Joshua Keiter

The cat’s going
        to the bathroom
                right right in back
of my portrait.
        God, isn’t that awful?
                No, I’m glad he is.
I’m glad somebody’s
        doing something
                he wanted to do.
You can’t have your cake
        and eat it too, in life.
                Oh yes, I did.
I did, I had my cake,
        loved it,
                masticated it,
chewed it and had
        everything I wanted.
                Aren’t you going
to feed, uh, Whiskers, Edie?
        Come on, go feed
                Whiskers. No, don’t
eat it. Give it
        to Whiskers, please!
                My body is a very
precious place.
        It’s concentrated ground.
                It is a beautiful ocean
today, isn’t it? What
        would you say that is,
                sort of sapphire?
I’ve never seen anything
        like that ocean!
                Always must do
everything correctly!
        He always compliments
                me on the way
I do my corn.
        Where in the hell
                did you come from?
Thank you for your card
        and your ice-cream,
                I love you very much!
Will you shut up?
        It’s a goddamn
                beautiful day,
shut up!

It’s very difficult
        to keep the line
                between the past
and the present,
        awfully difficult.
                Just as impossible
to translate the words
        from your head
                onto paper, or
worse a screen.
        It’s not the faces
                I see that give
me grief, it’s more
        the fact I’ll never
                see them again,
at least not with
        these senses, for
                the next minute
I become the medium
        through which all
                experience is
filtered. I wasn’t born
        with this faculty,
                it just came to me
as in a dream.
        I don’t know what
                I’ll call it.
Perhaps it doesn’t need a name.

I remember the day
        as if it were
                yesterday
of course it was
        yesterday
                at some point
immediately
        following
                its taking place
but I can’t remember
        that day
                the one following
the day I remember
        as if it were
                yesterday
probably because
        it wasn’t as memorable
                as if it were
yesterday
        but that is a result
                of its proximity
to such a memorable day
        as the one
                I’m thinking of
at the moment
        although it escapes me
                why I brought it up
except to say
        it reminds me
                of yesterday
that is the day
        after the day
                after tomorrow
which I’m sure
        will be as memorable
                as the day
I remember
        as if it were
                yesterday.

You came to me
        in what can only
                be described
as a second glance
        and were gone
                before I had
the chance to
        register what
                I was seeing
I looked again
        but it was no
                use there were
too many distractions
        too many buttons
                to hole in
the whole cacophony
        of weather
                we were under
taking for granted
        the whole point
                of what we came
here to do
        and that’s put
                our eyes as close
together
        without touching
                and call it
touching.

I suppose everything
        we learn
                is by example
for instance
        I’ve been staring
                at the wall
since I said
        this sentence
                and still
don’t have a thing
        to say. Excuses,
                excuses.
Easy. You take
        the first thought
                that pops
into your head,
        and call it
                what you will.
Then, take a dollop
        of some good
                old fashioned
craft, start
        putting your name
                out there
and hopefully
        something will stick.
                Not that I am
one for self
        promotion or
                anything, but
I hear that’s how
        you get ahead
                in these matters.
You see that
        spaghetti splayed
                all over the wall?
I’m the one who made the plate.

I decided long ago
        that this wasn’t
                the real world
of actual existence
        the one where people        
                talk sleep dream
converse with a thousand
        other people
                just by their presence
or when transplanted
        from one place
                to another
they awake to find
        themselves not
                in the same space
they found themselves
        before. That
                place is what I call
actual existence
        that feeling you get
                having tasted
something familiar
        similar to your tongue
                or having awoken
you decide better
        to fall asleep
                with the air
in your arms
        with the thousands of places
                identifiable
by their lack of eyelids
        by the light straining
                through so you know
it’s morning
        so you know you’re not
                missing anything
if you stay there
        another ten minutes
                or so.

When I woke
        In the morning
                Ah god
You were there
        To right my face
                You were there
To press my bloom
        Ah god
                You were there
To lift my stone
        You were there
                Ah god
To hold my space
        You were there
                To caw my bones
You were there
        Ah god
                To leave all words
Ah god
        You were there
                When I woke
I was missing
        Ah god
                You were there

Driving north
        the trees lose
                their small
individual buds
        and if you look
                closely
that is through
        window blur
                it appears that
colors change
        to bare branches
                fingering
the sky but
        don’t lose hope
                for by virtue
of the blur
        it all becomes part
                of the same
hand waving
        you along
                to where
the season
        hasn’t even
                begun yet
but it will and
        you know this
                because
the colors don’t
        evaporate
                or run
they only change.

Unreconstructed
        is how memory
                should stay,
or so says memory
        itself. Did
                you know that
when we remember
        something
                we actually relive
it, and it’s never
        the same way
                twice?
So I can’t remember
        last Easter,
                or the days spent
in the house
        as a toddler
                with my mother,
because I wasn’t
        even there
                until she said it.
But then the flood
        comes back,
                as if I didn’t
even miss it
        until it happened,
                but I was there
in that room,
        eating the same
                lettuce on the plate
as I saw before me
        when I heard
                a memory
I couldn’t have
        been there
                to remember.
But now
        it’s with me
                where it will stay.

You would have to be
        tone deaf
                or at least
misunderstood
        not to notice
                the tendrils
have started their climb
        up the crumbling
                threadbare
brick walls
        that hold up
                a discomforting
edifice. Usually
        it takes another
                week or two
before they become
        observant
                to the naked eye.
But were it not
        for my scarce
                intonation
you would be
        oblivious, still
                clinging
onto the notion
        that buildings
                are susceptible
to decay, without
        intervention
                on the part
of intrusive nature.
        I guess it’s just
                like you to think
our mediocre
        reconstructions
                of the house
first given us
        would not be
                overtaken
by the image
        first in line, that is
                the unspeakable
reference
        to discernible
                diurnal discourse.
If I said
        it was spring,
                would you at least
put down
        those blinders,
                and pretend
you’ve never stepped
        within those walls
                without retreat
to a source
        before the stone
                was rolled back?