Suturas Surrealista De La Virgen De Acetileno
Mire a la sangre, uso de esta palabra
en relación con los sueños o flores
mientras que la plata que corre por las venas
son por lo general las calles o las vides.
Pechos, hombres y mujeres,
son estrellas, tienen que ver con
un puñado o de los pies a palmo.
El abdomen, entonces, es una gran
Láctea reunión Camino,
tenencia, la expulsión de los cometas,
tarareando villancicos dos puntos '.
El bazo son los huesos
para recoger los dientes con los dientes
que son, por supuesto,
caballitos de mar o lápidas
imágenes con la flagrante
Corazón de domar este lugar
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poem by Warren Falcon
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What Is Revealed Side-By-Side
Recalling Barnardsville days in the Blue Ridge
1
Silent, side-by-side, reading.
An occasional 'hear this then. '
Read aloud, words, bread, jam;
familiar tarnished knives spreading;
wedding set, grandmother's, all hands
forget intent on feeding, reading to each
gathered mouth.
Heads nod agreement.
Backs of hands and books
as napkins. Smiles all
around.
2 - What Is Read Out Loud
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Kairos - For Spicer Who 'told me not
one will not win readers by cursing
the darkness
that's already in the canon
too many ears are hurt from such an age
lost its ability to hear beyond crash
nor sit still long enough to see
what sun may rise
even that belief, 'sunrise'
is failing
stars are falling
raging ones
gaze only at themselves
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Smarter Cat, Postmodern Theology - Most Scatalogical - Without Apology To Christopher Smart
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God...
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
- from 'Jubilate Agno' by Christopher Smart
Forget Jeoffry.
Consider the Cat Oliver
asleep upon the journal's
leather, old ink and think
enclosed, weighted as
only Cat-weight weighs in
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Das Lied Von Der Erde
[*The Song of the Earth, by Gustav Mahler,
a song cycle of poems by Chinese poet Li Bai,
the famous wandering poet of the Tang Dynasty]
for Selin
I will listen then
as I do now, to Mahler,
I will out pour this
red wine, half fill
the glass, at the
intrusive mouse hiss,
herald of The End that
is in contralto sung
overwrought,
outstrung,
I will listen,
will recover such
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Repose Of Needles
For Sanju,
who says she is
rotting within,
and dampening
And once again,
for my father
If you need to stand or lie
in the shade for awhile then
do so as farmers do, as does
my father who farms his despair
in hot sun then lays beneath
pines in cooler shade to rest,
to dream that activity between
dirt and sky means some lasting
thing in its doing even though
his ruined life cannot make
it right between clouds and
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Photo From Lost Days At Stillborn Falls
You see them all morning while driving,
broken cars, omens, those towns you drive
through graveyards now. Your one good
tooth a headache, windshield wipers break in
the storm. Road side glass cuts your feet.
You curse your shoes in the back seat,
fumble with blades in the rain.
One good town out of six and that's the one
you leave behind where your shorts hang content
at home on the line, back yard neighbors
speculating over lingerie with black lace.
The sun can barely contain itself.
The mail man wishes he was me.
The story is Jalise - I was nearby - she dripped in
soaked from rain announcing, 'I need to get
out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.'
For me? only a towel to dry her and nothing more.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Mimimus Creaks Oar
I pose you you're question:
shall you uncover honey / where maggots are?
- Charles Olson
myself
the intruder, as he was not - Creeley
1
I, Minimus, tongue in cheek, creak oar, row out, too,
into the Homeric sea, not old Greek singer, long of breath,
but as Winslow, local seer, his paints, straw hat consigned
to mistook heroics, pure accident, radio maritime, ask
captain if row boat worthy of even an American sea,
projected too, to go a-row row rowing,
claw oar into wave tipped whitecap safe perimeters,
smell of earth nasal-yet to keep oriented to dirt.
Have, instead, reaped I redundant whirlwind
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poem by Warren Falcon
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I, Twitter, Stutteringly Remember In Cyber Chases
for Ocean Vuong
a reprise from
Stillborn Falls.
'It's got to do with America,
my love of music, my grotesque loneliness...' - Henry Miller
Are not all summer nights
born late in America, fading
only when morning glories
breech fairgrounds entire
continents long,
fog draped at dawn?
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Autumnal Math
The ground assumes its portent.
The good of the season remains in what is left behind.
It takes what lays down or is laid down upon it.
You'd think it a kind of king of accountants.
You'd sink down an addition of arithmetics,
heartbeats, breaths, footings found and lost,
all the unintended landings of a life.
You'd think it wouldn't stop.
You'd sink down even wide awake in this season.
Such sinking pretends its endings in countless
geometries of folding life down or over
and under sundering fractions apart,
forgetting theorems, all but the final one.
The rest can change or pretend to.
Admit you are no good at numbers.
Admit you can only count to a certain sum,
or down to it. Reverse your life if you want to,
wind it down with a memory. Beef up the end.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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