Dinah Washington, All Alone On The Street Of Regret (circa 1977)
.
It was sunrise, October.
Karen had just done herself in.
I suffered it through with
William Blake and gin.
Over the fence across the street
Children ran to class and Blake,
Too, chased those kids fast through
Leaves in the chill school yard.
I thought - the ground's already hard over
You, Karen. To Charon, then, and keep
Yourself warm. My arms no longer can.
You left no note in the dawn.
Out of lime and song at 7 a.m.
I dress, spin down the steps like then
In this morning now thin with Spring.
There's green over you now.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Two For Nimal
for Nimal Dunuhinga
Cracked Song For Dirty Boots
This tree
grows still
a child's mind
a bedroom window
This house
this window
gone but for
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Jack Spicer Makes Me Weep This Morning
Jack Spicer makes me weep this morning
waking up, bitterest espresso and heart's
tourettes, expostulations against what is
trying to enter in through the window...
workman on the roof across the passage,
shirt off, sweats, gleams, banded brow,
suddenly a cry erupts unstopt past my
mouth & ears, 'Snow man! Upon the bleak pitch! '
then hear, he is singing out loud in
creosote, the sweetest song, of black
hands, black eyes wet, black brush
tar thick in slow rhythms,
'Coo coo roo coo coo, paloma'...
then Spicer breaks to shadows
across the page, a fruit fly
insists upon the sweetness this poem,
Spicer's gift:
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Regarding The Apple's History, A Theological Trifle - After Emily Dickinson
'It's good for the breath! '
With this she tempted Adam to death.
Properties of the apple are renowned since
their eating made it a greatly frowned upon thing.
Still, it is not without its lovers.
But for an apple's charm we would live boring lives,
never a fling or two to alarm the pear,
and we all know an apple will never harm
a teacher's pet, its fables to lure
the imagination, that Golden One's
strength to subvert us to the core.
Let's eat the jelly of sin and tell it!
William Tell's a good shot!
Let's split the Apple in the pot
and stew it for Eve's sly.
Even so our breath is sweet.
Tis the tart one of death
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poem by Warren Falcon
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No Difference In Memory - After Reading Li-Young Lee
for Karthik
I am flying.
I am falling.
No difference in memory,
the smell of rose oil in your hair
my body can find even in the dark
its scent upon me when I awaken
is the cup alone I drink.
I shall go on drinking when
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Woven Little Mouths Many
You emerge
from the bath
reaching for the
towel, soft, obeying
daily habit, wipes you dry,
each cleft, the pit of my
longing rubbed without
caution.
I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Stage Coaches, Hands No Longer - How It Is How I Am Otherly Conformed
...because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying? - Pablo Nerud
You ask out of the blue: How are you?
(You want to test the waters first)
My answer: I thirst
Going into the wild west, I am
I am stage coaches
Hands no longer in my lap or yours
In a country of glow worms there are
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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Icarus Of Housewives, Circa 1981
From ashtrays he rises
when birds in backyards
have been fed their seed,
a dove amid the starlings.
In smoke filled stupor we stare.
Icarus climbs our stairs,
waves his muscled arms
in doorways mimicking
the starlings in stocking feet.
He feels his way blindly
down hallways, a whirlwind
of feathers trailing behind.
And one day like any other day,
bedroom windows open,
he is gone into the sun to
make his movements golden,
to steel his flight a monument
of silver in the sky over Cleveland,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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On Our Broken Boat The Harsh Light Will Not Break
.
'Others the same - others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them, What is it then between us? ...What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? ' - Walt Whitman
On our broken boat the harsh light will not break.
We see our day clearly as we can.
Tell the night, now it's here to stay, that
once I glanced the sleeping youth, legs against the wall,
felt a pall descend upon us here,
this boat lancing the bay waters darkly.
Some to books then, the priest to his sad, effeminate stare.
I can no longer envy those of the black cloth
so bend and tie the shoe.
We shod our feet against what long loss of motion,
eyes downcast or boldly returning the stare?
Beneath each eye there's some familiar look we refuse.
We map our way to sleep in the palms of shy or frightened hands.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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How Do You Make the Gorilla Com on Pocket God? - A Found Poem
.
Light the torches using lightning,
place one islander on that central beacon
(he'll stick there spread eagle) .
Then, place one islander on
the drums on the right side,
and one on the crank on the left.
Their eyes will glow red.
Make sure it is night time,
then in a circular motion with
your finger, make the possessed
little dude on the left turn the crank,
spreading the hapless guy in the middle out
... but JUST until the little lights on
the bottom of the altar turn on...
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poem by Warren Falcon
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