Author: Steven Karl

Birds chirping     I feel like that doesn’t happen   Oh wait      They are always      in that tree

How is it already       Early evening       Thin branches  fat green leaves    People below on the street

Demur laughter    Photographer     Someone in a wedding dress   Staged laughter

Fading sun  That light    Magic hour some say

Growing up  I had a best friend      Always said      When I get married     He was the most girl-crazy 

boy I’d ever known      I never       Thought about       marriage          My parents 

Sure they laughed     Some of the time      They also argued   Shouted and were always  worried

About money     Giving money     away to the Kingdom Hall     When they didn’t even have money 

To give away like that    Argued about       Robin and me    Always     problems

With kids      Marriage wasn’t something        I aspired to     My best friend would say   When I get

married I’m going to      have a house on a lake      with boat    Not sure     if that ever happened 

Truth was always there       But finally he saw it      I would never      love God    Like him   

I had a different idea      of worship     He stopped        talking to me   I never had dreams

of owning houses   or boats   Said I’d  be playing bass    Be in a band     Not that I could play bass     

His mom used to make     Spaghetti with butter     for dinner   Sprinkle parmesan cheese 

from        the container     Sometimes I’d lie     Say I could only come over    After dinner   

Not that my mother      was Martha Stewart      Or, anything    Jared sends      me a recipe 

“Hillary Duff’s Cilantro Chicken Soup”     He’ll write a novel   Plotless    Hungry characters  Chicken soup

I’ll write a poem   Fame    Missing ingredients    Life from the bowl’s perspective

Our laughter     meets in the middle of an ocean People can be far away    but not feel that far away

In Eugene    At the organic supermarket     Only job open       was the meat counter

Next day they interview      My roommate    for a cashier position       Store opens     Amanda

All other cashiers    attractive college girls      I see       what’s going on here    I didn’t 

even eat meat    I needed       a job   I’d have to       put sausage stuff      in the intestine casings 

Sometimes       I’d do         a bad job     Too much meat     The casing would rip    Start over    At home 

even after       shower        The smell of        dead flesh       on fingers       Even       after shower    

Elizabeth smelled like apples carrots       Smelled like fruit        From the juicing plant

Genesis juice          A Eugene institution      Grateful Dead on      the speakers    Elizabeth 

in her       knee-high rubbers       I quit       the meat counter        By that time I 

was mostly     Making marinades    gallon buckets of marinades    John didn’t want      me to leave

After we locked the doors      John, Justin and I        Would drink beers

Waste away        into the small hours      After I quit   Amanda let me use     Her employee discount   

Sometimes Justin let me       use his employee discount      Years later     Justin and Amanda 

would date       This was Portland         We all lived together       Justin was in a band    Justin’s friend

would stay with us      A dealer from Alaska       Trashcans filled with      mushrooms   weed   

Sheets of acid           Sometimes opium   We had a roommate meeting    Felt  uncomfortable  

Said Fuck it        To be young       To take so many risks     Feeling reckless

He got caught       Felt     bad about that    We’d all gone our separate ways       A forgotten time

I’m losing     the thread   in Eugene I left     the meat counter   Worked at record store 

No one really      used my employee discount   I used the hell out of it    I was always broke 

books beer records CDs too      A gnat annoying me   Right between the eyes   Hitomi 

in the kitchen   pork sizzing      in the pan   Emma rubbing       her stomach   

Exaggerated motions    True hunger      When’s the last time      you had animal flesh    In your mouth

Maybe 18 maybe 20     Does fish count        An unwritten novel on     Unfortunate compromises

Little things     they accumulate    Then it falls apart         You notice         too  late

Fat ravens in flight—shadows on the glass       Too much time          Day   dreaming 

Nerves starting    to fray     Thin strands    of wire    outside       speaker inputs        

A bit of irregular distortion     Easy enough      to ignore    A funny feeling   Easy enough to ignore

Playoff seeding      Orange ball thrown up    Center hands reaching        towards a kind of heaven

A Kind of Blue    Wash     the beets     Peel     the beets    Is this seasonally appropriate?

Dandelions are already      going to seed   Emma doesn’t      love beets      Is there meat?     

Go to the store      Get the Ginger-miso pork      Meat counter     third row from the bottom    

It’s written in English    Do I        have to get the meat?    

Keys clinking       in a ceramic dish    Shoes removed         Smell of garlic frying   Sound of greens 

being ripped      from stems    An excited announcer       talking about how        he went up 

like he       was hunting bodies      I thought there       would be piano       Or a solo cello     

Big game  on replay      Dinner         in-progress           Dull thud         of knife blade     

on cutting board   To hunt       bodies       as a sport       To have       vertical     To have        eyes engulfed        in sky

Used to wait for her         at the window        At the light        she’d smile      and wave 

What happened        to those days         The day divided   into routine(s)        of anticipation

The elevator door opening     Front door opening    Shoes        thrown askew

Bags haphazardly dropped             Fast-moving feet      In search of toilet

What’s for dinner?      Shoulders shrug      Used to be      so organized   Used to      have ideas

Mind blanked     Have I ever eaten before    Vanished      smiles       hungry      stomachs

Strawberry seed       wedged between      two teeth   Forgot   to floss       Thinking of      Liam   

Should be sleeping         Liam sitting     Patch of sun     Beer in hand        Greenwich village 

Trees lining      brownstones I ramble         About        a girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?)   

Moved to NYC    difficulties finding         an apartment    About roaches          Red walls    

About labor         At the denim shop      Violi’s son          Sometimes we’d see shows together   

Sometimes        Paul would ask   How’s Alex these days?        The three      of us    met for Thai    

East Village       Wish that happened more     than once       Where         did the time go     

What were         we busy with          poeming           acting auditions          teaching

Oh those things     Hunting money          Holding onto        some kind       of life   

Corner table    outside   Don’t you just    love      the city   this time     of year   

Telling Liam about her         leaving       About me       staying          Liam      

having problems     Can’t remember        The pigeons cared       none 

About      our problems      Clustered    in jagged lines       pecking at scraps        

Winter was delayed    The feeling     of Eternal Autumn     Some trees     held onto     

Scent of bagels         in the wind         Liam and I        thought our lives     in New York City 

Would somehow    Be different    Like we’d be somebody   Famous… I don’t know respected  

Didn’t want     to give up        we      clanked glasses       said we      resigned ourselves      to live 

whatever    these lives were      in a city       that we loved      that would never       love us back to life      What is a life 

 Ambition     The way things are        How to feel        

About the accumulation         of minutes       When the days   start marking us

Is often       this immense       energy        Thankless glasses       drained        of liquid

Impulsive logic     outstretched egos       The unrequited sadness     settling      later    

At Liam’s (not Paul’s) memorial    Poetry Project   overflowing      with people     Some tears   some 

laughter     A slide show      Liam and his guitar            He’d said he’d play me a song      

Never     got around to it     Liam in a bathtub       An objection       to some photo    I was 

outside       of their grief       Mine less personal     lack of intimacy    His obsessions    with minor      and major poets      

  I am minoring          I am mirroring 

Contemplative failure       thinking         about his sonnet       about money      Waiting 

in line       to buy        overpriced    broccoli      Coat    with olive oil    and salt     Roast    in oven   

Half an idea       Something about dinner        About mouths   What we put in them   

What comes       out of them       Kanji test   stress high    time to       Become invisible   

Fleeing     kitchen       Apartment    too small   Domestic appetites    and aspirations   

Dinner will      have to wait          An entrance             Overly announced    

The way      the door slams     behind if you fail             to catch it

One winter the car windshield        was covered in thin    sheet of ice I turned 

the engine on        To defrost           Went back        inside

Came out       and the driveway was empty        Like looking        at parenthesis 

missing the words   A week or so later   Cops found it         burn marks 

all over the seat     Human     sweat reek      Needles on the floor   needles 

in the seat cushions     25 minutes have passed   Take    out the potatoes   coat with 

more butter     more salt                        feeling reckless

Spider plant looking droopy       should I water it       Someone       bumps into the aloe plant

Curses to      no one in particular         Math homework left on the table          Emma watching 

YouTube videos     attempting to learn   K-Pop dance         Someone’s face obscured

Laptop screen         all this metal and plastic                Where did nature go?  A thyme leaf stuck 

beneath fingernail        A scream from the bathroom      One of those bugs    

with all the legs       creepy long things flitting around     from its head   Picked up 

and flushed   Later         full of potatoes       and too much sour cream Chives wrapped

around dental floss        bad dreams          about a zillion         creepy bugs 

Emerging from the toilet  

Your finger taste salty          wash them again       need a glass of water    Three faces 

in two beds      each buried in a book            An idea about breakfast       A yawn

Car tires      on the road                Ambulance siren                   A yawn 

book weighing      on the wrist          Another idea    About breakfast

it will                  have to wait                 Lights off           did you say something

    

A place to get unfound             decentered no middle            how to thread

These orange socks   Pluck    the rosemary   Chop    the rosemary         Fingers taste 

like green herbs    Books spilt all over the table       No clean forks          to be found,

the faded silver      dulling tips       Bought years ago         in Brooklyn 

A corner restaurant suddenly                                        going out of business,

How many potatoes      will there be guests?             Do we need wine? 

Oh, sober again?        Losing light        pull the curtains         Kids on the street shouting

Can you hold this?   Sharp    cheddar against the grater     Swamp-green kale ripped    from stem

I used to know a girl       Who would eat bell peppers like apples     I was in an undergrad

This was Portland      we had a poetry class together     we worked at a bookstore  mostly untogether

Rarely did our       shifts overlap     Our classmates said         she was just being eccentric I

didn’t bother      to care but       as I cut       yellow and red bell peppers I  

see her   biting into one   I think we were walking     to a W.S. Merwin reading   

what was her name?  I think I had a girlfriend        but was lonely          I think I

was worrying about making       rent       paying       car insurance    

Mathias biking through pre-dawn Miami photographing graffiti and the waves upon the sand. Mathias crossing the MacArthur Causeway. Palms silent. Sleeping iguanas. Us chatting like we were in Brooklyn again and just leaving a reading. Unnamable Books. Park Slope. Another night in the dimly lit basement. The torn sofa. Amy, Cathy. Others. Or the tree-lined blocks of Carrol Gardens. Fawning over something Matt put together. Those days. Blood and beer. Distance and years. People we loved who didn’t make it. Lovers unloved. Loves threaded too thinly and pulled apart. By what? I remember when it felt like enough just to be young.   A pair of sneakers, an outstretched arm. Half- years crawl by. Just living a life. Whatever that is. Whatever that becomes. What do they say about the real ones. You just pick up where you left off. Joseph and I in Berlin. Mathias’ Monday, my Tuesday. Not so much a pause. More like the space between flipping a record over from one side to other. The needle perched and waiting. Mathias, there is barely audible static. The poem and its music.

On a scale of ten       what would you rate      the weather     Emma walking in the rain

Scottland gray scent       of coffee coming      from somewhere         Family prefers tea

scones clotted cream and jam      Bright lights thick laughter       from another table

An idea of dinner    Wipe   the mushrooms clean of dirt     Slice   the mushrooms

Turn up the music          kid’s got homework      Turn down the music      kid’s got math homework

Turn off the music     kid wants sour cream               did you remember, 

Off to the store       for sour cream        Trench coats in earth tones           a bit of wind

Always pigeons     In a store with strangers        a voice in the head      An unplaceable melody

Come to me she whispers               But what about          the potatoes 

Fingers that taste         like butter         sweet then sickening            Excuse me,

A sickness rushing           A tightening of  throat       An alarm going off

oven is pre-heated    Put  the coated potatoes      into the oven

The wave of heat remembering         Once a quickening          of the heart

Seems like just the other day               Like any ordinary day     then a kid

Been at this         at it for a decade      What comes in tens?             Not eggs

An idea of dinner       it started with the potatoes             Ever since

Scotland Emma      likes to call them jackets          Weather was a bit

blustery      the beginning of Spring         longing for        winter        Flower petals

clogging the river     a necessary jacket day          A day for a jacket      but this zipper

There was something wrong        with the zipping                   Spilling from her lips

gossip               about a mutual acquaintance         Maybe someone’s got           a crush

With the flat part      of the blade            Crush  the garlic           pluck   the thyme

Movement     in the other room         skittering of feet     Take   the soft butter

Coat  the skin     of the potato      Salt  the potato                        Waning light of afternoon

It’s not like I knew what her favorite color was or what she dreamt about. We were matched. We married. We had similar taste in wine. I was good looking and she was flashy and we were popular. But then the boss said trouble was coming. The boss said get the fuck out as fast as you can. She had questions. She had so many questions. Who did she think she was asking me all of these questions? We began to flee the city, but she was still nagging me about leaving our friends our families behind. She was married to a God-fearing man. What else could she possibly desire? She was crying and saying something about all the screaming. About the fire falling from the sky. About the stench of burning bodies. She was saying something and then she wasn’t. They say she turned into a pillar of salt, but how would I know? I never looked back. I just kept going.

“It was her home, and it was on fire.” Kate Greenstreet [Salt]

I don’t think she was ever given a name. Just presented as a possessive, so-and-so’s wife. They said she should serve as a warning. That she was rich. That she was greedy. Have you ever seen fire fall from the sky? Do as I say. It’s really that simple. But she disobeyed. Imagine a woman not worthy of having her name written down in a holy text having so much will to defy a command. She turned around. Saw flames licking the sky. Saw bodies on fire. Saw running bodies burning. Haven’t you ever had a friend that was a little naughty? That was a bit of a nonconformist? It would suck to turn around and see your friend on fire. Don’t turn around always felt like a cop-out so one could murder without a witness. But love is a powerful thing. I’d turn around too, so that my friend on fire could at least see the tears in my eyes. Could see me turn into a pilar of salt. Could see in the end I did not flee like a heartless thing but looked at my beloved city one last time and died weeping. 

Out the window I see some worn-out pigeons fighting for scraps of food waste. Again, I’m at the dentist. My chair goes horizontal. Whirring electricity. Commence scraping. Then screeching. It’s like a demon symphony in my mouth. Taste of iron and saliva. My chair returns to upright position. I rinse my mouth four times to rid the blood. Dental hygienist says some of my teeth are in bad shape; gums need serious attention.  If I agree to work hard, she can fix it. After they take my money, I head straight to the taco stand. My teeth are killing me. Two bites into the taco and I have abandoned all ideas of eating. I run the words over and over in my mind. She can fix it. I’m no different than anyone else. Desperate to be saved. Maybe it was just a lie, but she said it so sincerely. Taste of blood at the back of my mouth; I walk home whistling my favorite song.