Charleston

[fluorescent.43]

edit.

Working the ciiiiiity, shrugs the fat man silently
as he lumbers away, clutching a five-dollar bill
and a tin-foiled pizza. The sign, Will Work for $$!!!,
is left behind to wither away in its own shame.

The lulu bag clinging to my shoulder
and the extra-large sunglasses that don't fit right
marks me as alien: a dream-walker,
a never-been never-will street-walker.

Push the sidewalks until the heels
of your baby-pink feet burn in protest. Push
the sidewalks in thump, thump strides.
(See, it's all about the rhythm.)

werk the sidddy, chuckles the breakdancer
on the corner of market street, shiny bucket
outstretched with part-defiance part-desperation. I dump
my cash in proudly.

The bridge is massive and metal-bolded,
backlit by construction projects and
dark river water lapping against marsh sand but

it's the silhouettes,
tucked in concrete corners,
that set fire to my willing mind:
thieves? rapists? killers?

Work the city, whispers a Latino woman I walk by.
She holds a gray cigarette between
tired fingers; she blows gently.

[still don't like the second or third stanza. i think i hate the second the most, but i like the idea. don't know how to communicate it properly. oh well.]

original.

Workin' the ciiiiity, drawls the fat man's eyes
as he lumbers away, a five-dollar bill and tin-foil
shoved pizza in hand. The sign, scrawled in
wavering Sharpie, is left behind to wither away
in its own shame.

lulu bag clinging to my bare shoulder,
extra-large sunglasses that don't fit right
hanging off the edge, marks me as alien:
a dream-walker, a never-been never-will
street-walker.

Push the sidewalks until the heels
of your pink feet burn in protest. Push
the sidewalks in thump, thump strides.
It's all about the rhythm.

werk the sidddy, chuckles the breakdancer
on the corner of market street, shiny bucket
outstretched with part-defiance part-desperation. I dump
my cash in proudly.

The bridge is big and bold,
backlit by construction projects and dark
river water lapping against marsh sand but

it's the silhouettes,
tucked in concrete corners,
that set fire to my willing mind:
petty thieves? rapists? serial killers?

Work the city, whispers a Latino woman I walk by.
She holds a gray cigarette between
tired fingers; she blows gently.

[SnarlingThroughOurSmiles]

1. I love the repetition of "work the city," with the different workers, and how each time it gets repeated, it gets more desperate and worn and tired. I could practically feel in my bones how tired that last woman was, how tired the city was and the people in it.

2. Really great at capturing how it feels like being a girl walking around a new city that you don't live in.

Overall, I really love how real this poem feels, and how relatable it is.

[Achebe]

My crit below. 

Workin' the ciiiiity, drawls the fat man's eyes - eyes speaking = cliche. Drawling makes it sound cliched and absurd.
as he lumbers away, a five-dollar bill and tin-foil - what's the tin foil?
shoved pizza in hand. The sign, scrawled in - the emblem on the pizza box? what sign?
wavering Sharpie, is left behind to wither away
in its own shame.  - didn't understand this at all

lulu bag clinging to my bare shoulder,
extra-large sunglasses that don't fit right
hanging off the edge, marks me as alien: - why?
a dream-walker, a never-been never-will
street-walker.

Push the sidewalks until the heels
of your pink feet burn in protest. Push
the sidewalks in thump, thump strides.
It's all about the rhythm.

werk the sidddy, chuckles the breakdancer
on the corner of market street, shiny bucket
outstretched with part-defiance part-desperation. I dump 
my cash in proudly. - why proudly? Abstract adjective, doesn't bring the line to life

The bridge is big and bold, less cliched now
backlit by construction projects, and dark 
river water lapping against marsh sand but "But" implies that in the next few lines you will say something contrary to the bridge being big, bold, or backlit. That doesn't happen. 

it's the silhouettes,
tucked in concrete corners,
that set fire to my willing mind: Silhouettes are not inflammatory. The idea is good, just needs rewording.
petty thieves? rapists? serial killers? No need to make it explicit. 

Work the city, whispers a Latino woman I walk by.
She holds a gray cigarette between
tired fingers; she blows gently."tired fingers" - not particularly evocative. Think of something else. Why does she blow gently?

[fluorescent.43]

thanks to SnarlingThroughOurSmiles for the too-kind feedback; to ronsaik, thanks for the much needed critique! as for the first stanza, i hoped i've answered those questions and clarified it slightly. the but placed at the end of the fifth stanza is meant to contrast: in the fifth, i describe the actual appearance of the bridge, but in the sixth, i describe what it looks like in my imagination. i suppose it doesn't contrast enough though. i'm keeping it for now.

if i have to explain the meaning of this poem (it's really quite literal), i feel like i didn't do a good job of communicating what was meant to be a series of quick snapshots of different people living in a city. the snapshots are also from my point of view; the words i used are a direct reflection of my feelings and if they aren't evocative i don't know what i can do... it's too literal to play around with the words too much, i guess.

thanks! i've been away for a long-ish time. i do think i've gotten pretty awful at poetry, but it's nice to be back at it again.

[AlstonTowers]

edit.

Working the ciiiiiity, shrugs the fat man silently
as he [i]lumbers away, clutching a five-dollar bill [Lumbers? In what sense of the word?]
and a tin-foiled pizza. The sign, Will Work for $$!!!, [Really interesting use of symbols here - how would one read this out loud?]
is left behind to wither away in its own shame. [Away with the away perhaps?]

The lulu bag clinging to my shoulder [Yep, I like a bit of that personification, yesir.]
and the extra-large sunglasses that don't fit right
marks me as alien: a dream-walker,
a never-been never-will street-walker. [Maybe never-will be? 'A never-will street walker' is a bit more vague than 'never-been'.

Push the sidewalks until the heels
of your baby-pink feet burn in protest. Push [i] 
the sidewalks in thump, thump strides.
(See, it's all about the rhythm.) [Ha, nice and meta.]

werk the sidddy, chuckles the breakdancer [Does chuckles fit? He/she is part desperate/part defiant.]
on the corner of market street, shiny bucket
outstretched with part-defiance part-desperation. I dump [Again, this enjambment...not sure, man, not sure. Leaves the entry to the next line with the flat 'my' again. Enjambment gotta hit you in the face, hard.]
my cash in proudly. [Yeeeee, I like that.]

The bridge is massive and metal-bolded, [Massive? Metal-bolded? I'm not too sure about either of these words, especially metal-bolded. I am trying to visualize what that means but it's a bit of an empty image.]
backlit by construction projects and
dark river water lapping against marsh sand but [Backlit by dark river water? I don't know how that works. Needs a separation between backlit and the dark river water. I really like the image of the dark river watter lapping against marsh sand, the line works wonders by itself. It is only killed by the backlit construction projects.]

it's the silhouettes,
tucked in concrete corners,
that set fire to my willing mind:
thieves? rapists? killers?

[i]Work the city, whispers a Latino woman I walk by.
She holds a gray cigarette between
tired fingers; she blows gently.

Bit of a tired ending, it feels like. The previous stanza that ends 'thieves, rapists, killers' is emotional and quite striking, but the blowing gently of the latino woman makes me want more of the poem. Which, I suppose, is a good thing: only, there isn't anymore.

Generally I think you have some really nice lines tucked in there and an obvious understanding of rhythm and what makes a line sound fresh, but your overkill of enjambment and what I can only call a tiredness towards the end leaves the poem slightly petering out.

[/i][/i][/i]