Author: katkarney

trona

out where the tarmac is rough
and the color of oxblood
a steady road hum grazes
the textures of our minds

we survive death valley
but a small town
tears us back down
to every earthly suffering

a sunbleached hell
beside blinding salt flats
broken beyond reckoning
poverty chokes from behind

an ache akin to fingertips
searching the dark for meaning
a bum groping gravel
desperate for cigarette butts

out where the stars are endless
we are blessed to pretend
our dreams were never broken
we get to drive fast past trona

vegas is a weird place. a sheer show of ornate debauchery. it scares me, it overwhelms me, it’s worth seeing.

two quick poems!

sin city blues – first impressons, real pretty fluff. practiced prose as pitiful as a balcony suicide.

vegas truths – weird moments that connected me to reality in a town of illusion.

sin city

the wholesome isolation
of desert silence
is staked and lost
on glittering waste
and luxurious anonymity

exciting nights and bright lights
mask the cold loneliness
of a frenzied crowd
it’s a good trick,
until sunrise calls

daylight slays a city
of emotional vagrants
we choose not to understand the illusion
we gather up broken expectations
to find hope again
to gain clarity
to win it all
through what a roulette bet
and desert sunrise
can tell to searching souls

vegas truths

the first night
i set foot on the strip
a stranger spit on me
it trickled down my thigh
to my ankle
to the cement
i try not to think about it

a duck lives
in the bellagio fountain
and i yelled at her
“hey, you don’t belong here!”
she swam away
while an unholy mist
anointed my face
i hope we meet again

the truth is,
i don’t know what to believe
i don’t like to gamble
but i like to give money
to every busker i see

Ever since my first memory, certain sounds and letters have a taste.

I don’t explain it to people, and when I do they often gloss over what I describe. At face value, I can see how it smacks of total bullshit.

It took me until Psych 101 to know that it’s called Lexical-Gustatory synesthesia. I had a lot of moments of clarity in college, but never anything like the relief of finally having the word to describe my sensory perceptions!

This is to the boy sitting next to me in that Psych lecture.  He watched me writing notes about left-handed women being prone to synesthesia.  He leaned over, smiled, and gave me a sly sidelong glance.  He whispered “So, you’re a lefty? Good luck with that!”

synesthesia

lift me in
a handwritten
embrace,
focused though
a synesthetic lens.

your fine eyes cut
through prose
like an electric
tongue kiss.

your calm voice
treads the rush
of sensory
decadence:
each syllable
is a new course

let me taste the way
through words
to my truth:

the lake is red koolaid
agreement is sausage
luck snaps of carrot
insult is a bloody lip

i find my voice
when you speak
your mind

the first man
to certify
my sensory
perception

i’ll never
forget the taste!

Pain always finds you. In a fast car traveling away from the one true comfort that your heart desires. In the first steps on the trail to the mountain peak.  In the fear of falling during a boulder scramble. In the mantras you chant as you make yourself as small as possible against the wind. In the zen state of physical exhaustion when you reach the summit.

Pain always finds you, but so will peace.

Then getting back down the mountain is easy.

just my luck

pain waits
crouched in the valley
like the crooked eyetooth
of lovelorn dog
a wounded lapwing
with a drunkard’s song

pain waits like a prayer:
we are bound in the trance
of recital

pain waits
free on the ridges
like a limestone waypoint
lit by cobalt stars
a faded drifter
in a rusted car

pain waits in your voice:
a sweet sound with no chance
of survival

pain waits
gilt on the edges
like a mourning cloak
on a feldspar draw
a curling ribbon
for a sunbleached craw

pain waits like a prayer:
in the sweet by-and-by
Lord, by-and-by
(04-OCT-2018 – Mt. Katahdin, Maine)

A nightmare, and the lyrics I dreamed within the nightmare.  I can’t figure out how to separate them but am open to feedback!

tower on main

august dreams
of running down hallways
trapped in a mad hotel

the lobby sign spells
“The Tower On Main”
in bold gold lettering

in a tower on Main I found you
crying tears of shame
or maybe you reached me first
to teach me a fearless two-step

we are brave, side-by-side
holding onto each other
stepping down dark hallways

two scared kids
opening every door
in a haunted house

our souls only shine in darkness
boldly embroidered by faith
our fingertips trace these patterns
and we sway together in time

each room is a vile and gaudy hellscape:
orgies, opium dens, overdoses,
violence of every kind!

we scream our hearts out
but never despair

any door opened is a new start
of troubles and trials
and sometimes we’ll part –
if only momentarily!

exploring together
we dance and know peace
the simple joy of movement

we tell stories of our past lives
and whisper false narratives
of the people we think we are

in a tower on Main I found you
down and almost out
or maybe i was drowning
until you came about

you open a door
with a swift artistic gesture
hot air of a city summer night rushes in

my house stands safe
shining in the distance
so i run for it

don’t fear the pain here,
just hold me, my dear
in a tower on Main we found truth:
this life is only a dream

(17-NOV-2018 – Nashville, TN)

My thoughts wander when I go hiking.

(My thoughts wander a lot, actually.)

I love how the same hike looks drastically different as the seasons progress.   This time of year, the green and hopeful underbrush has not yet started to grow. You can see far into the woods, endless lines of exposed tree trunks.   The trees closest to the trail are almost always marked with carvings: initials, expressions of love, inscrutable sayings, arrows, cardinal directions, swear words.

What is it about humanity that we can’t let unbroken expanses of beauty exist? Smooth tree bark, ancient rock faces, newly fallen snow, a fresh sheet of paper.  We like to dig in to prove we’ve been here.

I like to walk with faraway eyes, and let the symbols swarm past me.

the cop-out

time heals all wounds, they say
but some scars grow with us
like etched initials
in the smooth bark
of an old beech tree

inscrutable, thick,
distorted remnants
of past wrongs
carved in our hearts
hardened into false submission.

the pain is eternal
and simply a part of us.

time heals all wounds, someday
but only because
those who are marred
and all who bore witness
will be lost

time heals all wounds, they say
but that’s a total fucking cop-out

february 

drive past the estates
bear right at the white church
over the river
steady on past the peaceful snow
with dirty hems

tall pines
are veiled giants in
the cold teal mist
as the sleet on the road
overtakes every inch
of February

Every year, around Valentine’s Day, I long for the joy of Spring.  I know that real warmth is a few months away, but my whole heart desires it.

In February there are small victories.  It stays light later in the day.  I go on more walks after work. The birds get rowdy.  Chocolate is everywhere, on sale, and ripe for the taking. The whole earth seems to know a secret: the thrill of anticipation is often sweeter than the event.

Audio Note: I’m trying something different!  A few friends have told me they don’t ‘get’ poetry, or like reading it.  Do you like hearing it any better? Would you like listening to me talk with other weird nerds about weird words?

Image Note: I took this photo with a Canon SLR from the bathroom of our rental bungalow in Akron.  I balanced with my feet on the rim of the old cast iron tub, steadying the camera on top of the open window.  The dog looked on, judgmentally.  Most of the photos I took were blurry, since I was laughing at how stupid I looked.  I’m glad I took my shot: the thaw, the moon between two icicles, that elusive Mid-February Feeling.

one more cleveland winter

do not fear the cold of march
for nothing is eternal

wildflowers will bloom
in the frozen soil
after many false starts,
flurries,
and blighting frosts

relentless setbacks
to an inchoate spring
will give way to
warmth, hope,
and beauty.

our spirits endure
the same transformations

if our souls survive death
surely, they will make it
through one more
cleveland
winter.

(13-FEB 2014 – Copley, Ohio)

I was late for work but I have poetic excuses.

winter cemetery blues

me and the crows
and the trusty old oak
share the tumult
of a winter sunrise

i abandon my morning routine
to lean against the cemetery oak
to rest my hands on the trunk
to feel something solid

sheltered from icy gusts
i scan headstones with unfocused eyes
waiting for the transient joy
of sun clearing the hilltop

the wind blows harder
three crows cry
racing clouds radiate
the promise of daylight

me and the crows
and the shadowed gravestones
cold among the branches
the clouds fade first

During a recent visit, my grandparents told me about Black Sunday, a day in 1950 where the sky turned black at noon in Northwestern Pennsylvania.  It was caused by a Canadian forest fire, allegedly.  But nobody really believes that.

Please enjoy the synopsis of that day, from the viewpoints of my Grandma and Grandpa.  This poem is much better if you can imagine it in the soft and slightly sad accent of the hills near Sheffield, PA.

a dark cloud

it was midnight black
when louise and gene
left the matinee
they ran two blocks home
where granny had knelt
in front of candlelit icons
to pray for their soul salvation

holy mary,  mother of god 
the rapture is upon us!

ominous clouds crept on
larry and freddie paused
their manual labors
on the hill outside of town
they set down their tools
and the deep, cool forest
darkened even further

if the world is really ending,
we may as well go home and eat!

(13-APR-2018 – Allegheny National Forest)