Joshua Keiter

I’m not one to hold
gestures still until they’re spent.
I’ve gathered the words
you’ve been meaning to speak
for this precise occasion.
If you look this way
you might catch the glance
I throw in your direction.
If not, we’ll call it even.
You’ve got one more chance,
one frozen breath
by my reckoning.
And that’s less than a lot,
if you weren’t counting.
You’ve got to be kidding.
I’ve been at this too long.
And for some bizarre reason
I can still remember the face
I was born with.
You’re looking at it.

Keep the pages open
laid flat
that is my only request.

Don’t turn back, or,
if turning,
return to this square of ink.

You’ve only got hands
to take with you,
I have all these boxes, for a start.

The curl of a lampshade will be
your undoing.
Close your eyes before it flickers.

Too set in your ways, you’ve got
to relax once
in awhile, don’t scan endlessly

for the point, the gist.
You’ll only be
frustrated at such hierarchy.

If you don’t believe me,
notice
how the birds choose a different

section of telegraph to land every time.

If you or anyone else you knew were this wasted,
you’d know it.
I’ve lost a jacket at least once every year of my life.

Today the sun was too bright without glasses.
Too wind
to read books outside. Therefore I went

inside, and I don’t regret my decision.
Mere location,
loosed upon the world. No holding back I swear.

A penny in the street is only worth turning
for the head.
Otherwise bad luck. Better a leaf on your nose.

a hollow mailbox echoes with the solemn of rain
nearly midnight, or close to escape hour
the bend at the corner of the image the only
holding back between these margins just some
saved scrapings, the sound of ink on paper
and no more. save yourself the trouble
and free me. from freedom. a holding
pause. a severed attachment. all breathing
only a knowing, and no more. April yet
begins the sort of leaving underwritten
by the arch between which allows sight,
or some resemblance, dear witness, there is
nothing I have said nothing I have done no
thing a presence better kept under lock & key.

my fingers are talking with their hands
and so a picture goes missing, a
frighted tree trunk harbingers a
sense of perpetual loss, this disgrace
is only a figure of pathos, of wilderness
sight lines grow dim, chairs rustle toward
the center, but only for viewing dilapidated
acres, a brief of hollow under the
scarecrow moon, telling time a
circularity smitten with poor judgment,
a wealth of distraction, conveyances
upon a patter of unenlightened dirigibles—
propeller skylight offers weeds of transmission
a staple with a scrap the only trace remaining.

These titillation seconds
half broken
over the arm of the chair

and we flight security
risk, run
discombobulated overhead

compartmentalized mentality
all fortune
a chance mistaken

progress of things unrealized
a fault
of linear time and thinking

these masks wear off like
any other
jewelry, or face, leaping

from town to town as if
sideswiped
with rush, with altogether

too much pavement
too little
the sound of scream and

silence, simultaneously
barren
filling the empty words

with half token paraphernalia
saturn returns
with rings on the side, peeling

clothes as pastime, as ritual
or frequency
to date there has been no

smacking of the lips on
plate, on
eyelids—can you hear

me, that’s the sound
of not sound
of calling the phone just

to hear the voice of
the speaker
and perhaps breath

coming down the line.
I’m mistaken.
I want only your eyes.

They’re putting up
the carnival rides
in the courtyard.

You couldn’t traverse
any habitual route
if you wanted to.

And who would?
What with the promise
of fried cotton candy

tilt a whirl, merry
go round, pirate
ship, ferris wheel.

Although I don’t
plan on attending
the fair, because

I’d rather remember
the rides set in place
as they are now,

crouching creatures
relaxed, at rest,
perfectly still, workers

spraying them with
water as they would
elephants at the circus.

Although here in
the twilight machines
begin to hum, alight,

ready to project passengers
nearly into oblivion
before bringing them

back to pavement again.

That clumsy cat
might only be
partially drunk

but that’s no excuse
for its kitty litter
turning into scarecrows

and unleashing
bloody marys
from the ceiling.

I’ll grant you this:
no half penny
is burnished with

ink fingerprints
from unassuming
decades in god we trust.

Temperance is
always met with
a quantity of nostalgia

and failing that
pink elephants
grace the silver screen

in dream sequence
predicated upon
the climax, the climax

mouse whispered in
a boozy ear
But I been done seen

about everything,
when I see
an elephant fly.

Companionship
is acquaintance
that falters

and faltering
dusts itself off
to watch the sunset

walk with mitten fingers.
Lick that ice cream
off your nose

it’ll leave a terrible stain.

The sun gives
undeniable
energy—hands

pressed against glass,
individual
alliances, birds

perched on telephone
wires, erasing
lines of flight

across separate
distances, holes
cut through branches

to accommodate,
a center
of absence

emptiness
the only slight
unheard voice.

There is a kind of
incongruity
between the live image

and the merely well-worn.
I’ve long loved
a life lived incommunicado,

as if reticence solved
the problem
of communication.

The enemy is on
the television,
cheering. We’ve seen

this story before.
That’s why lyric
narrative is the ideal form.

Pleasant to know
someone insists
on beginning middle and end

and no more. Lucid speech.
Like a flag
waving in the distance.