Author: Steven Karl

we were so underground we mistaken ourselves
as seeds but the mechanism of roots never came

no tree pierced soil we were so underground
below undergrowth becoming coffins

we were at the bars one beer after another as night
blurred into many mornings a lyric lashed onto our

pumping machines pumping poems directly into
the waste of sky but no divination arrived head-

aches & mistaken adorations left us left out slinking
into shadows shirking common sense & amnesia 

settling in to erase Miami pastel sunsets streets
flooding during high tide we believed in the good

-ness of others & the will of ourselves our friends
vanished while others we refused to let go we worshipped

love but were forced to make a go of it in a world dominated
by hate we went through fields of lavender fields 

of sunflowers through the corn maze through the expanse
of the prairie parsed a pulse as we moved through redwoods

old stream still running despite reduced rainfall we measured
the fog & then there was hardly any fog to record we got old

we got lonely we got found & found again by each other

four years
to the day
yesterday

				so open
					we all were such lilting

						young lungs  that tattered

guitar twangy strings
hunched over in constant

				tuning how is it
				that I can see you

							cradled over acoustic
							body going back & forth

hands up
& down
all along
fret board 
a chord			a series of notes 	curls unfolding in a sway  of 

         afternoon light


certainly 
your voice          yet  now   
                    when I see 			an old photo


							of you 
                                                        there is 
                                                                hush

	as if replaying memory on mute


four years since
you died almost		30 years 		since we lived in 

			the same house

		dogwoods in bloom
		like we used to see				in Jersey


the cherry blossoms
in a day or so
will be mostly 
leaves

				but today is 
				not Jersey
				not Eugene			just me


sun obscured by apartment buildings

					but the light still floods,


with an open window
on a spring morning


				setting your ghost    free to breathe

I never intended to marry imagined I’d have books too many records whose length if played one after the other would last longer than the life I’d have left I suppose there would be friends thrill of morning coffee scent moving in & out of rooms occasional late afternoon tea the quiet of green pearls opening in hot water or maybe I’d only be able to afford a single room, still it’d be enough sun in backyard filled with poets all summer long fancy adult drinks with garnishes & beers aplenty once Nerissa sang while Des plucked an upright bass I still have photo of Ken with Ted whose holding a large flip phone 

the interior mostly subterrain (what they refer to in Boston as a garden apartment) but this was Brooklyn & it was simply called lucky lucky that is to live alone the place inhabited by two poets prior: first Amy & then Sommer that place got condemned the garden boxes dispersed ladybugs found new homes—such a delicate wind from their wings

in Eugene feet thru high 
grass already going 
yellow even though Autumn 
is months away 
abandoned field rumored 
once to be hippie commune floppy 
frisbee slits thru still 
air Elizabeth’s arm reaches 
ever upward Tamara 
with a bag of books college 
blues on weekday afternoon 
how many days of rain 
did we wait out 
the sun a few sun-
flowers stranded 
here & there our final 
summer unknown 
to any of us a season 
later as pumpkins were carved 
imagination remade by sewing 
needle’s rhythm a bus back 
to Philly broken-
hearted listening 
to some mopey Sunday’s 
song on repeat Utah 
one stunning plateau 
after the next road 
stretching further emptiness 
the boy next 
to me from Alaska 
living out his cracked 
Kerouac visions how many 
versions of ourselves enter 
& exit periphery hacky sacks  
hippies given way to hip 
hop & graffiti bottom 
of my jean pocket 
lint of what 
was left behind

facts are the meat 
of robots but robots 
can be selective facts 
always subjective like blundering
into rumination of a lost 
friend Tamara liked the tithonias 
but I should 
have planted more there 
is no ceiling for AI 
because it’s 
the floor how 
every billboard 
in SF makes 
me unforget
every department 
meeting over a screen 
in Boston we had lots of sun 
we were young 5 to house 
in a row of houses 
in Eugene a lawn to nap 
on bikes for quicker trips 
to the river 
to the woods
no one carried 
a phone Elizabeth 
had to wait 
all day to tell 
me that Allen
Ginsberg died my hands 
still dirty from an afternoon 
stocking records we took 
a bike ride 
I read my
Howl rip-off 
poem to a stand 
of trees maybe 
later Elizabeth played 
Joni Mitchel on guitar 
her voice I still sometimes 
miss today its tulips 
everywhere & find 
myself wondering how old 
Tamara would be if she 
hadn’t died the memory strung-
out from years in between death 
courting sudden to see pictures 
of Elizabeth, Amanda, Kim
myself & Tamara—glory Eugene
daze each lost in other each 
lost in ourselves green 
stems extending ever sunward 
that particular green 
the grass gets at 3 o’clock 
sun boys in bunches some 
of them in temper 
tantrums girls all cupped 
hands & whispers lame 
thing about parenting 
is how easily stereo-
types are reinforced like do 
boys really 
behave like that
or have I 
been conditioned 
to expect that wait 
I was a boy once 
but neither I nor 
the robot remembers Elizabeth 
is absent from scene a coast 
in Oregon me standing 
top of a hill wasn’t Dave 
there Tamara on her side 
half in sand
her face split 
in laughter a picture 
remembers what
I forget 
I open 
an AI browser
type in 
memories of 
a boyhood
naturally it’s all 
gibberish still exercises 
in futility
can refocus
the eye out 
the window delicate
line of cream yellow
Tamara it’s Spring
again, let me 
tell you about
the daffodils 

she draws & colors in a vigorous yellow sun so that from paper we arise to meet our other selves one breath at a time, one step followed by another cutting a curt trail across a landscape of terror be damned our mouths full of mango & we are leaving a trail of palm fronds

following a trail of palm fronds under a pastel Miami sky sometime or another I
  finally fall into it & days
& nights come & go there she is now older singing Taylor in another city Tokyo a 
   disfigured bridge from there to here & here in this room

& here in this room slowly it falls over me, it engulfs me the terror 
 of our waring world 
 the terror of capitalism
 the terror of parenting 
 the terror of being alive 
& accountable subsides into a hard fought slumber

a hard-fought slumber comes with less & less frequency still occasionally it comes which means there will most likely be a tomorrow there will most likely be these words & coffee & it will be May already & we are here for each other in between the words in this poem each with our own odd music

I image being filthy in the deceit of debt, sometimes I too want to die but there’s a daughter who will awaken & say dad & if that space goes blank then the emptiness fills in & the terror starts to taunt a torture worse than my sadness 

a finite torture worse than my depression I imagine myself at a lake pulling jagged rocks from tattered denim pockets & although they won’t skip I wrist the motion, the aggressive thrust + belief in magic—a half-ass attempt

the aggressive thrust + belief in magic—a half-ass attempt to meet time in the eye un-idle hands until another day is done & daughter draws the shape of a tired sun so that means I must arise again & attend to the difficult work of staying alive 

& because I could not sleep I forced myself to shut eye & imagine a butterfly but the monarch remained mystery & instead some winged thing smearing gray-white came fluttering & I thought fuck me is that a moth well might as well be Woolf-noise siphon to signal one zombie spirit blaring on speakers 

Woolf-static tap to signal zombie spirits deafening sleep slipped out window
 while I am left
in mystery of black surrounded by deeper black a car passing drags the ear & then
 falling silence
the terror of a singular heartbeat, how many do I have left thump thump goes
 something night

thump thump went something seconds ago— an anticipation of another fracture, men desperate to kill each other & war is ever near rocks in pockets stone piercing hrt I did not want die not for you & your senseless horror I imagine burning all my credit cards getting dirty in the deceit of debt

Horror I am 
falling for it 
like I always fall 
for it this time 
of year when pumpkins 
are carved fangs 
& bat sonar set 
to feast brisk 
breeze while 
sun slips air 
slowly turns color 
of smoke threading 
through last blue 
& it calls to me 
as it has called 
to you twisted 
desire to watch 
madmen running 
through woods 
with revving chainsaw 
or its Friday so let’s 
let Jason play here’s 
a hockey mask 
& blunt wood seduce me 
with urban hymns written 
for final girl while 
pretty skulls makeup 
morning face button 
up expensive shirts pull 
up pressed trousers 
white knuckles pulling tight 
an argyle tie silent sound 
obnoxious accumulation 
offshore privilege oxides 
belabored crystal chandeliers 
stiff backs robotic legs move
in rhythm to dance 
track loose light while 
it filters through 
abandon house climb
a hill to greet 
haunting hereafter noose in
an antique amulet fading bronze
barn in a forgotten 
town hunt moves 
through too-tall corn 
“He Who Walks 
Behind the Rows” 
thrash guitars mugging 
sky cult kiddos 
with bloodied choppers 
flower crowns wilting
in hair slacker 
slashers file into streets
top-secret hackers reeking 
in airtight doom rooms 
80s malls forever 
our screens the screams 
of teens every parents’ 
fear & perverse dream 
ah there’s familiar Freddy 
newly manicured 
so settle in this is going 
to be classic 
male violence 
& she sits with witching 
eyes warming 
waters & bears 
with nowhere to 
go radioactive ribs 
alien feelings under 
ominous moon cliché 
full shadows of 
fools ignore the 
feeling of fear 
tremble if you 
must banal waking 
hours horror almost 
invisible comes to 
play—

there were rich people houses
in architectural designs I’d only
 
seen on TV shows & magazines
overlooking the bay or what-

ever swathe of water that money
pays for & there were flowers

in purples & reds & vibrant pinks
the succulents all ancient & leaning

towards where the sun sits throned
this time of the year content day

with daughter climbing rocks
running down hills, looking at 

books & I thought back
in Boston no one has ever

even bothered to think
of me—that other life—

that stupid

ridiculous way that hurt’s 
hunger feeds

There are these clusters 
of purple 
flowers 
everywhere
Emma 
stands on a rock 
& surveys the city
strips of cotton 
candy feather sky
ocean is too far 
away from here
but we pretend 
to hear it anyway

leafy greens like chard are okay
reading poems to trees I left

wrist verse to produce a list
wander a supermarket in a city 

I only sorta know forget 
my list so exit with cookies 

& mangoes later trees
were hungry I offer

a shrug felt bad about that too
still the black on black ensemble

is stunning among the park greenery
tweed blazer a flock of birds 

that would soar then sit on the high wire
a dance without a floor 

feedback in a cave the thing about thinking
living in a feedback loop

with a bad ear & open
mouth the path past

the skate park with the David
Bowie jams project until 

the astral winks back
too many bodies problem

television glitches fails to
fall forward into memory’s 

static we float a photograph
of a wedding with thumb smeared faces

painting outside then the rain
super nice to be not so close

another day of New England rain 
the guitar goes forward & backwards

a poetry reading of deep red poppies
all the murderers want your vote

emails go out to never return
band-aids are cuter than when

I was a little boy such a quiet
house I learned to tremble inward

the almost bloomed buds suppress
the futility of it all, soon Pacific

Ocean will wash over me
a little girl on a hill 

holding hands with a friend
will lung forth all the life she’s got

in the distance a drifting/ dandelion seed from language/ of nothing becomes/ birthing of windows/ red lights of school/ bus seen in early morning/ mist slow drag of/ runners in athletic blacks/ & purples an odd/ white bird Emma thinks/ is magical/ windows widow multiple/ dimensions cloud as feet/ & arms lengthen/ feed few memories fire/ call smoke language/ symphony city rabbits/ on weed-dotted lawns boxy/ white vans up/ & down stained/ streets window keyholes/ of blackness where invitation/ begins paintbrush smears/ thick black oil as/ paint folds upon itself more/ windows begin a simple/ yawn of existence as each/ did so long ago just/ yesterday I decided/ to begin again I/ walked thru the sky/ didn’t leave a note/

The summer 
a swollen 
song in a wasteland 
of wishes birds shushed
by the rip of a chainsaw 
cord, crickets kept 
to themselves sister 
& I trampled 
through wood, mother
depressed in bed
with a paper-
back you underlining
good lord’s truth 
concocting new ways 
to shepherd 
the flock did misery 
of your kids mean 
nothing stupid 
question since 
it’s as simple as you
never bothered 
to notice yet there were
rare days when you & I
shot hoops backyard 
backboard affixed 
to stately oak, or during 
winter driving sister 
& I to the hill 
where we disappeared 
on sleds all roar 
& recklessness I don’t 
remember if the sun 
flames itself into oblivion 
or if dream resurrects 
you into paradise—
you always went 
in for that lion
& lamb fantasy
whereas neither animal 
did much for my imagination 
but you preferred
parables & prophecies 
while I scribbled 
poems of love
upon the skulls 
of sinners not 
that I even believe 
in sin once I was old
enough to enjoy
pleasure of pleasuring 
myself I mean what else 
to do with these stupid 
bodies I know yours 
was built for labor 
from a young age you 
intimate with work
how uncomfortable you grew 
when your hands were left idle—
memory of late afternoon 
me stacking seemingly endless 
piles of chopped wood you 
were already off somewhere 
else hidden from sun
& sweat although we spent 
all morning together—
mostly in silence—
me wishing my Saturday 
could be spent almost anywhere 
else than clearing felled trees
but that was all so long 
ago so why am I 
still petulant over lost 
time another life 
of mine given up 
to slip stream to see 
you for the first 
time in years bearded 
& dead in coffin 
& to think of tenuous 
intervals between father
& son funeral
home unusually 
loud sound of big rigs 
roaring down South
Carolina street jet-
lagged sleep crusting
corner of eye so this is how
it ends both of us 
have seen better days 
but endings end 
on their own volition 
& we succumb 
to its submergence— 
all this time 
planting zinnias 
b/c the house 
was so boring 
& unadorned they 
grow scattered 
& scraggly & they, 
the not-presents for mother, 
nor did their presence 
bring you, father 
joy so mid-summer
I let the excuse 
of a flower 
garden go zinnias 
to never again grow
space simply covered gloomy 
mulch how the brown sucks 
up light & flowers remained 
forgotten until they intrude 
a dream somewhere between 
memory & night-horror
in your death 
part of me 
has become 
a kid 
an indecipherable dot 
trying to construct a bridge 
to the other life, to balance
the account to accept 
the misery & music it 
with minor moments 
of joy for I lived 
through it all & to see 
you laid flat to see 
you felled left me 
sudden sad over 
years has seeped 
& tinged all 
days like water soak 
sepia of an old photograph 
emptied of cricket 
chorus ‘tho twilight 
still trills its magic off-light 
in those early alone 
moments before anyone 
mouths mundane tasks 
of morning I sit 
with you father moving 
through my mind while 
I obsessively stack 
memory on top 
of memory tilted 
& askew it rises 
high enough to rile
up the low-
tiered angels not 
that I believe 
in anything other 
than the science 
of clouds but maddening 
mood has me romancing 
death like a sacred poem 
used to line 
a child’s throat
how to resist erratic bats
these sonar swoops the thing is
the longer I remain 
middled on the bridge 
the further away an entrance 
& exit become stuck hovering
between sister’s death, your 
death, grandmother’s 
death & haven’t song 
enough for any or all, but will remain
here & sing 
sing & sing until 
it brings on rain why
choose song or lament
the weather is always both

thing of smoke & mystery tulips unfurl as gaping red mouths the scent of time already decay balloons rise skyward because a party past-tense is to be forgotten seeds & such an argument against the inevitable as memory itself is circular music in time out of time syncopated I Remembers like country music leaking through your pickup truck windows your kids becoming slugs all slime & complaint midway cross the Brooklyn Bridge each ferry in the distance a drifting dandelion seed puff

As if, to discern time meant something different neither disparate nor desperate only a more subtle way of parsing what was already anywhere—an exemplary flood the sudden flush of green the flowing into & out as day colors to hay the tiny shoots crushed by a little girl foot to suddenly still then ravage the hill with roll after roll the music of root systems beneath as night lushes in speckles & we sit & sip around a low flame each tongue a thing of smoke & mystery

awake with what misery 
churns in the gut

with what liquid roughs

the throat saturates the mind 
mindlessly turning from side 

to side numb arms 

of numbed-skull bleach bland bones
black flapping flags indecipherable 

amongst deep velvet sky

pirated terror & idiocy I
mutinied crew frolicked the plank 

& swam to rapture 

ages ago so many Sundays 
have passed unsermoned so I 

off-key/kilter sang asunder scripture & song 

of my dejected bottle after 
afternoon green bottles prolonged

fatigue call it terror call it exhaustion 

yet sleep slips 
away sideways see 

it glaring & glinting on the surf 

my starburnt face tonguing 
fucked-up seas for forever fire—

When someone experiences 
terror their body & 
mind may react 
in a number of (un)acceptable 
ways such as: 
increased 
heart 
rate 
trembling 
& strong 
desire to 
escape or 
protect oneself 
from perceived 
threat


                                           Terror/their body/increased trembling/
				        Terror/ their mind/ increased/ desire to/
                                       Terror/ their heart/ various/ways protect/
                                          Terror their/threat/escape desire/from/
                                                Terror/their threat/various mind/ 
                                    Terror their/strong song/increased desire to/






Trembling increased body their terror

To desire increased mind their terror

Protect ways various heart their terror

From desire escape threat their terror

Mind various threat their terror

To desire increased song strong their terror

In a psychological &
emotional context terror
is an intense &
overwhelming 
feeling 
of fear 
or dread 

                                              

                             dread fear: feeling of/or feeling as/intense terror/
                              overwhelm/overwhelming/overwhelmed/
                               or dread feeling/fear or/of intense terror/
                                overwhelmed/overwhelming/overwhelm/


                                                               In a as an emotion
                                                            In a as a nonphysical
                                                                In a as a context
                                                                 In a as a terror
                                                               In a as an intense

Terror is often 
characterized by 
sense of 
imminent danger 
or a threat 
that is perceived 
as extremely frightening 




                                It is often sense of
                             It is often sense of danger
                        It is often sense of imminent danger
                          It is often sense of frightening
                         It is often perceived sense of extremity
                       It  is  often  terror’s  extremity  perceived 




    senseoffrightneningoftensenseofdangerperceivedasanimminentdangeritisoft
    -enfrighteningsenseofextremityperceivedterrorsenseofdangerasanintenseof


*fucking around/disrupting some ChatGPT language here.