Author: Steven Karl

First town then town again then hotel key what comes next 
First town then town again then pie & coffee also Bob also terror 
Next town remains first town once quiet town a missing person town
A missing key town a folksy kind of town a weird town then a terror town 
A once quiet town with a mill a mill town with typical stratification of teens 
Then becoming a terror town a terror again in the first town the town again 
First town then town again then hotel key what comes next 
First town then town again then pie & coffee also Bob also terror 
Next town remains first town once quiet town a missing person town
A missing key town a folksy kind of town a weird town then a terror town 
A once quiet town with a mill a mill town with typical stratification of teens 
Then becoming a terror town a terror again in the first town the town again 

A lake nestled deep in a trail dotted with firs That melody in the distance do you hear it too

First a town then a town then a terror a terror town of bored kids with unspoken
  desires 
It was as if a terror had settled into the town the town with peculiar tourists 
The town with decent cup of coffee the town with lake where bored kids maybe swam 
Maybe did lots of things their parents shouldn’t know owl shadows upon an evening
 lake 
An evening lake as if terror had settled in a backwoods kind of terror a terrible
 kind of terror 
As if the town was now terror town body washed against shore body dragged along
 shore 
A murder in a once quiet town a murder of a girl an attempted murder of a girl
Misunderstood kid a murder of secret desire a secret desire washed upon shore
 lust of terror 
Sound at the edge of a lake in a town of weird tourists peculiar pies cold coffee
 stratification of teens 
Some shook by murder others enthralled by murder others too busy just being teens
 a melody 
In the distance a Bob in the distance a town encased in trees a mill in flames 
Where does this leave me 
First town then town again then a secret then what came next 
Once quiet town then terror then coffee & pie then again town 
Then town first next come what then pie then again town 
Then town first then terror Where does this leave me

Sorry, been busy with end of the semester grading, etc. so I just decided to try and revise an older poem that I’ve been fussing with for the last year or so. Obv. shout-out to Twin Peaks.

Everything changes         Deeper woods    To find wild        More secrets

Parties      In abandoned train cars           Drugs          Exotic birds        Extroverts      Bad tattoos

You left me       on the side of the road          I’m misremembering        I’m lying        A fight

You ditched the motorcycle           You ran       into the woods      We’re not       Kids anymore

I didn’t     Follow you       Asshole sometimes      Black leather jacket 

Me and an acoustic guitar          Can’t you tell I’m sensitive           When it’s convenient

Over-narration and disappearance       Word fumbles       Inarticulate sky inside out blue

Moss stained        with blood drops          Body dragged to       Edge of road      Almost dead

Haunted through and through          Reverential owls         Why owls         Owls      Always watching

Hooting ill-music       You shouldn’t remember      Let it go      It’s gone        Donna we need to talk

Spin swerve       Gone summer        Dragging bikes  uphill       Downhill     so fast

Legs unable     To keep revolution   Spread out      Rims spinning       The accident

Don’t talk about     Soil becomes      blood         Was that the first time

Death      wasn’t vocabulary    Dumbfounded in dim light       Extended days

You held     My hand       Tears and snot     On your shoulder      Remember how

We hated adults    You and me against         What was it     We were against   

Growing up         Looking stupid     No Faker    Underneath     the Douglas fir   

Skirt of moss      Distant sounds   of swimmers      in the pond    Wasn’t it a lake 

Cold birth        Summer weather     sweating in autumn sweater       leather satchels 

Divided dreams   decoded diary entries    lily stains    Something what   This way comes    

Used to be all forest      Flannel shirts and duck boots       Fancy cafes     Recommended photo spot   

What happen    To our days       off-filter fun        Erased landmarks       You changed

To be forgotten     But he said,          I haven’t forgotten      A stretch of wood

The low-lying ferns         Various greens       absorbed light         Sun through rhododendrons 

That day     Sun on slate         Slow trickle    of wanna-be     waterfall      Four feet moving 

Through    leaf waste       Do you        remember         Fading car       sounds      Wood depth 

Rustling        in the underbrush        Someone         else’s foot pattern       approaching    

A menacing voice         A disproportioned beard            Distortion inside itself   

A lesson         about cells         Show me     yours        I’ll show you      mine

Whispering     side-eye is an ignored        side-eye         How about a wink     More akin     to aura

How about       this hole         it’s home       How about        this branch       it’s a hold  

Just ask      the leaf       No reply       Replay the ask       The sky answers       With silence 

I haven’t forgotten       Two knees       A slight touch    How it began        The story

Who’s story       Is this       The beginning           Touching knees     Is a deceit closer

The midway       Hesitant   narrative            Something flutter     A voice floating    in and out 

Harmony ears      Nature kids     doing natural things       This part      The story  keeps to itself

Feeling shy      Lusting secrets        I haven’t forgotten    Heaven’s nonsense    Patient light 

Flat back        The sky undoes       itself in blue      Outside    any good song       the melody

 is lonely          Outside any good boy        A guitar riffs into heaven       An April day

I haven’t forgotten         Friendly keyboard trinkle          Forgot    the windchimes 

You and your clarinet         An April afternoon       Cars       Fading away 

Something moving         in the underbrush         Untouching knees        Secrets lusting 

For more secrets         Shushed-up trees          You don’t have to remember   I haven’t forgotten

Sure it’d hurt    Eventually he’d be making dinner    For someone else    Some people are unlucky

They stay alone    Their entire life    Not him he’d fumble or drift into someone’s else’s life 

He was predictable     Is that      What made him less desirable?      She held his hand

She’d leave him A note       Slip out       In the morning         Before sun appeared

Last visible stars        dull and hard          It was enough       Light jacket     Half zipped 

Visions of subways    Busy city intersections        An idea of dinner      A quiet café  

Seat for one        Another life    She would         Have another life  

In twenty years His hair would be thinning   In thirty years Skin starting to sag on the bone   

He’d still be Shelving books    Dreaming aloud     Half in this world   half in his head   

She didn’t hate him       She’d never hate him    But     The pond    He wanted to go

See the pond     It had a little island     Full of lilies   Then he’d start rambling 

About the painted turtles     the false map turtles      Always the goddamn turtles   

No     she wouldn’t       let anger seep in         He liked turtles       So what?   It already felt distant

An imagined life     About to begin       The turtles         sunning on the rocks 

Season after season        of blooming lilies       She’d seen it before    She wouldn’t see it again  

Sums     Equations      Addition        Subtraction     Division        Multiplication

How a life can be reduced to math   No, she wouldn’t pity him  

There were zinnias lining the garden entrance    Common flowers   The eye forgets To track   A path

that led to so many shades      of dahlias The bench   Was it on the bench?     They sat on the bench

It was a weekday      Garden mostly empty         There was     Sun and still more sun    

Squirrels playing games    With each other              fat-breasted Robins

Hopping here and there      Fingers hoping   Fingers touching     then pulled away      back stiffens  

Something    in the air shifts   Maybe      She already knew      He kept talking about leaving  

There was a time When they both    would dream aloud    But now     She kept her words 

to herself     She was leaving       without him   Would she tell him

9/11 Belle & Sebastian     played Portland   Some idiots     in the crowd    Kept requesting 

“I Fought in a War”    Song   politely declined    I went alone    Not sure where Joseph was    

Probably working  Always on the verge of war     If not already in a war    When’s the last time

 You felt violent?

Does a butcher knife     through tofu count?      Sometimes       A joke    falls flat  

There should be        Shame in that     When inner humor isn’t even funny to the self

Not exactly strategy    But a step Towards   survival    Did he love her?   At times he knew 

Love unbounded     Thought it was endless    Fool’s gold?    Or just foolish immaturity? 

Or just bad luck?     To fall Out of love   To wake up with different feelings

Some people came into the bookstore   Bought books  or didn’t buy books 

Left piles   of them on    the counter     Bookstore still fighting  union attempt     

But there was a time    It felt cool     Cultural cred   To stand behind    the register    

To walk the aisle     Shelving books   Joseph Erika & I    slipping out    

for lunch     Red and Green curries    Pad Kee Mao Sometimes 

I’d lag behind    So I could go to Jackpot Records   or Ozone Records  

Then they moved Then closed    Then reopened     It wasn’t the same    Was it? 

In Portland    Was this Before or after the car was stolen?   I can’t remember

I think Joseph drove a Subaru   A bunch of us From the bookstore      Drove  to Seattle

To see Belle & Sebastion     I can’t remember Where we stayed    I don’t think it was raining  

We talked About leaving The bookstore    Leaving Portland    Getting on with our lives    

We were young Feeling trapped Feeling bored Feeling impetuous      

C’mon Evie! Let’s see the world together! Let’s get married! Evie sees no ring. Evie’s father wouldn’t approve. A disgruntled drunk with a violent streak. Evie’s brothers left her to do the caretaking. To do the women’s work. Evie lives in a city everyone has heard of, but it’s a city past its glory. There seems to be dust everywhere. Every morning the priest can be seen feeding pigeons in the square. Wrinkles and creases around the eyes of Evie’s workmates. An exhausted city. A 5:00 o’clock bell tolling. Frank with those shiny eyes and a smile that looks like it’s been everywhere. At movies how Frank makes her laugh. How in the dark he always smells like salt and seawater. 

Frank says it’s a boat and it’s big. It’s morning. The ship’s horn rings through the air. There are seagulls because there are always seagulls in scenes like this. So much commotion as feet press on and luggage scrapes the boarding ramp. A dead city arisen in crisp morning air. Beginning of sunhaze. Frank is already on the ship. Calling out Evie’s name. As if a disembodied voice. As if Frank is already a thing of the past. Frank is already so far away. Frank frantic calls out again and again. Evie remains shore-locked as the ship slow glides the ocean. Evie! Evie! Evie! Sometimes she still hears his call. Sometimes she remembers the thrill of when life ached for her. Laughless she sits alone at movies. She swears she still smells salt and seawater. 

*Loose reinterpretation of James Joyce’s short story, “Eveline.”

Once at a party I bragged about making out with a girl from Iceland. I said she was friends with Bjork. No one cared. Once at a party Moby kept going around asking everyone if they knew who he was. No one cared. Once at a party someone said Stephen Malkmus is here. The kind of people that cared were the kind of people I didn’t like so I pretended not to care. After the party I listened to Pavement for three days straight. I kept singing to myself Write it on a postcard Dad they broke me Dad they broke me

It had been raining, and it was raining. Everything around me was happening in a language I didn’t understand. Often, I would just listen to the rain the words floating around me but never sticking. There was an erected crane and on the first day of rain it was partially obscured by clouds. But it had been… It had been raining for so many days. I couldn’t remember which direction the crane was facing as one part of the sky was indistinguishable from another part of the sky. 

In Tokyo it had not been raining for 10 days but it felt like it had been raining for 10 days. Green leaves saturated in water. Feelings fragmented into a memory of a time. I was living in Portland, and it rained for 10 days. I took the bus. The distance between the bus stop and work my feet would get wet. All the bushes looked like wet yarn. I would go to Honkin’ Huge Burrito for lunch but because it was raining. I didn’t go out for lunch. Outside the store window where I worked busses were honking at cars; the street covered in leaves.

I hated my job. I sat in the breakroom reading Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. My stomach was mad at me. The words mostly floated around me. I was zoned out thinking about eating. My hand turned the pages. I can’t really remember but somewhere in the book. The main character goes skiing and maybe it was avalanche or just a white-out. I thought he might die. It was a moody book where I could be deceived into thinking everyone would die sooner or later. And they would all die trying not to be disappointed. But they would in fact die disappointed. Anyway, I inhabited the fear of snow.

Anytime I find myself in intense snow the fear inhabits me. There is no snow. Only heavy rain and puddles and smelly buses all running late or never showing up. It was the 9^th day of a 10-day rainfall. On the 11^th day I rode my bike to work. As I approached the bridge, I saw people leaned over and pointing to something below. I biked slowly. Then dismounted. The sky was splattered with cotton candy clouds. Below was a park and the table and benches were submerged in water. I imagined being submerged in snow. I got back on my bike. I went out for lunch. I got a Honkin’ Huge Burrito. Because it had rained for so many days Pioneer Square was flooded with asses. There was not a single place to sit. I took my burrito back to the break room. I opened my book. The burrito tasted soggy. It was sunny outside. People were happy. 

There are a lot of ways      you can order numbers     There are a lot of ways         numbers get disordered:      clumsy

fingers; thick head      But there is….       so much ringing                                Is that not coming from        the other line

 Maybe you should be asking these questions                         To a doctor         there’s no time for that          there is ringing

then there’s someone’s music

Running interference            Is that Bill singing              through the walls         Coming from speakers

I’m imagining a girl            on roller skates            must be Venice         Was it Venice 

where I ran             into Sommer             Outside some small and crowded café           Was it Venice 

I dreamt about                 as a boy the past and present              get so tangled I know     it’s hard to look

back and              it’s hard to live in        they say to                 move forward

Forward to where              into what         is this about money          its lacking          its needing 

any luck         There’s a call on the line      is it that boy from Chicago        er… there’s no listed number 

um… its unnamed           and when you put the phone       to your ear       it is voiceless 

just ringing        unless        you can         consider the ringing       its own           kinda voice 

there are doors     and windows     day-glo colors misplaced nights     murder in the air

a window in the mind     what kind of game    are you playing at       a murder of colors

a half-remember song fragmented     into mismemory      book with torn pages water damaged

an unanswered line    a mistaken lead   given way to     a great lake    Dan walking along the shoreline

Is this a search    for clues      or a falling into    a rhythm         an invitation for love 

let’s not get ahead of ourselves   there’s dried blood        on the blade           weird photos

distorted faces   enlarged noses     there are some real                  Twilight Zone elements

Bill singing like he believes     in nothing     Bill singing like he believes             in everything

Dads in the park           with their kids      hot dog stench               Sunday sounds

Forget about Chicago    the witness           is compromised    the witness           is all lies

Dead end another dead end        phone ringing       unlisted number

two phones         ringing                    it begins again

I was fast. Not the fastest, but fast enough. Mr. Ianocone asked me to join the track and field team. I was rail thin and sucked at distances but give me a 50-yard dash and I couldn’t help but show out. My parents wouldn’t allow me to join Track and Field. My father said, Be no part of this world. I wanted to be a part of the world. I wanted to be a part of a team. I wanted to feel wanted. I awkwardly declined. I wasn’t very outgoing, but I knew the boys on the team. They were nice enough. I was embarrassed; I couldn’t tell Mr. Ianocone my parents said no. Instead, I was weird about it. 

A few months later in PE we did the 50-yard dash. It was neck and neck. Joel was fast, but I was faster. Mr. Ianocone said Joel won the race even though I beat him by at least a half-step. During another PE class, I dropped the baton. It was an accident, but Mr. Ianocone took it as sabotage. Called me Butterfingers like it was the dirtiest word. Teachers called you all kinds of names back in the 80s. In the locker room all the boys called me Butterfingers while throwing their sweaty tighty-whities at me. 

Head fog   Sometimes I get it    How about you?    So much coffee     Coffee spilling from my eyes

Can’t remember   What it feels like     to feel   alive   Yogurt in a plain white bowl   nuts   honey

He always wore a tie    it felt like a noose     One way to be held   He always wore nice shirts

Ironed Crisp   His pants had stains    or holes   Fraying threads   He stood in front of people

Sometimes you know    Everyone’s mind   is elsewhere   That no one cares  

You have to get on with it         Fake it   Like the title of that Blonde Redhead album   

Maybe less angst    Maybe just less of yourself    Eleanor, does any of this make sense?  

When you know    You’ll regret    that $1.50 slice    When you realize      

you’ve spent all day      With food stuck    between teeth     When you shamelessly

smile at someone You shouldn’t       have smiled at      Shame    Let’s talk shame   

Once I got so mad   I threw a pool ball   at my sister       Bad aim       All these years 

What if still gnaws   The sudden outburst       of violence       When was the last time   

You lost yourself  to   a fit of anger

Fits of dawn  Pond frogs still at it   Moonflowers along a rotting fence    Dew soaking

toes of your sneakers   But there was a time     She loved him     A time    They both

Would say forever   Synchrony   Then      Something else     Minute hand lagging behind 

Apathetic seconds    Another day    What is there to say?    

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