Anger In The Street

Anger in the Street

An anthology of black and white poetic snapshots of societal mores and priorities in a changing urban environment

Against the Wall

The crypt coldness
were a hentai fantasy;
short, with slits
and scoop;
and a mile of leg
disappearing
into leather micro.
Her eyes held that look
of reflective knowledge
found only in the better work
of a few Dutch Masters.

The mind-place
she visited while working
was an old friend
from a lost childhood,
a place to which
she continued to be drawn,
even after learning
her test was positive.


Shelter

She
sits quietly,
near the window,
eyes nervously
tracking
remembered pain.

She
does not know
where
she will go
when
frugal municipal funds
force closure
on her shelter.

She
still believes
if she had tried
harder,
if she were
a better person,
he would never
have hurt her.


The Swarming

The Library was her refuge:
through her thick lenses
she travelled far beyond
these sordid streets.
She lunched
with Byron and Yeats;
held off dervishes
with Gordon.
She was a true Bene Gesserit;
a Reverend Mother
of some note.

In the litter-planted park
the Ten cursed and fought,
discussing,
monosyllabic,
the direction the evening
should take.
Their oversized clothing,
with uniform drabness,
prompted visions
of children
playing dress-up
in the rainy-day attic of a kinder world.

They surrounded
and devoured her
in their contrived anger.
Broken glasses,
scattered books,
ripped pages, lay mute
in the mud.

Her broken body
was serene and regal:
somewhen
the Sisterhood
mourned the passing
of a respected colleague,
and, at the siege of Khartoum,
Gordon fought on,
alone.


“Body and Soul”*

The mellow sound
of his alto sax
suffuses
the pedestrian mall
with the echo
of a gentler
time.

Several older listeners
think of Charlie Parker,
of Stan Getz,
and of the magical freedom
jazz bestows
on the human
soul.

His worn Stetson
accepted the tribute
of coins
that could not begin
to feed the hunger
behind
his scarred arms.

He plays
as though his spirit
was aflame,
the difficulty of his
methadone treatment
and his worsening Hep C
forgotten.

He smiles
as several of his listeners
break into applause,
just before
tone-deaf Mall Security
roughly tells him
to move along.

* “Body and Soul” is the title of a recording made in 1939 by Coleman Hawkins that became THE model for later jazz solos on all instruments.


Reuse-Return-Recycle

The rusted wreck
of the broken shopping cart
serendipitously proceeded
from one green plastic
mother lode
to the next.

Its guide,
hidden beneath layers
that could have inspired
Escher’s genius at morphing,
was, however, more evocative
of Hieronymus Bosch.

He mined
each green trove assiduously,
adding nuggets of refundable treasure
carefully
to his creaking, wobbling chariot.
His acute accountant’s mind
kept a running total
in crisp, clean ledgers that,
alone, survived
the culture shock,
the corporate downsizing,
of the Nineteen Eighties.

Fog People

You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.
You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating,
ethereal
movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.

They drift
quietly,
gently,
on the edge
of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.

If we chance
to pause,
to peer beyond
the drifting veil,
we see,
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.



Injection

The television
and the cell phone
from the break-in
purchased
a plastic packet
of peace.

The needle
was new:
clean and free.
Soon
the magical tsunami
would sweep away
his soul.

The powder,
pure and deadly,
should have been
adulterated
to slow the rush
of fragile heart.
The young man,
releasing the dam,
felt, for an instant,
the cool brick wall
of his derelict mausoleum,
then was gone.

Air Vent Requiem

His muttered dialogue with Jesus
was apologetic and respectful,
politely drawing that Deity’s attention
to cosmic oversights.

The supermarket cart,
full of strange lumps and extrusions,
seemed a natural extension of self.
His eyes never viewed
a potential acquisition directly:
they fluttered, like children’s wishes,
skirting the object of desire,
until, overcome by belief,
he would pounce.

The temperature drop,
that negated the meagre warmth
of the hot air vent that was his home,
temporarily interrupted
his celestial conversation.

In the thin morning light,
the cart stands guard
over the still and huddled body,
like some alien monument
commemorating a battle
few have known.




Under the Bridge

Fog from the river
gathers under the bridge,
dampening cardboard,
chilling marrow
and shrouding soul.

Moans rise
to a waning moon:
nightmare screams
shatter
an uncaring stillness.

Bundles of rags,
drawn to the dying fire,
mutter
querulous monologues
in alien tongues.

Bent figure,
urinating in icy water,
stumbles, splashes,
and is gone
without a ripple.

Testimony

He easily ignored
the stares,
the crude comments,
the threatening gestures,
engendered
by his street-corner ministry:
his testament of Faith.

He overcame his fear
with his Belief
that, even in these squalid
ghetto streets,
the Word
should enlighten.

While he sang
“What a Friend we have
in Jesus,”
a hulk in gangsta garb
spat on him,
and he worried that
his Testimony
only made
his God
sad.


Third World Stigmata

The depth of sadness
in the girl's eyes
held the attention of all
on the air-conditioned
tourist bus.
No older
than eight or nine,
she wove her way deftly
through dense Delhi traffic,
propelling her steel-castered,
wooden platform
with sure strokes of her hands.

Last year
her impoverished parents had
sold her,
the youngest,
so that the family could live.
Her new owner,
realising the value
of his investment,
ensured that the operation,
removing both legs,
was sterile:
she was on the street
within two months.

Pausing at the corner lights,
the bus disgorged
several tourists,
who pressed rupee notes
upon the small amputee.
They had no way of knowing
their gift
perpetuated
slavery and mutilation.

Bus Station Encounter

The stench
of excrement-stained clothing,
of body long unwashed,
almost obscured
the rich vocabulary,
the cultural cadence
of the derelict’s voice.

The young woman
did not hear
his compliments;
did not recognise
his astute and
favourable analysis
of her fashion statement.
She merely said,
“Piss off,
or I’ll scream.”


Diamonds in the Gutter

Smiles flashing,
like memories
of some distant sun,
they pursue
the soccer ball
with feral glee.

Their communication
is joyous,
a staccato burst,
an ethnic melange
born of the urgency
of the streets.

They are aware,
but do not see
the syringes, condoms,
empty bottles;
an alternate reality
from another world.

Dealers, junkies,
pros, and winos:
all known and greeted equally
by these small,
energetic
dreams of tomorrow.


Sound Bite

The motorcade,
stopping before cameras
and microphones,
was as incongruous
as a guffaw at a funeral.
The surrounding buildings,
derelict and time-worn
as the few faces peering,
confused, from the mouldy doorways
and flaking windowsills,
were stark:
tones of black, white, and grey:
a dismal dream of some forgotten disaster.

The mayor,
cloaked with a bonhomie
born of a profound sense of self-worth,
smiled, facing the cameras:
yes, the city had concluded
a mutually satisfying agreement
with the developer.
The area would be
reclaimed,
revitalised,
refurbished,
and released from the state of decay
into which it had fallen.

The one radical reporter
who wished to question
relocation of the low rental units,
the rehab centre, the soup kitchens,
was swept aside
by smiling, applauding businessmen,
anxious to escape
such unsavoury environs.

Curbside Retrospective

His thin shoulders
hunched
against the chill
evening mist,
he surveyed
the oncoming cars
with a weary look
of superior
disdain.

The weariness within
belied
his sixteen years.
He longed for
the peace
of his shabby room,
the distracting noise
and diversion
of his Game Cube.

The Audi slowed...
stopped.
Power window lowered,
terms and conditions
discussed.
The boy noted the tie,
the service club
lapel pin,
and hated the man
nearly as much
as the abusive father,
now
far
away.

Squeegee Kids

Some commuters
drive for
m i l e s
out of their way,
wasting
time and money,
to avoid
Squeegee corners:
the penalty of guilt.

Others pay,
avoiding eye contact,
looking.......straight.......ahead,
afraid
the gunge
of the Squeegee’s rag
may damage Audi shine.
They reinforce
the efficacy of intimidation
as a social grace.

The global village
has come of age,
as this phenomena,
indigenous once
solely to third world cities,
has arrived on
Main Street,
and urban crowding,
with youth unemployment,
makes
the sale of fear
a career of necessity
to those
we continue to
ignore.


Diminished Responsibility

Her pregnancy, only minutes from term,
gave her the look of a tumbleweed
as she stumbled
through killing December cold.
Sally Ann band on windswept corner
marked the passage of one whose experience
was the cosmic opposite of their celestial joy:
"...crib for His bed, the little Lord..."

With labour pains almost constant
she turned into the alley,
sheltering in the shadow of
a green dumpster, which exhorted
a more affluent society to
"Keep our City Clean."
She squatted as her water broke,
and cursed her most recent companion
for throwing her out
when her condition
invalidated her use to him.
She blasted her last two rocks
in the lifeline of her pipe,
and suddenly, “God!”
It was done.

The investigative team
discovered the icy creche
near the area where
the Paras had found her,
collapsed, in the street.
The rookie swore
when he opened the dumpster,
quick tears freezing on his cheeks,
while in the distance,
the Army concluded their ministry
with "O Holy Night."

Sanctuary

The lone priest
fussed over his nightly chores:
fresh coffee made,
fresh styrofoam cups,
bulk cookies,
clean bathroom.
The month old magazines
lay scattered
like the broken promises
of yesterday.

He dreaded
the ritual that was about
to occur:
nightly flow
of addicts,
teenaged prostitutes
of both genders,
older hookers,
and many others
who accepted,
for a brief time,
sanctuary.

He hated
how his body,
kindled
by the presence
of his younger
visitors,
betrayed his faith,
as he fought
a lonely battle,
already lost.



Yesterday’s Children

The stiffness of the morning
will s l o w l y
work its way
out of tired joints.
Bland breakfasts
ensure
regularity,
a welcomed monotony.
Well-planned days
permit
no dismal contemplation
of tomorrow.

We are Yesterday’s children,
remembering too well,
the heat and the passion,
the beauty that was ours.
Hearing echoes
of past glories,
we sojourn here today,
until,
like dreams
and memories,
we gently
fade
away.

The Teacher

Another when,
and he ruled his Eng Lit classes
from the comforts
of tweeds well worn.

Today, though,
stumps of pencils, flags of paper,
were secreted willy-nilly
deep in the rags
that called him home.

Teaching when and where he could,
urchin and ancient alike
found benefit
from his memory of a life
before his Fall.
A name spelled here,
welfare application there,
laboured reading
of gutter-trapped headlines;
the street seemed less ugly
for his students.

Shorn heads and hard booted,
the Furies fell upon him
one cold night
for possession of his half bottle
of fortified wine.

Surrounded by his small blank bits of paper,
and short, sharpened stubs of pencils,
he resembled nothing so much
as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle,
its meaning not quite clear.

Waiting for the Night

His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.

The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
brain more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.

Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into city traffic.

The Choice

The magnitude
of his fear
dwarfed
his thirteen years.

While crushing
his spirit,
the streets also
extinguished hope.

Perhaps home,
with continuing abuse,
would remove
the terror
of the alleys.


Nemesis

She was proud of her skill
with her three-toed cane.
Her walk
from the Home
to Thrift Store
took just twenty minutes:
then fifteen minutes
to the donut shop
where she’d meet
some of the Girls.

Concentrating
on her next step,
she was shocked,
surprised,
as her faithful shoulder bag
was wrenched
from her grip.

Baggy trousers
slowed his sprint;
dragging cuffs
impeded his balance
as fate,
gravity,
and forward motion
conspired,
then placed him in the path
of the accelerating Transit bus.

She recovered her handbag,
and left the scene
without
a backward
glance.

The Guardian

As an active father, long ago,
he had worn parental responsibility
as a proud and brilliant banner.
His children, now grown,
banner-draped themselves,
frequently implored
he join them in their far-off lives.
He would not, however,
leave her grave untended;
could not abandon shared dreams
that wisped, like Atlantic fog,
through city streets
where they had strolled,
in kinder years, together.

Now, from the window
of his third-floor walk-up,
he surveyed the children of strangers.
Neighbourhood Watch
provided name and number
of an interested, responsive officer,
who valued civic responsibility.

Drug dealers avoided
his visual charges:
bullies and punks sought distant,
more fertile ground.
In the street, children skipped,
tossed balls, laughed and played
under his watchful eye.

Behind him, sometimes,
in the twilight,
he imagined her presence,
and felt the warmth
of her vanished smile.

Urban Diorama

The park,
an oasis of green calm
threatened by a desert
of office towers,
was the place,
favoured by the avatars
of the fiscal god Chaos,
for a quick lunch
and smoke.

Precisely at one-o-five
he would shamble
to his special bench,
across from the pigeon toilet
that resembled
Robbie Burns,
and sort contents
of the green bin
into three piles:
lunch, refund cans and bottles,
and unusables.

He shared his recycled,
second-hand lunch
with pigeons, sparrows, squirrels,
and the odd curious seagull.
His guests were
frequently frightened away
by the strength and violence
of his repeated cough,
as his tuberculosis
brought this urban
Saint Francis of Assisi
daily closer
to his lonely martyrdom.

Bridge Epiphany

The bridge tower
beckoned to him,
like some strange
and shining fortress
from the fantasy books
of his youth;
that distant time
before his parents divorced,
and his world died.

The view,
from his perch
on the pylon,
seemed
to be of twinkling faerie lights,
viewed through the shimmer
of Avalon’s mist.
He forgot, momentarily,
the sadness
of running away,
and the cruel reality
of the streets.

In a moment of crystalline clarity,
he saw that
the meaning of his life,
of his pain,
of his very being,
was only a prelude
to the finality of now,
as the wind
of his swift passage
parted the fog
to reveal a glad smile
that would see
no tomorrows.