The Arsonist

When they say you are trying too hard,
do they mean you are tired? Or do they
mean you will set fire to the armoire
after splashing gasoline upon it without
provocation? Arson fits you like a glove
in retrospect, those beady eyes,
half-smiling lips white with spittle,
small clutchy moist hands.

How little we knew of you back then
when we were wearing sailor outfits
and our mothers painted their lips
with blood before we left our homes—
at least we thought it was, this other
person who always appears in my
poems and dreams and me, floating
over everything with glazed eyes.

And then we hear sirens and clanging
and swing our heads left and right
searching for the smoke or the flames.
We would make progress if we weren’t
so open to suggestion. It doesn’t take
a mesmerist to lead us astray, and if
we follow the smoke now we’ll lose
our place in the espresso line of life.

Lamentations of the Bewildered

The plastic cup knocked over by the wind
startles you in mid-thought. It held
ashes that scatter over the parquet floor.
No need to move, the nerves settle on
their own oftentimes, every little jerk
and shake, the trembling lips and ears.
Profound is your state of mind, pretty boy,
you couldn’t begin to explain it unless
seduction came into play, then you could
toot your metaphysical horn to an open
ear. It’s attractive to the prone, to toy
people needing someone to play with them.
Or you could be you in another life,
born with a hairy purple mole for a face,
but not easily startled, and true to the people
you would love were they to love you back.
But we can try on many masks and costumes.
In the end we see the world through two eyes.
With no two eyes alike, how can we draw
any solid conclusions?  Unless we conclude
that life is a buzzy, bewildering kaleidoscope
and trying to make sense of it is stupid.

Tomorrow Will Be Anxious

I had given up. Covered my face
with a handkerchief. Shivered
from the damp cold and dreaded
the sunset. I wanted to be dead
but I was cowardly and feared
the other side. I could no longer
live on this side, but I feared
the other one. I held my breath,
but knew I could not asphyxiate
myself this way, that I would
pass out in time, and resume
breathing. The wet pavement
exacerbated my patella pain,
neck pain, and all the other
little pains that accrue during
the human experience. No
one is immune from pain.
Even the idle rich get a sprain
or a migraine now and then.
But fuck them. They should
all get to sleep on grates
for a period of time. Empathy
is earned, I’ve learned, hard won,
and quickly extinguishable.
Save yourself! a passing
evangelical barked at me
with the pitch and volume
befitting a curse. Can’t win
even with the Jesus freaks.
I felt like a corpse out there,
but my body still shivered
from the cold. Despite this
I grew drowsy and dozed off.
I dreamed I was visiting
the Duc and Duchess de
Guermantes at their estate.
But I couldn’t find a door
to enter. A servant-in-livery
laughed at me. He had
a face like donkey which he
thrust forth and when he
kissed my cheek I awoke
with a dog hovering above me
who looked like the Jesus
of Raphael’s The Transfiguration.

You can learn more about Salvatore by clicking on his bio:  https://thievingmagpie.org/salvatore-difalco-bio/