Between the window washer and curb, a galaxy swirls.
Between windshield and rag, office towers sway.
Old ladies pluck orange candies from pink market tubs.
Passionflower vines capture red and blue wavelengths of light.
Any search requires a preposition as in “Estoy buscando a mi amigo”.
Tradewinds skirt a Flamazul truck with its license plates from the interior.
Water trembles in a cistern with nothing to heat it.
The frigid woman, writes André Tridon, is a cripple or a neurotic.
Jacaranda trees bloom like lightning strikes.
“To the girl with the prettiest eyes,” he says handing me his knife.
Nutrient cycling occurs through a process similar to valet parking.
Between my lover and myself, a preposition stiffens like cinderblock brick.
A guard in a bulletproof vest hoses a pick-up.
Every time he’s out of my sight: “Estoy buscando a mi querido”.
The window washer slaps a twisted red rag against the curb.
A broom licks the sidewalk. A slice of flesh-red mamey slips from his blade.
— Originally published in Pioneers in the Study of Motion (Ahsahta, 2007)
11 Railway Lines Stretch from Chicago by 1861
an adolescent daughter slutting around showing off her terrible, a pine tree gone rusty in winter time, sun seeps under her sweater, ribbon development and the public realm opens up to cars deracinated country folk could be wooed by linotype, steam engines, turbines, two tree trunks grope and bind when you slice off a piece of crazy tail, he warns me, know what the fence post knows you can drive for an hour south of Charlottesville watch a skinny girl walk a long road recently paved, worried about loyalty tar clings to fence weeds, unmoored from the nation, the thickly-accented philosopher explained we could find hope rich light on the stable roof a boy from down the road who will read you differently who steps out of the trees responsible for love, under a system that pays him no mind no heed no blossoms yet on the redbud but space cleared for their coming
— Originally published in Utopia Minus (Ahsahta, 2011)
October 1 —- The Dow Closes Down 9509
In the dream, I queue with a pane of glass in my hand. Next to me: a child and a mirror.
Then we stand at the edge of an accident. I pick up a sliver of windshield, place it on my tongue. The glass tastes like cold stone and dirt and I love the way it fractures in my mouth.
Glass often indicates a strong psychic or intuitive ability. Broken glass predicts change, not necessarily beneficial. To receive cut glass means you will be admired for your brilliance and talent. To dream you eat glass signals vulnerability, confusion, frailty.
9+5+0+9=23 2+3=5 5=freedom, adaptability, unpredictable travel, abuse of the senses.
In a Sufi proverb, the bear must deal with 20 obstacles, each one of them involves pears because the bear adores pears.
— Originally published in Eleven Eleven
Susan Briante is the author of two books of poetry: Utopia Minus (Ahsahta Press, 2011) and Pioneers in the Study of Motion (Ahsahta Press, 2007). She also writes essays on documentary poetics as well as on the relationship between place and cultural memory, and is finishing work on a new collection of poems, The Market Wonders, inspired by the current economic crisis.