By Sal Difalco
The vanishing act trends poorly, as does the rabbit in the hat trick. Under the influence of psilocybin during a blackout, one plucks the old pheasant down to white bone sockets. One ignores the tiny fish teeming in the storm puddles and electric eels sliding through the pipes, or the lady being sawn in half crying out obscenities. Carriages roll by, from the past, false but strong conveyances for disassociated thoughts, for frenzies, or just another mode of spontaneous mental resistance. It is said we shout with our silence, which belongs to anyone who would listen to us and which we surrender with prejudice, or whatever. The city is scattered and loose; its melancholic citizens confused. Magicians and mimes rush by in ragged troupes.
Sal Difalco is a Toronto-based writer. Recent appearances in Gone Lawn and Cafe Irreal.
The Birdseed 