This work began in the summer of 2013 when Charlee began photographing McKees Rocks, a small industrial town across the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. Late that year, she began sharing her work with Jim, and he wrote poems in response to her photos, as in their previous collaborations. In this project, we are attempting to bring people and place together, to focus on the older working-class homes and the ongoing lives emerging out these doors and windows.
Why have we chosen McKees Rocks? Perhaps it chose us. It is the site where the oldest human bones in eastern North America have been discovered, a place where George Washington appears to have actually slept, and the site of the bloody Pressed Steel Car Strike of 1909, a major event in labor history. Many of the old company-owned houses are still occupied. Steeped in this long history, it is a community with complexity and character. It fits neither the story of decay and ruin, nor the story of economic recovery relying on high-tech start-ups—two easy narratives latched onto by mainstream media when it gives any coverage at all to the “rust belt.” One need only look at the emergence of “ruin porn” in a place like Detroit to see how artists can exploit despair for the sake of their art in these rust-belt narratives. In communities across America, the working-class continues to live quiet, ordinary lives while their stories remain untold. While we are not propagandists for the revival of the rust belt, we are also not interested in creating beautiful obituaries. McKees Rocks’ story is more complex and nuanced, like any true story of survival—small defeats, small victories, but always carrying on.
God’s Neighborhood
Deliveries in Back
How many houses does God need
How many languages does God need
How many times does the sky need puncturing How much holy water do we need to drink
to stay hydrated
How many pretty windows for light to shine through How many ministers to change a lightbulb
How many space ships does God need
How much wine and incense and candle wax
If “a mighty fortress is our God” what are we using for ammo, prayer books? hymnals?
If worship takes many forms, what form is lightning
Nobody out shooting hoops today the knees are the first to go
American Smile
One eye is open
one eye is closed
do not trust either eye.
*
America’s smile temporary
permanent
under construction
a curtain behind which
*
America displays
its old roses
the ones that retain the whiff of the ideal
but they cannot be cut or displayed
the unshaven whiskers of America’s past
will prick your skin
if you get too close.
Thus the fence.
Thus the many, many fences.
Hacking Back the Roses
I take certain pleasure each year
in snapping the ragged thorny necks of my own roses. My children
are gone, but my neighbor
is not. Pleasure is a complicated thing. That’s why I like them, the roses—petal and thorn. The neighbor—the roses
and the fence. They grow high enough to bother him, wind-blown petals
in his weeds, till I hack them back
so it all can rise again in spring—
sweet, wild spite. My fence, as high as law allows. I put in skylights for their simple light.
to keep his anger a-simmer.
When Blue Seemed Like a Good Idea
I’ve never been good at opening hearts
or talking to strangers or simply making my own bed. Some might call this sky blue, but they wouldn’t be from around here.
Will you move in with me? I asked her before lattice and fencing, on the stoop with cigarettes and soft breeze. If you paint the damn thing, she said, and laughed.
She’d left her husband for a bad tattoo
and a grungy rock band. She left me too.
On that ladder, giddy with a color from Miami
or some old cartoon, I was shouting to the street.
The fence was too low, and the dog ran away. The flowers never got planted, though we’d made a list. If you’re like my neighbors, you’re shaking your head and calling it an Eyesore. I got a tattoo
to match hers. Working long hours, warping permanence into a blurred design that could mean anything. I put up the lattice after she
left. Spring on its way. Have you been to Miami?
I could tell you why she left, but when I look
back, I still see her bare arms rising toward me when I came down the ladder and hugged her
in blue, the reckless music of our cartoon laughter.
Life itself can make our eyes sore.
I don’t know much, but fading is a part of it. I’m not climbing back up there
to scrape and prime and start again.
After School Special
BITCH trumps all
BITCH school closed
BITCH paint chips
BITCH asbestos heart BITCH no chalk
BITCH no eraser
BITCH sky is falling
BITCH dead fluorescent cages BITCH no flag
BITCH no p.a. system
BITCH no desks
BITCH no study hall
BITCH debris on the dance floor BITCH B-I-T-C-H BITCH
White Board
We write our names alive— sometimes I’m not sure. I won’t tell you what you already
know. You can check the math. Bitter—is that somebody’s name?
Nobody I know. It’s like signing in at the doctor’s office. Isn’t it?
If Lynn eats it, then, well, so do I. 7:01, 3/16/2014.
Story problems always stumped me.
Each letter of my name is a ghost.
I can say with some certainty
that the Pittsburgh Steelers
were not here, huddling up, or not.
I knew a woman named Butch once.
She named her daughter Penny Coin. They always write somebody
plus somebody, but never an equal sign You might say all that on the right
is a bunch of scribbles, but damn if it’s not the map of my own heart.
Wild Root
1.
We advertise our lives in reflected
main street light. Don’t we? American patriotic glare. Rusty weapons of history. Cinderblock taverns or solemn sweating glasses of beer. I will cut your hair or pour you a beer depending on the light. We imagine our wild roots, the faint nostalgic whiff
of pinwheels spinning with hot air, unapologetic burps of satisfaction
with distortion. Birds of Paradise
don’t survive here. Spider plants
throw off their babies with a neatness
I can only envy. Tell me your story,
friend. Leave me a big tip.
2.
We had an annual parade
until the children got sick
of candy and left town.
Unlike the popular myths
of Americana Almanacs,
our street has no sunny side. Our awnings rattle with rain
and the soft touch of snow stealing your time. That’s why,
a little green madness here
to lure you in. I will show you what I can do to anything unruly. Even the bald need a trim
now and then.
The Trouble with Angels
Sometimes I forget they’re there behind the curtains
for the street to see just the three
I once had many more.
I gave one each
to my five children
when they moved away.
Sal kept his on the toilet
Maria kept hers on the TV
back when TVs were thick.
I never saw one in Joe’s apartment and we never discussed it.
Patty kept hers with her nativity
above the manger at Christmas.
Angela kept hers in a kitchen window surrounded by her African violets.
Angela—maybe it started then. All my cute little angels.
Nobody stays an angel, not really. Frank died 23 years ago
but behind the curtains, I’m hanging on. Ma, we don’t want your angels,
they all said, but I got tired
of dusting their wings.
Meanwhile
There’s a story in this picture.
There’s another story in this picture. The stories aren’t speaking to each other. Each word a chunk of cement.
No one to stack them further.
The translator is broken.
Meanwhile, a tree shimmies up into and above its industrial skirt and into a post-industrial smirk. Multiple choice of optical illusion.
The battle lines are drawn
and any attempt at erasure makes a mess. And isn’t it always the case, human vs. natural? I am the crane operator for the company of the absurd.
Nothing is ever finished.
Isn’t there something wonder-
ful about that? My line’s in the water. I’m fishing for joy in all this.
Training Wheels for Jesus
First communion was great.
Donuts on the ping pong table in the basement. Cards full of Jesus and dollar bills.
Her first bike. Training wheels. Pink, with white wheels.
Her, pink, with white dress.
She sees the golden spires every day. One is hers, the other is the other. Same Jesus. She doesn’t understand.
Right now, it’s a long way
just to get off the property much less out of God’s sight.
All the guests gone home. Communion girl asleep, exhausted by the day’s journey.
Rain on its way, the beginning
of rust on the chain, the wheels.
God outside, in one house or another,
not going anywhere.
Symmetry of Hedge Clippers
A man’s home is his castle? I’m not so sure given the lack of moats
and the easy scalable fences but I have my green soldiers
carved and at the ready.
God believes in resale value and a good ladder
for climbing to heaven. Or perhaps that’s me.
I believe in electric hedge clippers
against the unruly nature of things.
I believe in awnings and replacement windows.
I believe in keeping heat in and keeping heat out.
My daughter said when she was two
I am the boss of my own self.
My daughter, one day all this will be yours.
I have been the boss of no one
but this poor man’s castle.
Once I accidentally sheered the cord and lost all power.
It happens that fast.
Amen—abrupt, final.