And that’s that No you can’t turn around in this drive thru We’re all going in one direction and that’s towards a sour sugary grave topped with whip and pink powder taste the rainbow and synergy of a billion billion Instagram posts that no one will ever get around to liking only silently tagging themselves slurping
Tag: Poetry
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Unicorns Aren’t Real
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When She Sings
Many times a song gets stuck in your head and it’s there to stay Years later you may be thinking of a person you haven’t seen in years and they’ll appear as an off rhyme chord change and suddenly you’re singing falsetto to yourself up and down the stairs all day. Sometimes it’s worth it to make up new words for a change, perhaps instead of her name you might substitute the way she smiles and turns her head when she sings.
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Evidence for the Big Bang
If I was one for arriving at metaphors before they’ve hatched a kind of reverse Easter bunny, or the moment in those cartoons when the ACME box arrives and you know an explosion is coming soon I guess I would say were it not for the chip on my shoulder a literal micro potato chip you would know I’ll always be here evidence both for and against the Big Bang that keeps leaving debris everywhere.
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You Are Better Than You Think You Are
I’m not sure who it was who said you can tell who is a true friend in your life by how much time you spend apart when you get back together you pick up right where you left off. That is how it is with you and me. It wasn’t always so. Anxious, I spent hours wondering what you thought of me when I could have been taking care of me. It’s true you can only love others when you love yourself. That is how it is with most sayings like that, they are true because they are true. There is plenty of time for guitars and mandolins and ukuleles and front stoops to say everything, or nothing at all. Just being here means we’re okay, that neither of us are lonely, if we don’t need or want to be.
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Catatonia
When recovering from a trauma of unknown origin and indeterminate duration, the best you can do is reflect on where you were one year ago: this is when I awoke in the hospital, this is when I knew the seasons were changing, this is how the world raveled itself back into something resembling a shape outside the circumference of my head Sometimes the thoughts are fastened down to the bed, catatonic and nowhere to go Sometimes it seems the story keeps moving only this time you know it’s a fiction an unbearable episode made endurable only by reclaiming the pulse you were born with.
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Easter Walk
Everyone seemed to be on their porch or yard or retrieving or collecting things to or from their cars kids fell down in the grass dogs passed each other sniffing for places they’ve been it’s not like we need an especially warm day to bring us all outside at once but obviously it helps to know that surely this is the only day we have for when we look inside there’s nothing to be found at least nothing is as we expected it to be.
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Everything Is Awful But Music
I don’t know if we know what human bodies require anymore when solitude reaches its limit and noise persists just outside of the frame but if chord changes and turns of phrase are to be trusted then I am content to rest my head slightly next to yours as we sway and the lights and the smoke carry it all away.
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A Finger Pointing at the Moon
Today a dandelion peeked in between the pavement and brick wall as if to announce to anyone who will notice the arrival of spring a few yards away they were already cutting the grass using tools that run on fossils buried far underground that if we spend unchecked may one day blot out the sun I took a picture of the dandelion to remind us of what was as sure as it appeared before vanishing like the rest of the known universe.
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Imagined Theatre
Ever since my dreams returned I have had the chance to revisit so many friends from long ago— just last night he performed the play again, after an extended hiatus in an imagined theatre, even though I doubt he’ll restage the role for any audience again, but for me it was enough to see him and know he is well, that we two still stand on a revolving planet that circles the sun and walk on an early spring afternoon to where the books and buffalo chicken strips are still plentiful, and we’ll talk about all the projects to come, even the ones we only give names to in our dreams.
Joshua Keiter 