks and pole vaulters,
the pole sitters and baby sitters;

The ponies are running away with the weary travelers,
the thirst quenchers, the road crew bosses
and time-and-a-halfers;
with the running-on-empties, and pies-in-the-sky,
with the local history buffs and their jaundiced eye;

they're running away with the landscape,
the cityscape, the seascape, the escapees, the APBs;
the trees lining the tertiaries, the estuaries,
the innocent bystanders, the indigents,
the passersby, the groupies, the roadies, the loners;
with the home-schooled and home-brewed;
they're running away with the motley-crewed.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with the one-tricks, the two cents,
the three blind mice, the four horsemen;
with the squanderers, the wanderers
the hangers-on, the barflies, the right wingers,
the left wingers, the middle-of-the-roaders, the Debra Wingers;
with the know-it-alls and straight shooters,
the forked tonguers, the mixers and remixers, the mixmasters.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my severance pay, my brand new day,
my May day, my getaway, my AOK, my here-to-stay,
my hip hip hooray, my final say.

IT'S AUGUST, AND THE PONIES ARE RUNNING!

Screen Dump 304

The choreography of the day carries you into the second act
where backstage lighting
showcases the incidental props of dreams . . .
soundtracked by furniture music . . .
Why incidental? . . .
With time, the stuff of days folds into itself
leaving you naked in a one-way mirror . . .
on a one-way street . . .
The Street of Crocodiles . . .
hidden behind a bookcase
in a one-night stand's double-wide . . .
Entrapment follows the magician's wand . . .
awaiting orphans
who continue to grapple with self-checkout machines in Walmart . . .
carts brimmed with hand-me-downs . . .
The flavors pale . . .
You skip the rest of the chapter . . .
grasping at straws
as if the opening of the exhibit
exchanged vows with non-presidential candidates
in this Olympic Year . . .

Screen Dump 303

No whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory / of whiteness.
          - William Carlos Williams, The Descent

You try to retrieve a dissonant melody
but the street lights
bobbing in the turbulent wake
fade to shadows . . .
afterimages displacing the memory of your odyssey
and its players . . .
You enter the fray . . . with delicacies
and become a vessel for happenstance . . .
This of course is as it was . . .
Time sprouts ears . . .
The abundant pronouns of your close encounters
upend the entanglements . . .
your free throws . . . Made-for-TV-Moments . . .
fill several subfolders . . .
as the magician's hand plummets into a bell jar . . .

Paulina Otylie Surys

Searching for Bobby Fischer: A Prose Poem in 13 Days

(reposted from Wednesday, May 11, 2011)

Day 1

My friend's cat, Bobby Fischer, is missing.
He took off without leaving a note
without taking his food dish.
We're worried about the food dish.
It sits in the corner all day
twiddling its thumbs
thinking about Bobby Fischer.

Day 2

My friend and I hail a cab.
The cabbie misunderstands us.
He takes us to a Rotary meeting.
The final vote is being tallied
on whether or not to airlift a causeway.
The causeway is cause for concern.
Some Rotarians feel it's water under the bridge.
One Rotarian recalls seeing Bobby Fischer
walking along the causeway
earlier in the week
seemingly preoccupied.

Day 3

The man at Kinko's has crooked teeth.
My guess is he knows something about Bobby Fischer.
He scans a recent photo of Bobby Fischer.
We attach it to a sheet of white paper.
We consider captioning it Desperately Seeking Bobby Fischer
but settle instead on Searching for Bobby Fischer.
The man with crooked teeth says he likes it.
He makes 110 copies but only charges us for 100.
He says he knows how we feel.
I don't trust him.

Day 4

We divide up the posters and plaster the neighborhood.
Several passersby comment on Bobby Fischer's good looks.
A few pocket posters as souvenirs.
One old man draws a mustache on Bobby Fischer.
We call the police.

Day 5

The message on my friend's answering machine is garbled.
Something about a round robin.

Day 6

Bobby Fischer has done this before
only to return a few days later
reeking of catnip and stale mates.

Day 7

Bobby Fischer calls.
He says he's been thinking about making a move.
He says he has enrolled in a method acting class.
He wants to throw himself wholeheartedly into something.
He wants to bring real life to the boards.
To forget himself.
To give his mind and body to a fictitious character.
My friend and I nod knowingly.
We hand the phone to Bobby Fischer's food dish.

Day 8

We bump into Bobby Fischer's acting coach in the library.
He's taking out a book on gambits.
He tells us that Bobby Fischer will be using
a little known gambit on opening night.
He's rather defensive for a Sicilian.
He gives us two tickets.
I don't trust him.

Day 9

Opening night.
We're packed in like sardines.
Bobby Fischer is loaded with greasepaint.
He plays a bishop who's sacrificed.
The klieg lights make him blink.

Day 10

The play receives rave reviews in the Post.

Day 11

Bobby Fischer calls.
He wants us to pick up extra copies of the Post.
He says the play is being made into a television miniseries
which will air during ratings week.
He says he has to go.
Oprah's limo is waiting.

Day 12

Bobby Fischer calls.
His voice is shaking.
He says the television producer, Boris Spassky,
decided to cut his part
in view of the current crisis in the Catholic Church.
He says Boris Spassky told him the Church
has enough problems right now.

Day 13

The doorbell rings.
It's Bobby Fischer.
He's back.
He smells of catnip.
His fur is matted with dried greasepaint.
His backpack is stuffed with dog-eared copies of the Post.
His food dish brims.

Screen Dump 302

If they can do it, I can do it.
          - Anon

It's all about leveling the playing field, yes? . . .
sidebars . . .
late-night Ubers . . .
categorizing narratives by color . . .
insinuating yourself into the after-hours . . .
asking recording engineers . . . session musicians . . .
character actors . . .
about the nuances . . . and blueness
of your voice . . .
Finding that most people's favorite painting
is a blue landscape . . .
with Miles . . . in an atelier . . . noodling . . .
Kind of Blue . . . a mantra . . .
while others step up to the plate . . .
order takeout . . .
a crapshoot . . . nonetheless . . .
You were abandoned . . . more than once . . .
testing your belief in . . . what? . . . magic? . . .
But aren't we all at times duped
by an illusion of our own making . . .
tweaking the script to straddle happenstance
in positions construed as ballet . . .
even on those days that seem to unfold as planned? . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 301

And so I fell in love with a color . . .
          - Maggie Nelson, Bluets

Your costume as rhetorical fiction . . . as illicit . . .
as maddeningly blue . . .
where in earlier chapters, you fell in love with retraction . . .
taking back what you offered . . . teasing . . .
as you considered the fast lane in a trailer park . . .
with rules for engagement for understudies
afflicted with acyanoblepsia . . .
the inability to see blue . . . You know this . . .
and have managed to derail your obsession . . .
Your next move . . . as witness to the beginning . . .
the middle . . . the pleasure principle . . .
first slow . . . then . . . faster . . .
with eyes and mouth half open . . .
in front of a mirror . . . as penetration of privacy, yes? . . .
This morning at the breakfast table . . .
your blue eyes mapped your next strategem . . .
imagining blue skies . . . and blue waters . . .
a blue room . . . in a blue hotel . . . as if like Stein
you believe every bit of blue is precocious . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 300

Is perspective a hedge against the mutually observed? . . .
The omniscient third partiers
with their notebooks and keys
and smartphones
act out scripts
bridging fact and selfie . . .
Improvisations of the odyssey, yes? . . .
In the red . . . always in the red . . .
clutching write-ups . . .
hamstrung by the limitations therein . . .
Stocking shelves at 3 AM
you pick through trash for archived posts . . .
mounting pieces by amanuenses
for gallerists who begin their day
with texts and double espressos . . .
The eyes in your bedroom mirror
are the eyes in the photos that once populated its edge
leaving sentences for lifers . . .
documenting the odyssey as it unfolded in real-time . . .

Marcin Szpak

Screen Dump 299

Does any of this ring a bell? . . .
Does it matter? . . .
Is it the illusion of re-entering a scene . . .
or paging through a program
to fetch the name of the pleasure principle . . .
or principal? . . .
long-listed . . .
somehow personal . . .
smiling an insomniac's dream . . .
a moving violation of neck bites
and other seductive mishaps . . .
Your unwritten poem is blabbing away . . .
over there in the corner . . .
saying yes to Noh . . .
checking into Door #2 . . . with #37.5 . . .
You were ticketed for tailgating . . .
and pled not guilty . . .
to entering a club . . . on stilts . . .
dispatching patrons clucking and hand-wringing . . .
The shortest route to then
eyeshadows an archived player
trying to make it into the finals . . .
It's all in there . . .
In where? . . .
In the script of video regrets
from casual partners
on rainy days and Mondays
and from onlookers earmarked to cameo
in the penultimate edition
of your back story . . .
catapulting across dust motes
with therapeutic touchups and oral delivery . . .
demonstrating the divine
in sex toys . . .
poems that rhyme . . .
retired librarians . . .
after-hour tongue-lashings . . .

Ahmet Polat

Appropriating Myself

(reposted from Thursday, June 16, 2011)

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself.
          - Buck Mulligan quoting Whitman in Ulysses by James Joyce

The dogs are in the trees again. And they're barking. I am escaped from the pages of Dickens, my words nestled all snug in their beds. A black and white segues from my past. A symbolist jumps in insisting on the last word. He is dressed down. Woe to those befuddled crossword puzzlers or those courting constellations on rooftops with the satisfaction of a meandering brook. This dealership is known for its BLTs. My place in the sun layered in dust is appropriated by a Jay Gatsby lookalike living on the edge with a certain je ne sais quoi despite the bulging lines at soup kitchens. Footsteps echo off buildings scheduled to be razed before change punctuates the thought-balloon - ghosts on the spur of the moment waiting for the lost to stumble, entering their shadows, cartographers linked in time. The baguette did come in handy as you said it would. But how did you know? Without blackbirds in the trees I wouldn't have the mind of summer. Why don't we rent a little bungalow on the water this summer where each midday we can crayon in our missing persons? The artichoke under glass dances to Mahler's slow movements rising from a wax cartridge in front of a great fire brimming with wooden arms and legs. The menus here are blank, the newspapers' words missing but with a trace of a message that tricks us into thinking it can be pieced together and understood. Your free run wooden horse has run away. It was her heels - neon yellow spikes clickety-clacking though the intersection, charging gawkers a fee for a free ride - a free ride that would take them to the palisades of their dreams, leaving them winded with enough pocket change for the meter maid. Many are puzzled and await word from above. It will come. I want to be transported to an earlier time filled with jawbreakers stamped with phrases of affection. I suppose I too want it all. You called in for takeout. We selected items from two columns. That’s when I decided it was time to refill the rapidograph with red ink and begin a series of one-liners in red - the red saturating the eye with disbelief. You audition for the part of Iago, thinking this would be a great way to spend the summer - a summer of unrequited doubles. It was a throwaway, I had to admit, that unsettling feeling you get as the bath water departs, counterclockwise, leaving you, toweled, thinking about the final scene in that film whose title is slipping away. The name Wichita could happen to any of us. Now what? Now what do we do? . . .

Screen Dump 298

The double bassist on my to-do list speaks Jelly Roll . . .
Excuse me, but what color is your window? . . .
Off-duty plagiarists in deerstalkers
litter the putting green of my REM sleep
with run-on sentences
with incomplete sentences
with life sentences
with blah blah blah sentences . . .
Why lose momentum with archived ne'er-do-wells? . . .
Counting sheep as cheat sheet . . .
Moving your queen into a safe position on the board
will buy you enough time to run to the corner deli
for a provolone on sourdough and green tea . . .
Your full red pierced lips . . . work overtime
on my ink
pushing the envelope
out of my dead letter cubby . . .
Hey, I'm trying to fill my dance card here! . . .
You've managed to retain your enigmatic persuasion . . .
on stage . . . in a sundress . . .
sending the game into extra innings . . .
I don't know how . . . but . . .
like you the boulevard continues to mimic
those in the know of art nouveau . . .
Let's step outside for fascination's sake
and rub shoulders with real-time dance marathoners . . .

Irina Dmitrovskaya

Screen Dump 297

Are words good enough?
          - Anon

You seek sanctuary in a grammatical cul-de-sac
worrying pronouns
and the proper syntax for love . . .
The wind knocks down a tree . . .
You begin chainsawing the drops
carving out a lean-to
for the idea that
words are not good enough . . .
despite your thinking
that the inexpressible is contained
inexpressibly
in the expressed . . .
A caricature of Wittgenstein
designing door handles
for his sister's cottage
arrives in an email
which you consider forwarding
but then delete . . .
It's a way of talking yourself . . . out . . .
into the sunshine . . .
into the color of particles . . .
as thick as snowflakes . . .
connecting the dots . . . to the afternoon . . .
imagining a carousel of alchemists
with you stretching for the silver ring . . .

Ellen von Unwerth

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What happens after three or four days, months, years
of directing traffic into the spread
of a polygamous morass? . . .
What happens when then becomes now
and you begin gesturing charismatically . . .
souls of past players with the gift of tongues
step out of the rangefinder
and begin lining up at the back door? . . .
It's complicated, yes? . . .
I am prior the movement . . . then stillness . . .
the hoopla of crossing Brooklyn ferry and all . . .
the hum of sunrise . . .
of sunset . . .
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd . . .
dotting the eyes . . . costumed with promise . . .
the parties of then . . . and now . . . thick with lines
lip-syncing Mad Shelley's words
as he faced a perfect storm . . . in the Gulf of Spezia
in the seaworthy Don Juan aka Ariel . . .
only to be cremated on a beach near Viareggio
a small Keats in his pocket . . .
Tell me about the heart of the story . . .
or the story of the heart . . .
the attachments . . . real and imagined . . .
which is which? . . . little matter . . .
the accoutrements . . .
ashes reinterred in Rome
with Mary and clan relocating
to a cliff-top manor in Boscombe, Bournemouth . . .
Tell me about the time when days were open books
and chapters were modular
and your cheeks were full of sightseeing
and your heart was a wild child that had only just begun . . .

Kristin Atherton as Mary Shelley

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Our life is a dream.
          - Ludwig Wittgenstein

A dream about a mannequin who dreams about Pinocchio . . .

The conjunction qua has left the building . . .

He doesn't work here . . .

Pinocchio? . . .

We continue to worry language . . .

The way words work . . . sidetrack . . . strut . . . fade . . .

play games . . .

miss the turn . . .

get hung out to dry . . .

hang us out to dry . . .

Wittgenstein wannabes designing door handles . . .

Last night doing cardio at the gym . . .

the word conjointedness popped up in the free weight room . . .

Six-packs and six-packs . . .

You . . . lycra'd and sweaty . . .

in the first sentence of a short-short story . . .

about Pinocchio . . .

Intimidating yet intriguing . . .

Later in the parking lot . . .

you obsess over the loss of muscle mass . . . the loss of self . . .

the attribution . . .

the appropriation . . .

asking yourself if paling is inevitable . . .

Klaus Kinski as Paganini? . . . as Nosferatu? . . .

Perhaps . . .

I too am stoked by the films of Bela Tarr . . .

especially The Turin Horse . . .

which picks up where Nietzsche left off . . .

Klaus Kinski qua Nietzsche qua Wittgenstein? . . .

Beeban Kidron

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You step into an autofiction
having taken a lateral to customer service
the engagements
just out of reach . . . by the practitioners of deviant art . . .
chattering incessantly about their memoirs
on and off clipper ships . . .
You have written up many . . . in the wee hours
detailing their feigned interpenetrations
in the common room
and bedrooms of your third chapter . . .
Several fade on their own
Facechatting others
worrying unannounced site visitors
who insist on rummaging through cupboards
for late-night munchies . . .
But what's the backstory? . . .
There is no backstory . . .
The backstory doesn't matter . . .
There's just this bubble into which we are dropped
and it goes from there . . .
A temporary job chalks up years . . .
and before you know it . . . you know . . .
Please excuse me . . .
I must continue recording the dreams of insomniacs . . .

Alina Lebedeva

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Testing the waters reignites 35-year-old narratives . . .
almost boarding a plane
almost after three stiff weeks in bed
Facebooked as Hello Stranger . . .
the blind alley as harmonic space
as prelude to performance
as color-coded jackhammer . . .
It's all about pushing molecules around, yes? . . .
And in the middle:
But I'm not interested . . .
OK, but are you interested in a subset . . .
or a sublet . . .
based on the prime numbers two, three, and five
sidestepping headstones . . .
the graveyard swollen with the bones of whalers? . . .
And now this? . . .
How real the fantasy? . . .
A master fornicator . . . Byronish . . .
taking an Uber to the Land of Eros . . .
eliciting a belly laugh
from the party of the third part
lying next to you at 3 AM . . .
Room service? . . . What room service? . . .
The idea . . . not so much to simulate synesthesia
as to explore possible interactions
possible interconnections
among sound, vision, space, and time . . .
Does harmonic space for example projected over time
onto physical space stop time . . .
or does it simply add players to Throwback Thursdays? . . .
Entranced by a frugal eater . . . pocket change . . .
I dunno . . . trepidatious, I guess . . . just sayin' . . .

Anne Hathaway in Alice Through the Looking Glass (2016)