This Space Between the Gate, the Garden Lovely - Eternal Rounds of Determined Variations
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...variations determined of rounds eternal -
lovely garden the gate
the between space
this...
All
this space between the gate and the garden lovely
within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in
the dirt's cool dank breath
the hand of the digger becomes the tree
shall hang
language surpasses itself breaks
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Nightingale Confesses Into Straighter Teeth For the Seven Falling Ones
'...descend and of the curveship lend a myth to God.' - Hart Crane
The boys, seven falling: Jamey Rodemayer, Tyler Clementi,
Raymond Chase, Asher Brown, Billy Lucas, Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg
Even the pigeons on my stoop are silent now.
One mourning dove coos tenderly for these who
have taken their own lives publicly on our behalf,
for those many gone before them, broken hearts
enraged, no more to engage the unpersuaded
world which, one of them, one of the public ones,
in spite of murmuring wharves, in spite of amorous
dark alleys bitter in the pitch of the last hateful
American Century, Hart Crane, wrote before his leap
from the ship beside the phallic curve where Cuba
meets the lisping sea, took his tongue away which
sang of chill dawns breaking upon bridges whose
spans still freely splinter light returning hungover
from the night wharves, grottoes, and denim World
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Photos of War
Photo of War - 1
no milk for her
child the nipple
droops a sad
thing while dogs
run wildly about
Photo of War - 2
Geese tell of return
the burning village
counts its embers
measured in hands
Photo of War - 3
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Mountains For Manhattan, circa 1981
For Lowery McClendon
You did it. You left the trout behind.
Sunday the corn was cut down. Apple trees
in the nearby orchard were felled which explains
the screams I heard a week ago, and the droning'
of wasps. That hill was exposed this evening at
sunset, reflected pink in the sky. Reminds me of
the women I always saw through your eyes,
their large lips and eyes, the dark thighs particularly,
fields without their corn now shedding a purple
light like Stevens' Hartford, and you there tonight
forsaking the school yard we'd walk beside
stopping to comment on that view of hills
at our favorite wall where 'Nigger's Pandemonium'
stalled on hot nights to break beer bottles for your
poems broken glass, curtains you'd pass in the
dark where your wheels would splay the stars stuck
to tar bubbles on the street when Hart Crane beat
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Empress of Contrails Writes Upon Darkness - Anxiety of Influence - Original Version
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for Anthros Del Mar
I, on the other hand,
have lain down with
countless thousands.
My tent is worn out.
Stains mark love-cries,
some blood where tongues
were ground down to root words,
utterance hard pounded,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Nyro Poems - Majestic
for His Winking Majesty
1
'Tornado spawn, ' he said,
gesturing to ourselves and
laughing, 'chapter and verse,
'The storm darkens us around.'
We took cover from God under a
broad-leaf, low-lying rhododendron,
hunched over a hand-rolled cigarette
thumbs could touch but not each
other. Shivering every toke all
reaches curtailed beneath chaste hail.
In mud gulch, percussive rain on
sheltering leaves, we sang Nyro
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poem by Warren Falcon
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3 AM Kingfisher Sonata
for V.R.Cann, 'of the Serpent born'
I am, down to a man,
the most wrestled and
creased of seasons'
unceasing ardors.
I am established upon my worn and wagging throne.
I remain open all night. Preponderant sinners, their
mendicant amusements such are these fractured
pearls, are wanton for dark bottoms, sea bed renewals,
though for many here any bed will do;
no work on the morrow.
I suffer the happy travails of indigent whithers,
a later paramour whose eyes do what thighs
no longer can. Young men stray in the redder
door and, thank god, are easily distracted,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Turning Thighs To Diamonds
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game, mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.
I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.
I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Vein Trace - Of Eros Deconstructionists At Work In Bed
1 Systole
to return to
the simplicity
of the body
that IS the body
filigree surface
of hairs
of skin
the mottled where
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Year I Almost Became A Catholic by Raul Voz
(translated from the Spanish by Warren Falcon)
The year I almost became a Catholic
5 stars rose from your breasts in Spring.
My nest was a sudden disturbance in blue.
A veil
a floating head
bleeding thorns
adorned your white throat.
I fled from my boat after one
long night of fishing only to
arrive ashore with torn nets
and apparitions upon my knees.
Without will my cursing ceased.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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