Salvatore Difalco

Cinque poesie

 

​

They Was A Curtain, Ladies and Gentlemen

 

They wanted me to pop out

before it went up, parting the velvet

and lunging in one smooth motion.

 

I knew I was in for a lousy

time but had no way of resisting,

like a man with a gun to his jewels.

 

I felt the vampires circling

the stage and when the lights dimmed 

they surged with open jaws.

 

What was the plan?

I don’t know but I jerked

myself to attention.

 

Flap your arms

in two directions 

if that is possible.

 

The idea came from

within, under stage light

and the white fright of performance.

 

Do we mean dance,

for instance, or something

less gestural?

 

Meanwhile—with vampires

hissing and whistling—

I fell into a trance.

 

I am no comedian.

I can’t juggle balls or bowling pins. 

I can’t spin dishes.

 

I can’t sing and I can’t

rub a lamp and get a genii

to front me three wishes.

 

So what do they want from me

besides the blood? And if they ask

for autographs, how will I fuck that up?

​

 

Body Double

 

Check it out. He walks like me.

I can tell. Bad wheel lean

unless he’s working method.

In which case, bravo, bro,

you nailed it. And you do

sit ups which I used to do

but lately I’ve been feeling

I don’t know, kinda pooped.

But it moves me how

he moves like me,

even the way he swings

his arms—like me.

Does the face replicate?

No, it does not from

close range, but yards

away the eyes betray

the mind and I am there

and I am here and we are

wearing the same 

black jeans and T-shirt

by which I mean our

own but the same.

Same size, same weight,

same all except perhaps


the hair that grows 

on his head but not

mine for the most part.

Do I wear a wig?

Do I use a system?

Have I tried Minoxidil?

What is that? Look

it up, my friend.

The Google machine

at your elbow will

enlighten you quickly

and feed all the data

to the globalists laughing

at your every move,

projected on a jumbotron

in a metadome owned 

by billionaires with evil skin. 

 

Ezekiel’s Angel

 

Register surprise, but try not to void

last night’s supper, dropping down

as adrenaline surges, neural voltage

effect, and my half-shut star eyes

with mauve insomniac half-circles,

flutter as they stare at the window.

 

In the Bible some angels have four

faces and four wings, others have legs

like pillars of fire, or bull hooves

Human-lion-ox-eagle hybrids also

number among the wingèd legions.

But Ezekiel describes the angel

par excellence, the angel of your

maddest hallucinations and visions:

a floating monstrosity of wheels 

within wheels with jeweled eyes.

 

Was Ezekiel the first Steven King?

Was Ezekiel shrooming hard?

Because I was shrooming hard.

 

So there is the angel of wheels

and eyes. Ezekiel’s bent conception.

There it is, floating in the sky.

There it is, coming closer.

I know it’s not a UFO, they

don’t have eyes, and as far 

as I know they don’t sing.

But this angel is singing to me.

Ezekiel’s angel is singing, 

maybe not to me but to whoever

lends an ear or hasn’t lost their shit.

I don’t know what it’s singing.

I can’t really hear what it’s singing

because my screams drown it out.

 

Messianic Wrong Foot

 

The old man spoke in candlelight.

He held a finger up for emphasis,

and told me I wasn’t a perfect fit

for the job at hand, my hair not

long enough, my sandals not right.

“The robes you wear perhaps

would work another time,” he said.

“But we have little time to waste.”

 

The candle flickers as the man

breathes, waiting for my leave.

Is it possible I will be pardoned

for my ambitions? All I desire

is to spread the word of peace,

to shatter the lies of warmongers,

to have my feet washed of sand,

and to tend to my flock of sheep.

 

The old man shakes his head.

“You hallucinate your purpose,

dessert straggler, shabby shaman,

false prophet, bantam charlatan.

These men in the shadows bled

in wars for their beliefs and pose

a lethal threat to your well-being

though I’ve told them to be calm.”

 

These people do not know my

mission, self-engendered or not,

and do not know I walk with gods

and talk with gods and play a god

in certain tellings. But you risk

everything believing everything

you hear. Some stories merit

no retelling; no analysis at all.

 

“I will leave now,” I say, “but one

day I will return vindicated and you 

will regret your words.” The old man 

gestures to the men standing back, 

dressed in white robes and masks. 

One two three four five of them, 

clank up to us, roughly grab my arms 

and drag me to a waiting ambulance. 

  

 

A Bowl of Spaghetti and Meatballs

 

Come out of the rain little man,

you look like a victim of life, that prick.

But I should mind my own business,

let you take off the wet suit and wear

these pajamas I keep in the closet,

silky and red but actually quite slick

in the bed between pink satin sheets.

 

Sit down at the mirrored kitchen table

and look at yourself. You never really

see yourself when you look in the mirror,

ever think of that? Tell me if you’re able

to eat with that carwreck of a mouth

that I must turn away from periodically.

 

But we are together and it’s something

we should embrace—two dudes, two blokes

breaking bread seems more natural

than a man slurping up his own cooking,

looking at the clock above the stove,

praying that the evening will not stall,

that night will fall softly and all will be calm.

 

This is how I imagined us, at table,

grating cheese on the smoking dish,

filling our wineglasses to the brim

and toasting the deliciousness of this

moment, and hoping that your lips 

soon heal and you are able to whisper:

“I like this dream and want it to continue.” 

 

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and short story writer currently living in Toronto, Canada. His poems and stories have appeared in many journals, including Danse Macabre.

​

​