DANIELE PANTANO

SUBURBAN BRAINS (BUS STOP)

after Pipilotti Rist

—this lubricious little body. there. with thousands of premonitions—a blouse. hanging open. the main news. on vacant streets. past the house fronts. you can see. what she’s doing. says the forty-year-old. who’s just projected christiane f. onto his bedroom wall—why all this talk about a lifetime of love?—says the most jarring voice. the chorus of the anointed ones—but it’s not funny. to anyone else waiting. for the bus. that feeling you just can’t shake. the thought—that century of the spirit. when you concentrate—crushed—in short. when you refuse this ragged body. so many wrongs understood. and not cared for. so many marriages walked out on. without noticing it—they all laugh. in god we trust. ‘cause our saliva is. your diving suit. in the ocean of pain.—

HIDDEN AIRPLANES (SOPHIE PODOLSKI)

—it wasn’t simple. like people waiting in line.—it’s as simple as that.—her eyes staring nervously at the ceiling.—the story about the poets and painters. in the kitchen. it would be wrong to disclose the language. it repeats itself at random. the way you tie your shoes.—and when did you learn to dance to an open provocation? i’m not here to be stranger than you. this daughter who wears glasses to fly hidden airplanes.—but no one has translated any of this. of this. that is. in filthy cinemas. her youth. the toilet paper in your hand.—and now that i think about it. i don’t know. her parents. you got it wrong. a kiss on the cheek. that’s easy. the chaos of space shut my mouth.—the wet nurses. nothing more to it.—in her left hand. a magazine. read me your poems. the one about the poets and painters in the kitchen.—aren’t all names dull and corrupt political acts. to be read. between the lines. like so many others.—a foam mattress. another page. the shop on the ground floor.—after the premature sunrise. i promised her. i would live in this blondness. i can stay here.—

PLACEBO (MERCEDES)

—i was the mother. i put the ambulance sirens on the little table.—i was gone too. i swept the floor. thrilled at being unidentified.—i started to think once more. about the first shots that struck you. i wasn’t sure just then.—i diverted the riot police. i was doing the right thing. i had so little.—i told them. you’d left for tampa. liverpool. bern. i washed my hands. and yours. i heard the doors close.—i wrote their stories. and read them on short wave radio. i had enough time to leave.—i didn’t notice. our wandering around the city. i got there. i said. let’s see.—i sat in the back of your classic mercedes. trembling. i wanted more. i imagined we would forget. where we’d started.—i laughed. i said goodbye. and let them in. i admit. for just a second. everything seemed like. i’d wanted it. to be.—

ELEVATOR (MUSIC)

—the next day. i came here. encouraged. for nothing. for nothing. i’d read.—i listened for stuff. i was sorry for. the first hours spent. back in the old town.—it was all over because. nothing happened. after what’d happened.—her room smelled. like killing time. just smaller. a black city. a little rougher now. that you think about it.—it’ll all slow down. i made her promise.—flags and flipped cars. the payphones. behind the tree.—we were simple. in the afternoon.—told each other the news. the aberrant laws of incarnations.—stammered a sketch.—i still had my face. documents. a window.—a switch to turn off the music.—

WALKING (FIGURE)

—i fled. more than. resumed my stroll. the absence of this. singular character. creeping letters. of the alphabet.—i might as well. go back to. to reading. the explosions. the clock that is not so.—a young man. with grief. and silence. i am not. my grandfather’s heart. stalking its prey. that thing dimmed. by the breath of auschwitz. off the ground. beyond the limits.—i am the only person. the one who spoke. struck by. the company of. those who fell silent. it was a brightness. a hand. or something abstract. that boarded up the windows.—i think of this. whenever the dogs lick. the hunter’s sweat.—

Daniele Pantano is a Swiss poet, artist, literary translator, critic, and editor. His poems, essays, translations, and criticism have appeared widely, and his poems have been translated into several languages, including Albanian, Bulgarian, German, Farsi, French, Kurdish, and Slovenian. His most recent works include Robert Walser: Comedies (Seagull Books, 2018), ORAKL (Black Lawrence Press, 2017), Robert Walser’s Fairy Tales: Dramolettes (New Directions, 2015), and Dogs in Untended Fields: Selected Poems by Daniele Pantano (Wolfbach Verlag, 2015). Pantano taught at the University of South Florida, served as the Visiting Poet-in-Residence at Florida Southern College, and directed the creative writing program at Edge Hill University, England, where he was Reader in Poetry and Literary Translation. He currently teaches at the University of Lincoln. For more information, please visit www.pantano.ch.