five poems

by Salvatore Difalco



Solomon Dreaming in London

 

Solomon dreaming on the one hand.

A shallow space refulging on the other.

God materializes amid a swirl of clouds

and feathers, bestowing heavenly light

on the hapless sap, arm shielding eyes.

A range of tables and chairs then appear—

planes of vermillion and emerald green.

What device transferred the design

to the glossy leaves of this doorstop?

The lamb exemplifies wooly patience

in the face of thundering histrionics.

If only we could sit and eat a plate

of black sausage and cheese, or drink

a pint of India pale. Would we reach

the end of the railway room and find

Minerva, the goddess of knowledge

showing off her ivory shoulders?

And if so would we ask her if she

understood this impious mishmash

masquerading as oneiric utterance?

Translate This

 

I’m looking for a new way to talk to you.

I see two clocks standing side by side

in some imaginary art book. Page before

that one is a tranquil Moscow street scene,

a woman in elegant black walking out

of the picture. A frozen moment in time,

not really. It took more time than not

to crystallize the scene in muted squares

and circles, to brush in that forlorn air.

Inevitably the clocks fall out of sync

and my experiment runs into a wall

of doubt and doubters wearing gloves,

leaning in and questioning technique.

Please, keep your hands off the work,

its textures mean to simulate reality

from a distance, not to showcase grit.

Love and loss defy the ticking clocks,

much like the Russian dame in black

has not quite made her gloomy way 

to the emptiness beyond the frame,

where I am twisting in a mental wind

and trying to justify this thing I do.

A Dude With Questions

 

Everything is giving me

     pause

these days, like nobody’s business.

What a complication all this

unrequested bonus material.

Early snow has freighted

     the chipper trees.

Before we began this journey

most of this stuff was free.

 

Anyway, you give me

     feelings

in the pit of me that make

it all worthwhile, this stretching,

this beetroot reaching.

The world is a cloister

     for some of us.

See us out when you come back

from the jungle of your dreams.

 

Or else it makes the music

     easier

to dismiss as synthetic or

lacking the thing of old tunes,

that ineffable something no

nonhuman can fathom.

     Whatever

it is that makes this drum drum

I’m there for it, come hell or blackwater.

Tiny Violin

 

The fog of morning peeks into my room.

The dog in my throat coughs and growls.

Why finger my burning eyes with weak

grey light? It summons me to porcelain

white and cool, with profane expurgation.

It trembles my limbs and drips icy sweat

from my brow and the ends of my fingers.

A hitman in black with a revolver pointed

at my head would be asked to finish this

sad business before the moment passed.

The mirror reflects excremental brown

irises of self-loathing and regret, a red

and bloated mugshot of a man unworthy

of empathy, likely guilty of criminal

or unethical activity. How did I become

this caricature? Didn’t happen overnight.

Alone as a monk in my mildewy mew,

I entertain no thought of entertaining

other humans. Hair of the dog is my

favourite pet, and rancid orange juice

with a shot of cheap vodka lightens

the anvil copulating with my skull,

puts a simper on the brute of my face.

I need answer to no one—my excuse

and my remedy for self-abnegation.

But I’m not one who toots his horn

when everyone is out of earshot.

I desire zero audience at this time.

I don’t know why I penned this thing

with my eyes falling out of my head

and my head threatening to burst.

This is what I do, I guess, report

the messy nothing that my life is.

Eek, Eyck

 

No green swell this evening

will detach me from my hat.

 

No hand held out gingerly

will bend my frozen elbow.

 

Next door, the goldfinch

on the box turns and chirps.

 

Hounds outside hunt fox

or men who play God.

 

My face is not as pale

as yours and yet so pale.

 

Tell me, is your green

dress of cotton or of wool?

 

If wool you must beware

of wolves mistaking you.

 

The little dog on the floor

looks like furry slippers.

 

Fruit on the window sill

looks ripe enough to eat.

 

Yet your rosary hangs from

a rusty nail like a noose.

 

No swell is mine to claim.

My name will not be signed.

 

Withdraw your pallid hand.

The hounds are at the door.




Photo of Salvatore Difalco

BIO: Salvatore Difalco sends greetings from Toronto Canada.

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four poems

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ringing in the memories