Screen Dump 421

Sentences parsed on off days when somnambulists gather dust in makeshift libraries where amanuenses per diem'd mine the gasps of ghosts . . . The Hall of Incidentals opens for business as usual . . . shards of glass dropped in a labyrinth wait to enter your words . . . an amalgam of riffs on emptiness . . . held back in the early grades . . . There was a window . . . is a window . . . will be a window . . . I am working in the garden with voices lining up for handouts of iridescent themes . . . I know you know the opening lines to the nights that curl around you to caress you as scripted . . . This much of course . . . But so? . . . 

David Benoliel

Screen Dump 420

Your stint as resident insomniac
coughing up night terrors
silent screen stars speeding into the valley
thick with cloudcover . . .
Interior monologues terrifying the what-ifs
cowering in the corner of your bedroom
where nightly tête-à-têtes
announce imaginary numbers
to the worrisome packaged in plastic . . .
Better late than never, yes? . . .
Buckling up . . .
the backward logic of go-betweens
infinitesimal touch-ups
the ifs ands buts of moments
otherwise known as forever . . .
Do nothing . . . the tune earworms . . .
sidewalk cracks point the way . . .
You will be badged - and badgered -
in due course . . .
nothing else if not . . .
I can't help but think about the resurgence . . .
Yes, there will be more . . .

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

Screen Dump 419

Maybe I'm amazed at the way you pulled me out of time.
          - Sir Paul McCartney

Writing ad copy for bedside pilgrims catapults you
into an altered state filled with past players . . . while token rituals
garner support from special interest groups
currying embellishments . . . There will be no extra credit
for your appreciation of footnotes or anything encapsulating
your past escapades . . . You like most have apparently forgotten
the mandatory reshooot of your life in which icemen
are jettisoned the one too many mornings after
before footage is returned to the underperforming film crew
with postage hampered by magical thinking . . .
Taking center stage with five minutes left in the quarter . . .
this ankle boot with socks thing bodes well for idiosyncranicity . . .
When was the last time you asked yourself? . . .

Screen Dump 418

You cardio in a sea of idiolects . . . diagramming interior monologues . . .
The right stuff is within reach of  the polyvocality of recyclers

taking recyclables to a redemption center . . . Suffice it to say what? . . .
A dead zone exchanges inanimates feeding quarters to blown-glass avatars

while questioning the preparation instructions jotted down in haste . . .
Your pockets bulge confusion . . . and continue as secular entities . . .

A go-between oozing cheap cologne you rarely go into the yard
where the sundial does time . . . every once in a while . . . Of course,

this is all from Stage 1 players who smoke the endgame with lush abandon
tsking you for dealing a bag of KFC extra hot wings at the head shop . . .

The aluminum block from the melted-down cans of your childhood
triggers something . . . perhaps the shortest straw exiled just out of sight . . .

Eugenio Recuenco

Screen Dump 417

And now you're gung-ho about the suffix esque . . .
immersing yourself . . . in the other . . .
the pieces coming together effortlessly . . . bumping you up
to the next level of engagement . . .
soundtracked by the brain's 40 Hz hum . . .
That the criteria remain unmet is irrelevant . . .
That the costumes are ill-fitting . . . incidental . . .
The slippery slope slipperier as you misplace your self . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 416

To lose yourself in the pages of a softcover . . .
the pages of a graphic novel . . .

to lose yourself in the action of a graphic novel . . .
in the one two three of a graphic novel . . .

between the stacks . . . in the sanctuary of a bookstore . . .
the sanctuary of books . . . of words . . .

someone somewhere is talking to you . . .
trying to insinuate himself/herself into your life . . .

into the graphic novel of your life . . .
into the who what when where why of your life . . .

Again . . . the same voice . . .
but different from the black and white . . .

You try to follow its dotted line . . .
along the canal . . .

leading out of here . . . wherever here is . . .
leading to unmapped areas . . . imaginary areas . . .

A patron . . . patron saint? . . . talks revitalization . . .
somewhere . . . here? . . . where points

are made by those easily led
into the dawn of a new day . . . another day . . .

beginning mid-chapter
with sun . . . then sleet . . . then snow . . .

The playbook turns on its heel spurring motion-
sickness for those taxiing . . . you among them . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 415

The day unfolds flat with allegations prompting you to engage Death
in a game of mumbly-peg, channeling Scrooge with the tiresome
But does it have to be? . . .
The barleycorned life and times of, yes? . . .
Will the plug be pulled? . . .
Will it morph into an Oscar Week? . . . an Oscar Wilde? . . .
Will your knight advance to the podium
your head choked with streaming videos of the good old days . . .
some of which were indeed good enough
to fetch an Oscar . . . had they been nominated? . . .
You ride the crest of here/not-here
filling the concave mirror in the Fun House with mothballed
dress-down-Friday costumes and brittle unkept promises . . .
your entourage feeding your rock-and-roll role . . .
But the center - as expected? - doesn't hold and
I don't give a damn is a wet towel tossed into the ring at the end of the ninth
when amid the full catastrophe you are ticketed for rambling . . .
for drifting off-pointe at the barre . . .
with a bullseye henna'd onto your unlined forehead . . .

Caught

I caught a tremendous fish.
          - Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish

But then the little engine that could couldn't
and you were set adrift . . . on opening day . . .
crib notes . . . encrypted . . .
a tale of blue cities in your creel
on life-support no less . . .
but this time time stops
as you reel in Liz's tremendous fish . . .
battered and vulnerable and lonely . . .
and examining and inspecting his sullen face
and five-haired beard of wisdom
you are awestruck by the rainbow, rainbow, rainbow
and by the happiness of happenstance
as it parallel parks
your day . . . and you too let it go . . .

Screen Dump 414

The queue gluts with auctioneers of language . . .
of stage directions with backstories of childlike mischief
high-topped and burqa'd against the wind
not unlike the polyglot introducing your next odyssey in
the language of your dreams . . . the language of your past self . . .
You have tried to flee recognition . . .
but there's always someone . . . somewhere . . .
with a memory of your bedroom's glass menagerie . . .
untouched . . . memorializing the tongues of insinuators
who GPS your movements for YouTubers poet lookalikes and reenactors
about to embark on a journey into the heart of some darkness . . .
It's all SRO . . . for a while at least, yes? . . .
at least until strangers begin sexting strange images . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Screen Dump 413

You as mirror-image examine the usefulness/uselessness
of strung words . . . of words qua words . . .
words riding shotgun with ambivalence . . . the hours
spent with muted palette keynoting a declaration of independence . . .
a declaration of co-independence . . . co-dependence . . .
Your articles of confederation . . . of clothing as Exhibit A . . .
await sleep's hum . . . which may never come . . .
Your costumes of engagement rarely
uninteresting . . . especially now . . .
cutting along the dotted lines for the new you . . .
looking at the looks . . .
dull pencils dry brushes . . . sketching
nothing to memorialize the past . . .
your past as retreat into decaffeination shelved . . .

Monika Ekiert Jezusek

Screen Dump 412

Again you pantomime escape . . . sparklers crackling . . .
wading through shallows as if clarity
was chomping at the bit . . . to enter the frame . . .
the blameless obfuscation
of your notebook jottings pinning the tail . . .
How to explain the fascination . . .
the tacit approval of your blue books
brimmed with proofs of migratory
thoughts crowding out others
in the takeaway box of your imagination . . .
clocks desperate as once . . . oh so long ago . . .
You are plain-spoken whenever you enter
the ring . . . eyes focused on the prize-
of-the-moment . . . filling some gap
you don't remember from where despite
which you continue to go through the motions
matching the self . . . in the mirror
when with the sun you sign into your life-is-OK life . . .

Peter Lindbergh

Screen Dump 411

You're choreographing steps in the snow
despite a front heading your way . . . to be followed by another
on your heel toe toe heel . . . looking for the definition
of recalcitrant . . .
Pinterest pics color moments
of the biomechanical
outlined by Henry Gray in his 1858 Anatomy . . .
We each . . . reach . . . at some point
sketching caricatures with the straws we've drawn
pastels at sunset soundtracked by a tap routine
peddling elixirs while cheering barnraisings for startups . . .
The steps will eventually come . . . indeed . . .
scaffolded by drop-dead paradiddles . . .
Messages from elsewhere seem to have guided you thus far . . .

Chloe Arnold's Syncopated Ladies

Screen Dump 410

The semi-autobiographical appeals to you
despite its labyrinthine loopholes . . . acne scars . . .
and OCD underpins . . .
not unlike midnight snacking on reviews
on Rotten Tomatoes:
funny? . . . moving? . . . profound? . . .
plagiarized . . . and labeled a reformed other . . .
what with the painting hanging in
who knows whose apartment? . . .
Fanfare for the tone deaf, yes? . . .
A tour bus walks into a bar . . .
the order of finish . . .
irrelevant, your honor, Perry Mason said . . .
a faint skirmish . . . as when spent
he spent the rest of the evening
chatting up his etchings . . .
The straight dope . . . and all
whose predilection for protein
makes voyeurs gag . . . in reel-time
with anonymous ratings - still coming in I should add -
topping the list of vinyl . . .
turntablists scratching out
their untoward albeit melodious propositions . . .
You improved in black and white . . .

Lady Bird's Saoirse Ronan

Screen Dump 409

Once upon a time on a sidewalk, yes? . . .
he/she pointing out something to understudies
who practice to perfection between takes
with the chainlink buffering . . .
Another time between the lines . . .
with the same MO . . .
The waiter returns with a to-go box . . .
The scene shifts to reel-to-real . . .
The moment skips past thinking snow . . .
You are called out for howling at the entrées . . .
sheltered behind the runner-up's ear . . .
This too will be memorialized . . . Imagine that! . . .
The bed is a no-no . . . as if in the first stanza . . .
He/she could hear the silence before
you broke it off for independent study . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 408

You practice a type of echolocation . . . labeling
the wherewithal of former selves linked
to former players . . . their bodies semantic templates . . .
Demarcation aside
the tags echo stories in foreign tongues
with words to pique the interest of eavesdroppers . . .
Meaning becomes metaphor
as the queue populates . . .
tracing and retracing lines of engagement
which from a distance resemble
the structures in which you have spent your captioned life . . .

Paolo Roversi

Screen Dump 407

You engage a theory of aesthetics . . .  become a blank space
in costume . . . under various guises . . .
narrate fragments of invisible houses for shadowers
in moments of silence . . . immerse yourself
in the ice-cold stream of a character . . .
the ice-cold theatricality of days . . . breathing life
and nuance into words
with enough awareness to evolve the character
through subtle ongoing performances
that could be hawked as how-tos for a life worth living . . .
YouTube is always handy, yes? . . .
Either way, you could use something in the distance . . .
something to dream perfect numbers as such . . .
Catastrophe Theory as public code . . . as public code breaker . . .
splattering negative numbers all over trending paradoxes . . .

Gabriele Rigon

Screen Dump 406

As if partnering in the process of distributing paint
on an uncomprehending surface . . .
the insinuation was an of course phenomenon
the enormity of which was enough to zero-out the counters
maintained by slow readers courting time slow reading
worrying the artless passages . . .
You maintained a page count
and tweaked the lines that peeked through
the deconstruction
misdirecting the watchers at the gate . . .
Later you greeted the inexperienced
with a template for testing the waters without smartphones . . .
You wished otherwise . . . perhaps . . .
and this of course was not the first-time . . . triggering points
locked in formaldehyde for artful dodgers
vying for a piece of your pie . . .

Gabriele Rigon

Screen Dump 405

The evidentiary moment fuels your ah-ha . . .
the excitement filling in the blanks with the names of identity theives
while sweet-talking desserters . . .
Your words . . . bittersweet . . . seduce the far-fetched . . .
A pared-down Proustian approach
scans images . . . free-writes shortcuts
to the enigmas of entrapment . . . of standing-room intimacies . . .
No need to spend time call-waiting . . .
The costumes will color in their own lexicon . . .

Liliana Karadjova

Screen Dump 404

Mentioning the unmentionable was a mistake, yes? . . .
A Type II error . . . when players
with see-through credit lines are admitted - or, committed - with F-scale
aficionados . . . and guaranteed a place in the penultimate playoffs . . .
Again, you regress to costuming the unintended . . .
highlighting misdirection
with the fourth-quarter ticking down
as if YouTubers in roundabouts spun your nom de plume
with an elementary logic . . .
Calling the shots in the kaleidoscopic manner of the mentally ill . . .
Star-struck triglyceriders on the storm . . .
Go-betweens doing bright-white lines with sans serif junkies in triplicate . . .
It's not anonymous, anymore, I mean . . . all pitter-patters, if you will? . . .

Lolitaesque

Screen Dump 403

So the analysis continues
picking through the odyssey's detritus
undaunted by the future's trailer
pastiched scenes stampeding lesser inklings . . .
you . . . convinced of their value . . .
of the value of the gems hidden
in the wordplay . . .
the run-on sentences
the incomplete sentences
the closed mouths of intermediaries
enough to bankroll another journey
into the past life of . . .
the past lives of . . .
awaiting the end run . . . that awaits . . .
the scrimmage
the scrum . . .
as if raising a pole barn against time
during off-seasons
with beards-a-plenty is enough . . .
is more than enough . . .
to satisfy the insatiables at the back door . . .
I am who I am . . .
You are who you are . . .
We are who we are . . .
introducing the next player
the next contestant
the next confidant
dollied . . . with head akimbo . . .
the uppercut beginning its ascent . . .
the paradigm shifting . . .
Zoom lens atop drone . . .
Standing down
scripted for the takedown
yellowing . . .
The elders . . . next . . . searching out
tender limbs on which to place
their hard-earned words . . . so yesterday . . .

Rooney Mara in A Ghost Story (2017)

Screen Dump 402

That the current overuse of bespoke is an example
of semantic drift triggers memories of warm summer nights
when you would rehearse unlisted numbers
with a niggling exactitude . . .
hurling backseat drivers back to their Once upon a time . . .
The elements of style reeked of insouciance . . .
Little matter though . . . your redacted paper trail
exposed the bellies of the beasts you'd encountered
as you odyssey'd past the stop signs of endearment . . .
Center stage was occasionally occasioned . . .
You backpedaled as best you could, yes? . . .
with little effort to upstage the obvious . . .
We're plugging leaks choruses through most of the recital space . . .
This back-and-forth-back-and-forth upends many
as Valentine's Day swoops down upon a newhire standin
with Out to Lunch cred . . .

Linda Evangelista

Overnight at the Ventriloquist's

(reposted from Wednesday, June 1, 2011)

His voice is everywhere.
His knowledge of cork vast.
He talks about his plans
to retire to a walled city
with underground labyrinths
inhabited by used car salesmen
posing as television personalities.
He will not take No for an answer.
Jobs are scarce, he says,
from under the rug.
Too many words, too many words.
He whistles in three-part harmony
and keeps five balls in the air.
Halfway through the evening,
he saws a woman in half
while drinking a glass of water.
The other guests continue
to arrive in suitcases.
We fall under his spell.
Dinner is served by candlelight.
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.
We are shown to our rooms with flashlights.
Later that night, it begins to snow -
thick, indifferent flakes swirl down
like confetti in a snowglobe.

Screen Dump 401

Famously lingering . . . after hours
with pages of questions pulsing with anticipation . . .
But what of the rendezvous? . . .
Surely it will play itself out
despite the sluggishness of infinitives . . .
Suppose we consider the portal as a revamp . . .
as an exegesis of odysseys past? . . .
Some will soon age out
but others will doubtless raise a ruckus
if for no other reason than the discrepancies between the script
and your play acting . . .
costume changes notwithstanding . . .
Yet another example of explanatory fiction, yes? . . .

Craig McDean

Screen Dump 400

Now the parsimonious agitation of the rain, yes? . . .
Downtempo'd . . . the street cradling the day
when a smile - doing its best - passes
and you're earwormed . . . Sia's Destiny with Zero 7. . .
I lie awake / I've gone to ground . . .
Thoughts of Color Me This
crowd out the other . . .
I'm bending time getting back to you . . .
Wait . . . wait . . . hit pause . . . I need to rethink this . . .
You know exactly what I'm talking about . . .

Sia Furler and Sophie Baker

Screen Dump 399

You imagine someone listening
to your delivery . . .
A smile goes to your head . . .
and now you're being
carried along by the irregularities in this latest drama
which will air
without much of anything . . .
as soon as . . .
Something is forcing itself upon you . . .
Some just cry while they drive . . .
Surely you can adjust the rate of tumble, yes? . . .
Imagine, if you will . . .
But then, try to keep it in the moment . . .
especially when you plagiarize additional memories . . .

Serge Barbeau