In a day
the world can
turn to ruin.
It took seven
days to build
but that is
only a myth.
Apocryphal
manuscripts
revise the story.
They are peculiar
curiosities,
appeal to scholars.
No one believes
them because
no one has read
them. Until now,
of course. But
like all revelations,
we’re waiting for
the film, to come
down like fire
from the sky.
O happy day.
Pay attention
to the legend
larger than life
on the front page.
It won’t last long.
Short shelf life,
quick turnover
and what not.
Roger that, sir.
We’ve got one story
to tell, and that’s
all there is, or so
I’m told. Friendly
fire. We’ll make her
a hero, unless she
is one already,
in which case
we’ll destroy her
credibility when
she appears before
congress. Madness.
She doesn’t know
what she’s talking
about. She wasn’t there.
I used to think
the trunk of a tree
could be captured
by laying a piece
of paper against it
and using a pencil
to replicate its image.
In school they showed us
you can tell a tree’s age
by counting the rings.
I want to tell the story
of the shoes strung up
tossed on the telephone wire
when I was a child
those desperate shoes
clung to the wire
as if their souls
were barefoot. I never
saw someone fling them
up there.
I spent years in the theatre
trying to make words and actions
that were rehearsed and memorized
appear spontaneous, as if
arrived at on the spot,
with no preconceptions or conditions
of being—I never quite pulled it off.
No matter how transcendent the moment
became, I was constantly aware
of the audience, of the lights,
of the backstage hands in the wings
mocking a flubbed line or missed cue.
No matter how immediate the interaction
I always looked forward to the curtain call,
the cast party in the cafe, raiding
the parents’ liquor cabinet.
I used to think my training
in the theatre would help me
become an exemplary teacher, performing
the lesson with no strings attached,
at full attention, communicating with
my students with hardly a hint
of improvisation, my part fully prepared.
I never anticipated the questions that wouldn’t
come, or the muffled sobs at the end
of a viewing of Easy Rider after this senseless
week of violence. Nothing could prepare me
to face this audience. I look at the floor,
pretending I have a script in hand, and mutter
unrehearsed words to hold back the tears.
I met Allen Ginsberg
when he was still in advertising
just after he’d moved to the West Coast.
We came up with some amazing jingles
for mouthwash, almost like haiku:
“It’ll knock the communism right out of yr mouth.”
I was there at the Six Gallery Reading,
thinking it would be a good place to get laid,
except Kerouac had already scored all the chicks,
and most of the guys too.
And thanks to those jugs of wine,
I really had to go to the bathroom
by the time Allen had ripped Moloch a new one.
I followed them to the Chinese restaurant afterwards,
but could only scrounge enough cash for a few egg rolls.
I hopped a ship with them to India, but got bored
with Peter Orlovsky taking all that opium only
to throw it up in the morning. I was there
when the Czech students crowned Allen King of May.
You should have seen them carrying Allen
on their shoulders, resplendent in his makeshift regalia.
I still see Allen Ginsberg every time I walk
into the supermarket and try to buy what I need
with my good looks. The cashier’s never quite
convinced, but Allen’s pockets are big enough
to lift whatever I need, and then some.
My nephew Ian loves calling his Mum-Mum,
my mother, on the telephone, although
he doesn’t say very much. He’ll call out
her name, which is Mum-Mum, and then
a few minutes later, call out Mum-Mum again.
He’s taken to walking around the living room
with the phone held to his ear, sometimes
my mother can hear him breathing, knocking
over his toys, almost getting into trouble,
kissing his nearly one year old sister on the cheek.
Sometimes he’ll sing a song, happy birthday
or Winnie-the-Pooh, and when someone else
takes the phone, he’ll cry out for Mum-Mum again.
One time my brother called and no one was home,
and Ian left a message, crying Mum-Mum plaintively
over and over into the silent air. Whenever he talks
just to me, he’ll ask for Mum-Mum and hand the phone
back to my brother when he discovers she isn’t there.
But I don’t mind, because I realize I have grown
far too accustomed to walking around without a phone
to my ear. Ian reminds me I am always calling out
Mum-Mum, which is my mother’s name, now,
to myself, walking through empty rooms,
knocking over the toys that are never there.
Ian is also getting used to ending the conversation
by saying goodbye. Before my brother would simply
take the phone away without a sense of decision.
He knows a farewell is a way of walking around without
the phone to his ear, calling out his own name, which is
also my name, without having to find the words to know
he is alone. That will come later, I hope it never does.
I hope I’ll learn to walk with the phone to my ear,
calling out to the empty silence, knowing she’s there,
knowing my nephew and brother and mother
and everyone I’ve ever spoken with, which is my name,
are still there on the other end of the receiver.
At the bottom of the mountain
the road was washed out by the flood,
but that couldn’t stand in the way
the day of the Lordville parade.
The children strolled and rode
in wheelbarrows across the bridge
tooting kazoos and piping their lungs
the day of the Lordville parade.
The old poet Kuzminsky with an eye patch
sat on his jeep, his bathrobe splayed,
his various books covered by a tarp
the day of the Lordville parade.
We walked the railroad tracks
to the abandoned train stop,
we marveled at the river’s still steep height
the day of the Lordville parade.
We wandered the haunted decrepit house
looking for a bathroom
followed by a three legged dog
the day of the Lordville parade.
The children swung at a piñata
nearly knocking each other over blindfolded
until the confetti gave up the candy
the day of the Lordville parade.
There was hot dogs potato salad
Coronas and ice cream and goodies galore
enough for everyone and then some
the day of the Lordville parade.
The day was too short, a t-shirt souvenir,
no telling how long we might have stayed,
all I really want is to come back again next year
to the fantastic and lovely Lordville parade.
If I were on a reality TV show
I’m sure I’d be the one
with the ridiculous hairstyle
who just didn’t give a crap.
I’d choose the most inappropriate songs
and sing them as badly as I could.
I’d inadvertently hog the spotlight
and encourage renegade fan clubs
to vote everyone off before me.
I wouldn’t last very long
but I’d have a real good time.
You wouldn’t know whether I was
giving a thumbs up or flipping the bird
to the judges. That’s what the kids
are calling subversive these days.
I’d force the host to write villanelles
when introducing me, giving a shout out
to my supporters, athletic
or otherwise. And the thing is,
you wouldn’t be able to tell
if I was putting everyone on
or just being genuine. The scope
of my charade would challenge
the very notion of not only
reality TV, but reality itself—
as if reality could be separated
from TV anyway—you only have
thirty minutes from the end
of the broadcast to phone in.
You’d better make your vote count.
Put your stethoscope
to my ear, here
there’s heartbeat
some say flesh
some breathe time
all the stars
planted in your blood
stream—kick slap
the hammer to my knee
I haven’t got much
left to diagnose
shine a light
into my sinus cavity
and see what breathing
accumulates—
you’ve got a healthy
head—smart about
quickened pulse
just to be sure
let’s take your blood
pressure again.
Joshua Keiter 