I wrote this poem on my weekend getaway with Jenny to Pittsburgh.
It is titled: Pittsburgh.
A circulatory system of concrete
causeways. We rush-a red
blood cell--over bridges through
tunnels into stems of nerves extending
sky high
three blocks wide
and steel
stone cold
wind resistant windows to tinier
expanses--minute craftings of
ring finger rewards orange stone maroon
threaded gloves hold maplines
charted anatomies of this pulsing
organized metal saw mill of yesterday.
2 comments:
the best part about pittsburgh is the drive there. the turnpike tunnels through all those mountains and theres all that empty land all around. outside the tunnels, its like some kind of romantic era landscape. but inside the tunnels, and under a billion pounds of rock, you suddenly realize that youre in america, because somebody had to have built that road; somebody had to have dug those tunnels. theres nothing more american than employing thousands of underpaid migrant workers to spoil a perfctly placid natural landscape with roads and tunnels and central pennsylvania hick-havens.
The tunnels were indeed impressive. Way too long to hold your breath through to geta wish (is that right Emily?)
Here are the tunnels we went through: Tuscarora Mt, Allegheny Mt, Blue Mt, Kitatiny Mt, Fort Pitt, Squirrel Hill.
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