Delusion Of One
Born: Year of the Dragon.
Horoscope: 'Today's the lucky day.'
Luck, you say? O.K. Once. In a small town
on a snowy road, the scenery spinning round.
When it stopped you were pointing toward a good
place - Home. The message: Go back.
You can decide again to begin again
or stay warm there: Wombtown, population: 1.
No Lions Club or local Jaycees.
No chocolate bars and brooms for the blind.
Free room and board. It's kick and dream,
kick and dream and cleanliness more efficient
than a space suit. Talk about luck?
You're here aren't you? Don't say good or bad.
It's no accident the year's the Dragon's.
Chinese or no, the year has a tail long as a river.
Peel the scales behind the ears
you'll still roar for pain o roaring boy
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Delusion of One, A Lunar New Year Reprise
Born: Year of the Dragon.
Horoscope: 'Today's the lucky day.'
Luck, you say? O.K. Once. In a small town
on a snowy road, the scenery spinning round.
When it stopped you were pointing toward a good
place - Home. The message: Go back.
You can decide again to begin again
or stay warm there: Wombtown, population: 1.
No Lions Club or local Jaycees.
No chocolate bars and brooms for the blind.
Free room and board. It's kick and dream,
kick and dream and cleanliness more efficient
than a space suit. Talk about luck?
You're here aren't you? Don't say good or bad.
It's no accident the year's the Dragon's.
Chinese or no, the year has a tail long as a river.
Peel the scales behind the ears
you'll still roar for pain o roaring boy
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Sleep Walk
Piss shock hot
on sleeping knees,
the sudden tilted pail,
its wilted contents,
evidence enough to convict.
Slips into focus a memory
of crocus crazed upon her
matriarchal sill, the killing of
a cock, hacked, dimmed
eye sideways turned,
a dying sun behind a hill.
Red the axe clumsily wielded,
but a boy toying at men's work,
killing to eat, her forgiving skirt,
ankle deep, no longer riven to
morning, unable to witness the
last glorious color bleeding out
in less than insect hour.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Instead of the Griffin Prize* All I Get is the Griffin** or What I Get for Reading Too Much Godd*mned Charles Bukowski - A Poem-in-Cheek
for Karthik gone almost a year now,
'so much for mythology'
Many clips of poets, some known enough,
some not known, at least to me. I live
beneath a rock under a rusted old half-
bridge beneath the only cloud on earth
that doesn't move unless a rare bird,
a big one, flies beneath it. And so I
try them, 'the Winners.' Some I can't
bear to look at. I swear,
THAT'S NOT A POET!
I swiftly move to the others, one by one.
They don't know that they're all being
weighed, I admit it, in unfair balance,
GUILTY AS CHARGED.
But I'm magic.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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I Once, Your Other Darkness
for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Response To Bernadette Mayer's 'First Turn To Me...
'you appear without notice and with flowers
I fall for it and we become missionaries
we lie together one night, exhausted couplets
and don't make love. does this mean we've had enough? '
- Bernadette Mayer
Failing the Grand Coniunctio
this is the only one we know
the one where we eat dirt
and swallow, are filled and
swell belly up a meal to be
eaten when the Messiah comes
Leviathan is our heavenly bridegroom
presses the banquet table with elbows
manners forsaken in the end
yanks at sallow meat forsaking
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Haiku D'estat - Staten Island Ferry Wake, 1984
This Sunday of ice cream cones
the locals cruise for a dime.
Pigeons here or there peck pretzels
thrown down. New in town
I read these indifferent faces,
news from Sunday frowns.
Last night's drinks were on you and
old friends. Felt like I had skin again
when a certain rub made wonder but
sleeping it off on your floor I woke up
screaming, dreaming death with a bloody nose.
If you wore nylons I could kiss you. I'm confused,
infused vagrant blood refuses no stops, lust cops
wait in dark glasses near darker doors to bust.
I've managed before. Two black coffees
and the shakes, bad. I pack enough clean
clothes for a sidewalk or two. Now I
find myself here in this somewhere floating
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Remembered Laughter of the Frail Daughter There Beside the Fields Sweet Grasses - Impressionist Autumnal Portraits In Miniature
.
[Notes jotted while gazing at Impressionists paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, Autumn]
*
Among ginkgoes
cloven leaves fall
whose burnished
berries yellow late
melon sweetness
of Autumn days
Among boxwoods
evergreen for no good phlox
blooded leaves settle upon
golden flax of weeds
seed the chilling ground
receiving soundless
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Tore Carefully The Edge, Open, Of The Thing
1
a New York, perhaps, story
drunken, again, postmaster/
mistress deposits, months,
your long sent gift into the wrong
mailbox downstairs, tenant of
said mailbox on vacation long away
only just arrived from Barcelona
only just got to his mail, found your
gift for me delivered at my surprised,
happily, door only this dull morning
making/waking up the coffee cup
which, too, was flat until the surprise
knocked, arrived, tore carefully the
edge of the thing, which
brought/brings me still surprise,
joy, eyes, scanning in the images/words
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Hog Which, Something, Is A Beginning - For Tom Gone Awandering, Somewhat Shakespherical
.
1
Haven't heard of, from you.
Are you OK or mighty fine?
Perhaps in love merely which
is why one escapes mortal time,
friends, especially such as I?
Or is it 'me'?
No matter the matter.
Wondering how, where.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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