Poems by Salvatore Difalco

Sugar Beach

Dial down the profile.
It does not become you.

There flies the glove one
without scruples threw.

He exists in this, too,
make no fake gestures.

Make no blind hurls
into the void of voices.

They drive you in
a mental bus to asylum.

The mean implies itself,
meaning be real today.

Take what the girl gives
you at the Kandy Kiosk.

Sweetness is sublime
or never quite that.

Always falls short, this
life, short of sublime.

 

Contemplating Oblivion

In tongue terms, mangled out front,
spinning bullshit into impermeable
weave nonsense. Tributes flow from
the source, not the tub being filled.

Casper-ghost it frankly or still
the turgid waters underfoot, under
that celestial army, with its scimitars
and stellar stallions. We’ll out-clever it.

Will we? We stand freely in our own
anthro-sensitivity bubbles, frothing
over spear tips aimed at delicate
flesh tropes dangling in the steel.

Can we make pottery from dust?
We need the clever clay of our
ancestors to repeat their pretty feats.
Or do we spend more time assessing?

There is nothing we can rupture
more quickly than the skin of our
blue-tinted bubble—all it takes is
a thumbnail, a sharp stick, or a tooth.