Cel. A poem.

Each day in this cell
passes like a film cel,
a moment captured in acetate,
rinsed and repeated,
on perpetual loop.

The subtle changes in aspect
of each textured frame,
a motion blur of constituent parts,
every event a cinch mark.

If only we could edit our dailies,
to make sense of the narrative,
to remove the chaff that haunts
like a dime-store critic
in the background of every shot.

The emulsion soon grows thin,
the script is pure melodrama
and the cues are overly-theatrical.
It can’t be saved in post-production.

This life, winding in 35mm,
fed through perfs before the gate
until the spool finally hits the floor.

The end. Curtains.

8 thoughts on “Cel. A poem.

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    1. Thank you. It was influenced by the screen history course I’ve just started. I was looking into the terms used to describe the various components of film, and I thought about our lives as a film, every moment captured on celluloid by some invisible cinematographer (call it memory, if you will). If only we could edit them, so we could pick and choose the best moments. Unfortunately, life isn’t like that. 🙂

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