Author: Joan Keiter

I am an American writer, comic, clown and bouffon currently residing in York, England. I worked as a stand-up comic in New York for 10 years before moving to Europe. I lived in Paris for two years where I studied and performed clown with The Clown Companie, Ira Seidenstein’s International School of Acting and Clown and The Improfessionals. I studied and performed bouffon with the International Performing Arts Network. Her teacher was Eric Davis, a clown with Cirque du Soliel and master bouffon, The Red Bastard. In Paris I developed my bouffon, Joan Six Pack, which parodied the stereotype of how the obnoxious American tourist is perceived abroad. She is still working with this character in England. My first book, Happy As Larry, has just been published.

He just about saw the back of the car as it disappeared over the hill.

That was the back of mother’s head. She was driving, even though she had never driven before.She just jumped into the car when the car started to roll.

Not surprisingly, the car swerved right, hit a guard rail and rolled down a steep embankment.

I probably should have notified the police, but why bother?

The ravine was thick in late August tangles.

My lucky day, the overturned car wouldn’t be found for months.

I was kind of sad that Catherine and Jeremy were in the back, but I never got on well with my siblings and after all, they didn’t testify on my behalf during the Sullivan Investigation. They let me fry on the stand and going down for 17 years was no picnic.

That’s why they seemed surprised when I arrived at the door last night. I guess they hadn’t read that I was released.

Surprising how easy it is to snap the brake line on a Vauxhall. Piece of cake really.

  I've made love seven times today; To the door, To the past, With all of my ghosts and their cousins. Satin children all lines up to see me fail. I drank a cup of tea in a room labeled loneliness, And then cracked my vein open And fed it with drugs from the graveyard, Ones I had collected that morning, Distilled from frost And suffering from empathy. It was then that I caught myself in the mirror, Propped up at the tomb of myself in the future. I was playing at the cinema. My head was the projector. And my eyes saw what you will never see, Your contempt for me, Which you kept hidden in a little canvas satchel, Under the bones That used to be our bed.