Joshua Keiter

In the dark times
With the bombs falling
Will there also be singing?

Yes, there will be singing
About the bombs falling
In the dark times

In the dark times
When no one is listening
Who will be listening
To the singing
In the dark times?

You will also be listening
As you are singing
About the bombs falling 
And no one listening
To the singing
And the marching
And the gathering 
In the dark times

Because what the fuck else are we going to do?

When I lost it and I mean really lost it 
so much so I had no idea if it would ever 
come back, whatever it may be, if it’s 
marbles that’s just a metaphor maybe a play

thing, if it’s consciousness that has yet to be
proven definitively beyond a shadow of a doorway 
at the top of the stairs in the middle of the night 
having a slow discussion with your pastor 

or your director, who is really your father or
uncle or doppelgänger, and you’re talking 
but really it’s to only yourself, the topic 
happens to be all the evil that seems to be everywhere 

and the voice that’s really only in your head says 
“There’s been a lot of dying going on around here.
But what if we could beat Hitler at his own game?” 
And you say to the voice, “You mean, everybody dies?”

And the voice replies, “Everybody lives.” 
And months later when you find it again and I mean 
really found it, you know that means that God saved them.
God saves us all. Love wins, damnit. Love wins.

A month of birthdays 
can’t help but remind me
of the time we tried to surprise
my father with an unexpected gift,

a camera, and I tried
to throw him off the scent
with the unmistakable misdirection, 
“It’s not a camera,” 

which caused my mother and brothers 
to guffaw in familial laughter 
but no matter because my father 
didn’t hear me anyway, 

and he opened his present 
with the surprise intact
the lesson of which, if there is one 
to be gleaned from this incident, is 

No matter what you expect
No matter what may be in store
If you stop listening, or just get distracted
It’s always, and never, not a camera.

And when the world 
upends itself 

opens its veins 
to the thousand tiny
shocks that flesh is

air to, err on the side
of caution, as you don’t

know where the next
terror may lurk, in fear
or loss of control

somehow they appear
invisible and static

just open your eyes
as if to dream, not
because sleep won’t come, but

you only see what 
they want you to hear anyway.

To say that there is
not enough time
in the world is to say

that there is enough
time to reboot the universe
that stars only hang

suspended in the blackness
as peepholes to the infinite
that there may be

enough time in the early morning
to escape from a vampire film
or a blasted out desert

and go on a road trip
because our love affair with cars
has gone on for too long

and find her, somewhere
they can’t find me, and tell her
she is the only one

the north and lonely star.

You question me when I say 
that all loss is permanent and temporary. 
How can that be, you say
when I can’t even remember what I ate
on this day in 1983, or the color
of her hair when she turned 102. 
Without flinching I reply 
without saying a word or sparing 
an empty platitude, that all loss
isn’t even loss, that every moment, 
every seed, every blade of grass
is imprinted on eternity, even 
what some might refer to as the ultimate
I Am. Existence, you say, is finite. 
Even if the globe should fall
heroically and unequivocally into the sun, 
and a disembodied voice intones
emphatically, NO HEAVEN FOR YOU, 
certainly all things must pass.
You remain silent as I reply,
just because everything slips away
doesn’t mean it doesn’t return 
to where it came from. That’s how it is, after all
with you and me and me and you, one two, one two.

Flying a French flag
porch covered 
in construction debris,

we arrive barely off
script, ready to eat
teenager baked goods

in exchange for
the camaraderie of
theatre people—

the family we choose.

It took Mum-Mum three tries 
to blow out her birthday candles 
in this her 103rd year 
“Oh now I won’t get my wish” she said 
She held her great-granddaughter 
and didn’t blink 
as the baby spit up on her shirt 
which already had a stain 
“Well at least I wore the perfect shirt” she said 
Later we all took pictures of her 
surrounded by each member of the family 
She squinted as if she didn’t know 
where to look. My mother said 
she must have been looking for a camera.

What’s in yours?
     In mine there’s
          an object for every
year of my life
     that I anticipate
          happening again
once I have the time
     and the trick is
          this time
when the scars are about to happen
     I’ll be prepared.
          So for instance
that note you passed
     along the table
          at the cast party
I would already know
     what was written on it
          and I would hold onto it
As if I knew what to do
     and where to go
          instead of fumbling around
on a turntable listening
     to Cat Stevens think
          he actually saw the light

You know that career
     you always said you were meant for?
          Turns out you weren’t.
You know that trickle of water
     that falls from the faucet
          & interrupts your dreams
on an hourly basis?
     Turns out no one can fix it.
          You remember that time
in your life when everything
     was evergreen & evanescent
          and you knew it
wouldn’t last forever?
     Turns out you were right.
          You know that viral video
going around the internet
     that everyone linked to
          in self-righteousness
and indignation?
     Turns out no one watched it.
          And the incident
just keeps happening over & over
     Just like that. Huh.
          Turns out.