by Salvatore Difalco
Someone once told me you don’t have to live
to be alive. I didn’t understand him at the time,
I thought heavy narcotics had made the guy
hard to like and difficult to analyze.
Now, straining my stone face into a smile
for a passing neighbour with an electric beehive
and astonishing aerodynamics, I realize
I am living through a convulsive episode.
My bewilderment spits out sparrows
of indignation. I feel as though I have awakened
from a coma in a crystalline harrow,
pierced throughout but somehow still alive.
I am the sorcerer of my own spells
and incantations, I issue puffs of smoke
for assiduous observers and lickspittles
who prefer their tinned sardines under oil.
A striking sound ignites a sulphur flame
that glows like arrogance. My brain
is a spiderweb, catching all manner of beastly
conceptions and juicing them dry.
Brief trip as it is, I would rather scream
between spiked lashes than smolder into a pile
of gray ashes and yellow tooth chips. Smile
for the camera, boss, I say to myself these days.
That is to say, I have started to say this
to myself, with my soul seeking life
to justify its existence, or rather to prove
that it isn’t all just toeing the mud.
© 2023 Salvatore Difalco All rights reserved.
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