Charlee made the photographs in a large abandoned industrial site that sits next to railroad tracks in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, during the summer, fall, and winter of 2012 – 2013, and in June 2014 Jim wrote poems in response. Charlee also made the artist book, Returning to Earth, by taking Jim’s poem and arranging image with text to create an intimate interplay throughout the book. The book is on display as part of this exhibit.
In this work every photograph contains a shard of something left by someone. We all return to earth—that’s part of the deal. But we leave traces behind—also, part of the deal—traces that are then swallowed up by the carrying on of the world, despite our futile attempts at creating permanence. Also, part of the deal.Bird dung, grasses, weeds, and graffiti triumph over the stone, cement, and gravel where people worked and maybe lived.
The traces are clues to lived lives, and maybe we are the detectives, or the archeologists of the heart, trying to decipher these incomplete stories, or maybe we are simply telling our own stories through what we observe and how we observe it. We offer up these shards.
Capital I
Always there,
double permanent, metal branded
into concrete.
All mazes lead here
all equal signs
all stop signs
waves of empathy part for the mighty I amidst erosion
of the fittest.
the symbolic permanence
of rings
falters before
the acrid sting
of the brand,
the burning drill,
the burning will
of the one-
word,
one-
letter
Bible.
Comedy Team
Shtick is a comic theme or gimmick, derived from theYiddish word meaning “piece.”
It’s not easy
being the straight man,
the straight man says while the fat joker
tickles him with a twig and dares him to laugh
or not laugh, he’s not sure.
•
To be halved: tragedy or comedy? The joker
believes in farce with the passion
of a wayward priest. He has two jokes:
the story of how he was broken
and the story of why he tilts.And if neither
of those work, he has the stick.
•
Shtick.Their best joke: they need each other.
The best jokes hurt.
Evidence for the Erotic State of Things
Okay, first you’ve got your wetness. Wetness surrounded by dryness.
Circle wetness not square wetness.
Not rectangular wetness, not trapezoidal wetness.
Then you’ve got your two things in close proximity. We all got two things in close proximity
them things being ass cheeks—a boom and a boom to them in any given sidewalk strut.
Then you got the women things in close proximity thus to be exposed thusly and fondled or suckled
or simply admired thusly.Then you got the guy things
in close proximity hanging down in the sexual circus tent
of the sac, and their job is to make the magic fish. Everything in the middle where most of the good stuff
of the Erotic Nation is capitalized.
Then you got your coloring, which externally varies
by ethnicity yet nevertheless internally is quite similar in the wet special parts areas. So, in conclusion, thus
and thus, and as I make my way, as I squirm and wiggle between the two things in close proximity, let me leave you
with the footnote of wetness.
Old Man Without Sea
took the slivers
of what he imagined
and gathered them into the story of a boat
but he forgot to imagine the sea.And so he sat
in his boat and waited for the daily mirage
of shadows twitching in the slight breeze
while beneath him the dream cracked
in brutal silence.
Campfire of the Dead
The campfire of the dead
is damp with futile wishing.
It comes with instructions
in Swedish. Or disappearing
ink. It allows no shortcuts.
It is missing one piece,
and that piece is called certainty. The campfire of the dead
comes with no accelerant. Instructions say just breathe on it.
Instructions say, Spell the name
of your god with these dry sticks.
Whose bones are these, you wonder, rubbing your hands together.
The Art of Pigeons
Pet bird lovers may be more familiar with poop than all other pet owners combined. “All You Ever Wanted to Know About Bird Poop”
or perhaps just the art of the rest of us
random with drop- ings
the spotted skin of our sad- ness layered.
Blotches of gathered tears.
Salt and its qualities
of deterioration.
The gradual
then sudden
split.
The heart.
Concrete illusion.
Leaves curled into a brittle end.
Why scrub clean any barrier? Why not back away far enough
to imagine feathers?
Redefining the notion of gift accumulates into bounty:
anything the world lets us find.
Solving the puzzle is overrated. Put away your magnifiers.
Flight comes at a cost.
Heart’s Rebar
The world tilts.
Does it make you dizzy?
Does it make you want to jump?
I can only speak for myself and say yes, scuffling a path through gravel to hear
my thoughts, to provide evidence of them
until the next brain-
storm washes them away. Was the world once smooth as new skin, did it smell
pure as that, as my children’s new-born scalps? I hope so. I have to believe
that if I look hard enough, I’ll find some green.
I scraped my knee here once, praying or falling. I carried
a pebble beneath my scab
and it was not a bad thing.
Come See the Wild Man-eating Caged Bouders of Tasmanzilvania
On safari
at great risk of life and limb native guides
big motherfucking guns camo-gear
in the dead of night
in the dead of day
one time and one time only
on sale everything must go everything must stay
smoke and mirrors
mostly smoke the damn boulders broke all the mirrors
they don’t each much
they don’t drink much
they don’t talk much
they are clean self-grooming creatures
they live forever
compared to us
can you see the magic faces and formations appear Devil’s Staircase
Angel’s Underwear Wadded-up Paper Ball
and the famous
Government at Work
but OH THEY ARE FIERCE Don’t stand too close.
Don’t stand too far away.
The Shelter of Coffins
Are we drawn toward getting under, breaking through, to bury ourselves in the cold, moist dirt
of disappearance? What came first, the crack, or the pieces of rubble in the crack?
In other words, did we start out playing
for the Cement Slabs, then go off on our own,
or did they kick us off the team? Okay, out with the questions
in with the myths: Once upon a time a great clanging was heard in the night
and when the sun arose the next day the Four-Holed Shiny Thing
was visible. It had crushed
our fearless leader, Moldy Pebble.
Some say he remains alive in shadow, awaiting
The Great Uplifting. Others believe he escaped into
the Large Dump Truck and will return one day
for the rest of us. Every year we make a pilgrimage
to the shrine of the Four-Holed Shiny Thing and pray at the altar
of the Moldy Pebble. I don’t know what happens if we don’t.
I haven’t gotten that far in the myth.
Returning to Earth
I don’t know much
about disintegration
but I’m learning.
Erasure has many techniques but only one result.
•
The color of ash— first color
or the last?
•
Faded by sunlight
frayed by moonlight. •
Deliberately stepped on or avoided.
•
Alien rag from space
or a variation on worms
or octopi or jellyfish or bad luck.
•
Dried-up sea floor. Drought of love.
And yet green confetti rises once again.
•
Facts are elusive.
Ash vs. Dust?
•
My only fact:
a human hand once held this thing.
The rest of the news is returning to earth.