Street documents life on the South Side of Pittsburgh, focusing on three series—photos and poems of torsos, feet, and people interacting with their surroundings. The urban landscape is a cacophony of bricks, barriers, boundaries, noise, smells, textures, and lives. Walking the streets, there are many paths to take. As a poet and a photographer, we navigate towards a visual and emotional center in the images we record and create. We create words with pictures, and pictures with words, and, ultimately, try to shape our creations into an experience of life lived on the street.
BOY WITH COMB AND BLUR
gravel near the tracks
the comb’s a new thing—
and dudes and dudettes.
the high wall mish-mash
soot-stained. Closed mill
damage shrugged off.
Just a few pebbles
in his shadow. And
he’ll toss those in the river.
Wires sway above him
as if attached to perfect kites.
He wants to be a branch
growing out over the cliff.
You won’t see him fading
to a blur, walking away.
CHAOS THEORY
If the butterfly on this shirt
lifted off the fabric
it’d fuck every butterfly
within a mile in the next
fifteen minutes.
something like that.
You’d better believe it.
Studs for a stud. That’s
cancer growing under
his chin. Bullshit
growing above his lip.
Don’t fuck with the butterfly,
man. Yeah. He’s fattening
it up. Tough mother-fucking
butterfly. Its wings flutter
and all the bricks
come tumbling down.
This and That
cleavage and curly hair
polka dots and frills
jelly roll and tap dance
turnpike closer and fender bender
bulldozer and lightbulb changer
clout and pout
spit shine and set table
vibrato and glissando
brass and strings
hip shake and deer prance
brawn and yawn
planet and star
elbow to hip
elbow to head
pieced together, whole
GIRL WITH GIANT PURSE
I bet there’s Chiclets in there
and chapstick and tissue
and house key and Lifesavers
and a compact and a change
purse. I’m 46 and just realized
my grandmother never drove
a car. For this is her purse.
She has left it on the bus.
This girl is returning it
and hoping for some reward.
My grandmother will fish
through the plastic and hand her
a dime and call her dearie.
*
She is the mother of the world
and the purse is the moon.
*
The purse holds her first
big sadness, heavier
than imagined.
*
She is a cloud’s dream
and the smell of concrete
after rain.
*
The sound of the purse opening
a small bullet exploding
the cat out of the bag.
THE ART OF LETTING IT ALL HANG OUT
she’s a soft puzzle of bulging
pieces, the layers of a blue-
collar parfait. She spells delite
d-e-l-i-t-e and you better damn
well spell it the same way.
anyone allowed to grab a hand-
ful has passed through the picnic
of transubstantiated hot sausage
when it’s time to pass go
she’ll be the one saying so.
the lord is my lite and the simple
knot is my faith. Me, I’m interested
in the dark shadow between breast
and chest. I think I slept there once.
TWO DRAINPIPES, ONE HOSE
take them off to clean them right
rag and a hose, rag and a hose
on your knees getting wet
ain’t no shame in it
you take your time spray
and wipe you get them clean
somebody maybe steal them
they look so nice and shiny
but hey
just look at my drainpipe
and his drainpipe
that’s all you gotta do
I mean, that’s the whole story
right there
ASH
Too many funerals lately.
The dress shoes hardly getting
any rest, the black polish,
the coarse brush, the soft cloth.
I never asked for this guided tour
of local funeral homes.
Sitting across the street, waiting
to go in. To view. Mumble
a prayer, saying glad it ain’t
me. Wet comb through the hair
ain’t gonna save anybody.
Don’t talk to me about smoking.
Nice place for a bench here.
To view. We all hold our
individual number, and they’re
all the same number: 1.
BREEZE
The twin packages of the feet
to be unwrapped by love or exhaustion.
The twin packages of movement
and rest. Like some odd spelling rule,
they stay together even when apart.
How many of us have ever been
swept away? Lifted up, and away?
Even the occasions of the white dress
cannot transport us off this earth.
Even the shiny twin packages
even the pointed toes,
even the high heels.
Nothing ever heals completely.
Thus, the breeze. Thus, the sway.
FIRST OF ALL
a bandaid and two scratches
not deep enough to penetrate
the skin. But you can tell
there’s nothing fragile
in this picture. Nothing
easily swayed. Nothing
easily relinquished.
And so the thick wrinkled
skirt where a child hung on
for dear life. As if all life
wasn’t dear. As if the toes
peeking from their cages
pushing the bars aside
weren’t first of all.
NO WEEDS NEED APPLY
I don’t joke around. Ask anybody.
I get one pair of shoes and wear
them till they drop. Every day.
The next pair? Exactly the same.
What you see is what you
get. Ask anybody. The socks?
All the same. I don’t fish around
for matches. They all match, see?
These are my bricks. I keep them
clean. They got sprays for that.
You crawl in one of those cracks
the poison’d kill you. Step
on my toes, and I’ll kill you.
Ask anybody.
OVERTAKEN BY BULLDOG
How many times has it happened
to you? Somebody taking your
picture and some cute little dog
plops down and takes over.
Story of my life. My high school
sweetheart was gonna marry me—
bulldog shows up, sits on her feet.
Gonna get the job with the city—
bulldog hops in the van. Put a bid
on a house—bulldog shits on the lawn.
You look for a reason, read the dog
tag, what’s it say? Bull dog.
As if that explained everything.
What could I do? I got myself a bulldog.
MADONNA WITH CHILD
I undo the thick buttons
with a twist and a sigh.
The Lord is my savior.
Then something about want.
Everything is soft now
between us. The round
world in my hands,
the city’s crooked silence
melted into peace. Here.
Now. I am a shield
against all stones, all hardness.
I will feed the child.
I will put flowers
at the edge of everything.
PARKING CHAIR
the other’s for him
and his fat ass
oh I don’t mind
sitting on the steps
seems more neighborly
to me. Ha, the other’s
our parking chair
used to be in my ma’s
kitchen, yeah, cigarette
burns through the plastic
seat, long gone, like her.
1920—he bought those
at the hardware store.
Took him all day to get them
even. Yet he don’t mind
the ugliness of the chair.
He’s a lot like the dog here,
faithful, in his own way.
Somebody parks in his spot,
ha, that’ll set him off.
And I’d like to see it.
WAITING/PRAYING
The world comes down to this:
X vs. 1 1
Will we cross, touch, blend
or remain apart?
The shoelace of every shoe
pulled tight, held together
with the knot.
It takes more than thick stockings
to hold us up. We sit. We
rest. We wait
across the parallel lines
of the years. We count
all the lies we have revealed.
All we have covered up.
YOU WANT TO SEE YOURSELF
you look in your windows:
two things—your reflection
and your stuff. I’m clean,
and my stuff is clean. Hey
I’m talking to you. My life—
it’s me, these sunglassses
and flowers, these sneakers,
this railing and these steps.
This fist, this rag.
It’s me and my shadow,
you understand? We don’t take
no shit, neither of us.
