November 8, 2017

Rachel Custer

KID

The thing about living here: even a child can know things.
I know every shortcut, every bike path through the park,
every street between every house. I know every kid who lives
in each one. Every crack in every sidewalk that can possibly
catch a toe or a skateboard or bike. Who is cousins with who.
Whose parents the police don’t like. Whose parents the priests
don’t like. I’m kinda kidding, but not really, you know? It’s
like that. Kids know more than adults, anyway, and in a small
town, everybody talks. I know where spring comes to the park
first, and when, and how. (In the back part, behind a certain tree,
a small patch of lenten roses. Mr. Hower, the older man who
cuts the grass, planted them. To remember his wife. You know.)
Living here, a kid knows things he shouldn’t know. He can
go anywhere, because he has a town full of adults who are
sure he’s being watched by other adults. And he is, but a kid
learns how to blend in. A kid learns early that adults will
never really see us unless they believe that we’re not safe.
And they believe this town itself is safe. So here we are, kids,
standing outside the window where Mrs. So-and-so cleans
the kitchen in her skimpy underwear. Here we are, on the
corner, planning a fight. Kids are behind the liquor store,
sipping cheap wine, and kids are in your bedroom drawer
stealing joints. Because we know every house where the
parents hold drugs. A small town is a place where everybody
watches out for everyone else so they have something to say
Monday at work. A place where each person knows the
name of each other person’s kid, but rarely knows exactly where
his is. A small town is more seduction than truth, like a trick
coin in the hand of a con. Please don’t tell any of this to my Mom.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

__________

Rachel Custer: “These poems are part of a collection of ‘rural voice’ poems on which I’m working. The Rust Belt is, in some ways, the embodiment of the Protestant work ethic, married to rural America as an identifying philosophy. These voices are so often overlooked for big-city slick and the fashions of the day. There is a sense about rural America that nothing ever changes, and simultaneously that everything is always changing elsewhere. That we are losing ourselves. We are grounded by earth, the change of the seasons, and by work. In this sense, Rust Belt is an apt name.” (web)

 

Rachel Custer is this week’s guest on the Rattlecast! Click here to watch live or archived.

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November 6, 2017

Nic Custer

WORK IS WHAT IT IS

for Philip Levine

Work is when and if you can get it.
When the petitioner slinging 4 clipboards
for a dollar a signature
can articulate why I should let the voters 
decide better than its author and 
when the party store hustler vends 
a Venn Diagram of fevers and chills for 
sweaty $20 bills through car windows,
what work is 
is non-existent.

When the wealthy land developer
wants you to work under the table
for less than minimum wage and expects you to be grateful
(because you don’t have to pay taxes) 
but also expects you to purchase your own dust masks…
Or when you put the key into the ignition and
pray the lucky lemon that lets you deliver pizzas Xmas eve 
will get you to your destination but also 
pray gangster wannabes don’t get trigger-happy 
when they rob you for initiation, 

what it is is 
a form of resistance and a revelation.
Captive audience forced to pay for the privilege, 
maxed out on tax mileages,
the bills still said to instill discipline.
Work is wearing sweaters from October to April, keeping the thermostat
just high enough so the pipes don’t freeze. 
Short showers to save dollars,
knowing when to leave on porch lights 
to keep away window peekers.
Some might call it an art to eke by
but it takes work to master.

Parking lot BBQ stands under popup tents
employ entrepreneur chefs
lounging with pockets full of ones and fives—
confident in the work they invested in their secret sauce 
and the neighborhood bull market that 
spends evenings buying stock in rib tips, 
white bread, aluminum foil and extra BBQ sauce to top it off.
Invisible billboards adorn nondescript houses
where dealers buy gold and liberated bicycles,
copper pipes, aluminum siding and weed whackers.
Summer heat lines dance seductively in the street,
a flash of mystery, distortion,
sweat beading across the sun.
High school graduates work 
hard as hunter-gatherers 
foraging for a future in shop floor ruins.

A car drove through the front of the Red Ribbon Bar,
a southside dive famous for
cheap domestics and a metal ring tied to a long string
that patrons sent hurling toward a hook on the wall 
next to the entrance. The same spot that the car 
detoured through and beat the game for good. 
Working on a gamble to snatch the ATM and
winning early retirement for long-time owners. 
Work can involve sticking it out until the lottery tickets pay out 
or the sports injuries throw a retirement party. 
Work is finally having the time to finish your degree at 53.
Work is adults shoveling snow door to door
or dragging a lawnmower down a State Street, cigarette dangling from
pale lips, the wind writing determination in smoke.

It is work to harvest what shouldn’t be left to rot on the vine.
A lack of work is what it is, which is hard to improve.
A dollar here, a few there, a cardboard sign’s 
elevator pitch speaking luminous volumes
at highway exits as battalions of blistered fingers
dig through ashen walls,
working hard for a handout—
finding only newspaper clippings
warning of a Great Depression. 

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]

__________

Nic Custer: “My hometown, Flint, Michigan, is verdant and brownfield, a city of ghosts, bars and church folk. It’s a tough place that built unions using stubborn Southern pride, a town disowned and turned into a punch line. My poetry aims to make sense of the simultaneous push and pull of living in a place that defined the blue collar American Dream but now could be mistaken for a nightmare. Although it has fallen from national headlines, Flint is still experiencing a water disaster. One hundred thousand residents negotiate daily challenges using bottled water for nearly everything from baby formula to brushing their teeth while paying the highest water rates in the country to avoid shut-off notices and Child Protective Services. The multi-generational effects of this unsolved crisis coupled with a continued lack of political autonomy and decades of unemployment, arson, and violence are central themes in my writing. As a poet, I often explore balancing frustration at bleak futures with a resistant call to action. I experiment with deconstructing official government and media narratives to better reflect how it feels to live in a city forced to poison itself by a revolving series of state-appointed Emergency Managers. My work at times personifies the physical environment to explore how it informs residents’ self-image. Although my experience is one out of many, it attempts to empower residents by giving voice to our hopes and trials.” (twitter)

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November 3, 2017

Eric Chiles

MEDI-MAZE

Everyone gets enrolled in Part A,
that’s the easy part of turning sixty-five.
It’s choosing Parts B, C, and D that dismays.

You thought retirement meant easy days?
But you need a supplemental plan to survive
even though everyone gets Part A.

Consider carefully the donut hole and copays.
I’d rather watch grandkids. When do they arrive?
(Warning: Choose Part B without delay.)

It’s enough to make your gray get gray.
Parts F, G, K, L, M, and N? Man alive!
At least you’re enrolled in Part A

because that’ll pay for your hospital stay.
Insurers and bureaucrats sure connive
to make choosing all those parts a maze.

Cheer up. Next year it will all replay
in October with more confusing jive.
Don’t worry, everyone gets Part A.
Choosing Parts B, C, D, et al. will dismay.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

__________

Eric Chiles: “I’m as Pennsylvanian as scrapple, soft pretzels, and pierogis, and have spent my entire life in the Rust Belt—college at Penn State, grad school at Indiana University—and I’ve seen Bethlehem Steel employ tens of thousands and then crumble. The Lehigh Valley is the geographic center of the Megalopolis, and is the keyhole of the Keystone State. Today our cornfields sprout mile-long freight warehouses because much of what goes north, south, east, or west funnels through here.”

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November 1, 2017

Sarah Carson

SIX REASONS I CAN’T ANSWER THE DOOR FOR YOU AT THREE IN THE MORNING

The last man here had a habit of taking what cannot be taken:
my girl, he’d say, my baby. He narrowed his eyes—

mice scattered in the walls.
The man before him hid cans

in high cabinets. A downstairs neighbor
slipped notes beneath the doorway—

Just yell help, they said.
Police respond quickly in this part of town.

Then there’s Brother who doesn’t come home at Christmas.
The girl he swears he doesn’t know

in my same sweatshirt—hers stained with
creekwater, buckshot, blood.

In the city where I was born, bullets crawl up
blocks like brush fire, spent casings end up in the water—

children’s veins grow heavy, and during dinner,
police come to our doors looking for men

who know all of us by name.
Now—tucked between my hip bone and my ribcage—

I’m growing another body.
The lady who does the ultrasounds says

it’ll be a girl like me.
I’m trying to teach her there are men

who sleep at three in the morning
and men who can’t,

but that a door is something that opens—
I’m trying to teach her that even a deadbolt

is still a kind of hope.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

__________

Sarah Carson: “I was born and raised in Flint, Michigan, in a family of autoworkers. I moved away to Chicago after college and have since struggled to reconcile my identity as a daughter of the Rust Belt with my new life in the urban middle class. As I look forward to having a daughter of my own, this poem wrestles with that identity—and what it will mean for her to be the first generation removed from post-industrial life in the Midwest.” (website)

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October 30, 2017

George Bilgere

PANCAKE DILEMMA

Another subway station blows up in Europe,
it’s right there on the front page,
and I’m about to pour some syrup on my pancakes.

But perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this.
Maybe I should just put the syrup down
out of respect for the victims and their families.

Yet who is there to witness my sacrifice,
my gesture of solidarity, however small, 
with the international community?

My wife is playing with our son in the living room.
I’m at the table by myself, and I could just go ahead
and pour the syrup and smear on some butter
and think compassionately about the victims
while eating the pancakes while they’re hot.
No one will benefit from my eating cold pancakes.

Instead, I call out to my wife from the dining room,
“Another subway station blew up in Europe,
they think it’s terrorists,” but she doesn’t hear me,
the TV’s turned up for Paw Patrol.

So I just sit here quietly for a moment,
then start eating the pancakes,
trying not to enjoy them too much.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

__________

George Bilgere: “I’ve lived here in the scenic Rust Belt for 25 years. Not half my life, but long enough to have seen a lot of rust. Although I grew up in California I was actually born in St. Louis and lived there until I was ten. St. Louis is just as ‘Rust Belt’ as Cleveland. So I guess that yes, I self-identify as a Rust-Belter. But the fact is that I really don’t write much poetry about that.” (website)

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October 27, 2017

Milton Bates

COYOTE COUNTRY

for Taylor Mitchell, 1990–2009

If she loved anything more than music,
her mother said, it was nature. That’s why
she wouldn’t have wanted her killers killed 
for doing what coyotes do. 
       I thought
of that young folk singer, hiking alone
on Cape Breton Island, as they charged
toward me, churning up the snow, their eyes
on fire with the setting sun. Just then
a rabbit erupted from a swale between us
and juked around my boots. One coyote
followed left, the other right, so close
I could have stroked their fur.
             So they were real,
those phantoms whose frantic yipping I heard
late at night in counterpoint to sirens, 
as though that wail of human pain drove them 
to hysteria. My island was no Cape Breton, 
just a scruffy patch of county land 
lapped on all sides by city. Not wilderness, 
by any means, but not quite urban either, 
if animals like these could live there 
undetected.
     They were pacing around
a pile of brush when I caught up with them, 
probing with paw and muzzle, too intent 
to notice me. I was luckier in my 
coyotes than she was, the day her love 
of nature went unrequited.
        Selfishly, 
perhaps, I save my love for those who love 
me back. Yet I would hate to lose the little 
that remains of wildness where I live.
I left them to their hunt, returning home 
by streets that seemed no longer so familiar.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]

__________

Milton Bates: “I’ve lived for all but a dozen of my seventy-plus years in the upper Midwest, most of them in Milwaukee, the self-proclaimed Machine Shop of the World. Like most Rust Belt cities, Milwaukee has had to re-invent itself since the days when my father and grandfather worked in its machine shops. That evolution, together with the city’s history of absorbing wave upon wave of immigrants, makes it a stimulating place in which to live and work. And we do work, whether making heavy machinery or poems. In few cities is the work ethic so revered and so strictly observed, even by artists and writers.”

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October 25, 2017

Cameron Barnett

NEW FRUIT HUMMING

after Iron & Wine

I’m here to say sorry.
Because you definitely said splotchy.
Because I definitely heard splotchy,
because I definitely told everyone about
how you said splotchy with your eyes cast down,
and everyone said “Ain’t that some shit!” because
who the hell talks about their kids like that?
So I’m here to say sorry.
Because I told the story wrong, which is to say
I didn’t stay silent, which isn’t to say I told you
the truth, because the truth can look like a second
chance, and a second chance is just a hesitation
hesitating too long, and it took too long to get
our story straight, and what I really said was
“I know …” or “Yeah …” and took a bite
of the pear in my hand because we were under
an apple tree, and you brought pears, and I thought
“How strange is this,” never doubting the taste
in my mouth, never doubting what I tasted
wasn’t the flesh of the fruit, never admitting that
to you because I loved you, and you loved me
so we never made demands and we never agreed,
we just lied and lied and lied—and I’ve lied
about this story before; we weren’t in bed
because we were definitely under an apple tree
as much as an apple tree can be a bed, and
it was definitely hotter than August though the sun
said April, and you said “It just worries me,”
and now I’m here to say sorry.
Because I was wrong to believe you were afraid
of anything, because my blackness wasn’t anything
to be afraid of, because my blackness wasn’t anything
to you. I don’t tell people we were under a tree because
a bed is a better place to lie, or a better place to lay,
because I still mix up laying and lying, because the story
is still so mixed up I don’t know if it even matters
because I loved you, and you loved me,
and we both got stuck, so we both went free,
because forgiveness is an act of retelling,
and forgiveness is an act of retelling,
and forgiveness is an act of retelling.
When I think back on that day I start to cry
not because I’m sad, but because my left eye
and my right eye can’t put you together, and it hurts
to try because you were so mixed up, because
you were so afraid of us mixing, and that’s why
we were under a tree and not in a bed, and that’s
why my blackness is afraid of nothing, and that’s
why it’s so hard to lie sometimes, and I’d be lying
if I said I’m sorry because I loved you, and you
loved me, and now there’s new fruit humming
in the old fruit tree.

from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]

__________

Cameron Barnett: “I’ve lived in Pittsburgh ever since my family moved here in 1996. My parents grew up here but my siblings and I were all born in California—but I credit being raised in Pittsburgh with turning me into the person I am today. Pittsburgh is often associated with blue collar grit, and this still rings true though our steel mills have fallen silent. For me, grit is an ancestral quality of this city. I come from a lineage of black Americans who escaped slavery and Jim Crow and made it to Pittsburgh, only to fight and desegregate and integrate this city during the Civil Rights era of the ’50s and ’60s. In particular, my grandfather Bishop Charles Foggie stands out as a fighter and champion of liberty. I take his legacy as a family torch to be carried, and this informs my writing. My poems largely have to do with race and family, as well as how those two things intersect in my own personal relationships. Pittsburgh is a city that is at once progressive and antiquated, and this is indicative of the Rust Belt—always seeking to get ahead, but hesitant to cast off the past too quickly. This struggle shaped my family, my childhood, my education, and shapes my poetry today.” (website)

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