Joshua Keiter

I spelled out your name
with scissors and cotton,
placed the letters neatly
in diorama fashion, thinking
in ghost quatrains that lulled
me to sleep unconsciously.
I made a tree out of green
crayons and brown crayons,
some of which I had to steal
from the sharpened shavings
settled at the bottom of the box.
Your name started to smell like honey,
the first catastrophic melt of the summer.
It’s for you, this name made
of abandoned skin and fever dreams.
If you take it in your hands
I will never see it again, at least
not with my own eyes, which
I still prefer to the alternative
which is never seeing you again.

If there is less than misunderstood
let it come to my lips, quickly
before I back out of the situation
with my hands little more than
instruments at the service of your mercy.
Your eyes are the only thing lost
on both sides of the equation.
If I were a mathematician
I’d take a different hobby for starters.
Not to say you couldn’t count
the number of times our eyes met
with one blink that might have been
a twitch. Anyway you come to mind
like flesh, or a foregrounding in intimate
wilderness, a distilled echo
patiently repeating the heart
at the moment it first encountered you.
But shut up and kiss me you say,
with my tongue in your mouth
so close I can barely get the words out.

It escapes me now, the fact
of how far I could go before
turning the page, or settling
on a word to direct my gaze.
You understand I’ve got no bearing
on critical ridicule, or block quotes
masquerading in half italic text
to perpetuate one thought in place
of another. I’m tired of quotes
laden with significance, repeated
from source to source, carefully
plotted and displayed in the back
of the index. I’ve half a mind
to tear out the last twenty pages
of every book in that pile over there
and keep them for myself, as if
I alone could erase every piece
of research that placed us in this
moment, as if the world could be
naked again, if not exactly new.

Are you going to see the cock on sunday?
What time does the cock come?
Do you think it will be too crowded to see the cock?
How much cock are you going to buy on sunday?
Will it be really hard to see the cock?
I am super excited about the cock!
Will the audience ever get enough cock?
Will there be enough cock for everyone to share?
Its not that often something this big comes.
We are wet and ready for the cock!
Are you wet & ready for some cock?
We are going to work out so we are ready for cock!
How are you preparing for the cock?
What if the cock does not come?
That would suck. It would even blow.
I just hope the cock isnt too stiff.
If you want to really enjoy cock, you should be wet.
How long is this cock going to be?
I am looking at a lot of cock tonight so I am in the mood tomorrow.
Throbbing cock.
What if he doesnt come and turns out to be a cock tease?
Do you know of any good sites for cock?
How many individuals from the audience can cock handle at one time?
It might be too tight for cock. Its gonna get so big.
I am studying the ins & outs of cock. My diss will be on cock.
I don’t know about you but I don’t only think about cock.
Also—Dickinson, Dickens, Peacock, Balzac, & Pound.

The world is full of empty carousels,
rusting. But that’s no reason
to dismiss this merry-go-round
as mere diversion. There are far
worse situations with which
to cross paths. For instance, a breeze
that propels a bicycle to cruise
from one position to another
by sheer force of velocity until
stopped dead in its tracks
by a squirrel who would have pelted
you with an acorn had it the proper
altitude. The branch of that tree,
perhaps. Or the roof above
the sullen carousel. It’s taking
these trees forever to reach blossom.
Soon, I’ll feel uncomfortable sitting
beneath them, when the dome of the sky
becomes irrational and green
and only peeks of light show through.

I can’t speak for anyone else
but when you asked me a question
I said I’d get back to you. It was
the best I could do, given the circumstances.
I can’t quite remember what they were
but I must have been distracted
by something else, or else I wouldn’t
have said I’d get back to you,
since I knew you usually require
a prompt reply. Besides I am
not given to deliberation, I try
to go on my instincts, to go on
my nerve, since that’s all we have.
Seriously I don’t know what I was thinking.
I mean I had the answer right there.
It was on the proverbial tip of my tongue.
If you wanted a response I should have
just given it to you. But we are where
we are, and that’s where we find ourselves.
What was the question again?

It’s not as if I had the words
to describe your face. And anyway
spring was far too obvious
and the air was thick with chords.
I sliced my hand open and I didn’t
even know it, so I used it
to my advantage and sucked my wrist
with my lips. If there was a taste
it didn’t remind me of you,
which is probably for the best
since I wasn’t thinking of you,
I was only trying to describe
your face. But as I said I didn’t
have the words, so the endeavor failed.
I started again. And there you have it.
That was when you walked in.
That’s where we left off. Hence,
the blank page. I was just about
to put the pen away for trying
when you suddenly appeared.

She spent years piercing castles
with an empty stare.
She stared at sand waiting
for a conduit to water.
She conducted stars to celebrate
a steady silent symphony.
She understudied characters
to resist learning her lines.
She left her past in dusty books
lined along broken down shelves.
She shared rust as a matter of course
turning a slow spoon on a dime.
She spun dreams in fitful sleep
as sheep straddled an imaginary fence.
She supposed it was hours before
the dawn came to wake her with fingers.
She imagined something was saying
her name because her ears could ring.
She stayed in one place as long as possible
since she remained a single step from everywhere.

As for me I’ve been up
too late again, trying
to draw your attention away
from the lateness of the hour
with my icicle dandelion breath
disgruntled by the weather
which is still up for debate
although I haven’t been operational
since you put this splinter
in my eye and called it graceful
there were some unhurried gestures
that are worthy of your face
some undeniable leaf changing
color into bud not unlike the last
time you showed me that eyes
can meet without metaphor
that strands of hair separate
to demonstrate the attraction
here is the shatter in my breast
please make it a window again.

I stayed with my hands
at my sides while you offered
a cold shoulder which didn’t
inhibit anyone’s thirst
although that was your
readymade handi-wipe whip
which didn’t serve the guests
their apportioned amount
of roadside swerving to avoid
the insects splayed across the wind
shield although it was my habit
of mind to offer freight trains
of disgust for the sake
of underhanded compliments
upbraided over the counter
into your willing hands your
co-opted smile resting on
the cold shoulders you offered
as a replacement for whatever
you guessed might be what I wanted.