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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  2/28/2015 2:46:51 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  77.     

Dante In The Laundromat - Journeys Further Into Hell With Two Lines From The Book

After midnight, beneath bright florescence
I read Dante, his Inferno, of Hell's seven
rungs, my last quarter gone, and clothes,
two baskets, still to dry:

'At some false semblance in the twilight gloom
that from this terror you may free yourself'

posthaste, gracelessly cast out, the closing
hour is now come caught in 'spin cycle' after
'hard rinse, ' an entire bottle of fabric softener
cannot unstiffen these mythic threads,

the ancient weaves fray, displace, are
'undone, so many' beneath the winnowing
rotors that beat-beat with hope
slosh-wash all sins away.

Yet gathers the dirt.
There's more sin ahead
heady in floral scents.


The guide book sums:


'Level 2

You have come to a place mute of all light,
where the wind bellows as the sea does in a
tempest. This is the realm where the lustful
spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around
endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable
desire as punishment for their transgressions.
The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles
the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them
round, and smiting, it molests them. You have
betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite
for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain.

Cleopatra and Helen of Troy
are two that share in your fate.' **


Not bad company

but no quarter to pay
for Virgil's rude company
here, now, grizzled,
uncensored keeper of
the Seven Stories of Suds.


The lousy dryer tears
my shirts, cycles for
only seven minutes as
is the seven rungs a
quarter, just one quarter
more, one thinks, prays,
hopes, seeking upon the
dirty tiles beneath metal
folding chairs for 'just
one more' to stay warm
enough before venturing
further, slog through
Level Two with damp
laundry, a sleety night
in cold Manhattan,

a view of distant
bridges busy with light,
motion,

the spanned river,
dark, spins toward
the deeper East;
a Star there was
once a great matter,
one of the better
nights of the world
it is believed.

Closing hour.

Virgil tightly keeps
to schedule, lights

die a sudden death,
glass door solid

with blackness locked,
metal gate rattles

its chain, slams shut,
the sidewalk shakes,

a cigarette lit,
he bolts away

(perhaps knowing
the better route) .


I am plunged
without advantage
of guiding light
into darkness,
abject, lifting
wet clothes upon
my back cursing

all clothes, the need
of them, calling in
the empty street for

a break from woven
bondage, for return
to infantile nakedness
unspoiled but for
first shock of lumped
beingness spilling
into redundant mangers,

the maulings to come
not yet at the door
but foretold of old
in some night sky
of the world.


I haul forth then,
outspoken,
not unburdened
but called out,


but cast out,
shed needles on
walks' edge thin,
tree limbs naked
but for tinsel cling,
shades of a Bethlehem
Star stretched,
wrinkled, blowing
to gutter, sticking
to shoe,


the heavy human round,

spin cycle,

night slowly unwinds.


I descend,

pass time till dawn,
hung laundry strung

out dries over chairs,
towel racks;

in dim basement room I
turn another page, red handed.

To companions in Fate I
read another passage 'to keep,
or return us, on track,

O Virgil,

in this long night where we wait in flagrante.' ***


I have broken my back lifting
all these my loves up to heaven.



**Quoted from this website:
http: //www.4degreez.com/misc/dante-inferno-information.html

***Latin: in blazing offense. A legal term meaning
'caught in the act, ' 'red-handed.' Also is sometimes
used colloquially as a euphemism for someone being
caught in the act of sexual intercourse
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  78.     

Das Lied Von Der Erde [The Song of the Earth]

Das Lied Von Der Erde

[The Song of the Earth by Gustav Mahler,
a song cycle of poems by Chinese poet Li Bai,
famous wandering poet of the Tang Dynasty]


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
air enough around
to go on sing my
song tio-tangle in
tree limbs Van Gogh
still somewhere paints

knees sore
now and always
a call
to prayer

to woo in
old boots
worn leather

Weak knees
make me to
existence/being
adore

to which I
have only just
in a dream

renewed my wedding vows


*


I am drawn water
from artesian wells
deep

I am a bath in night stars

I am swelling night mirage

I am heat vectors
day-heated earth-making

I am giddier star dance

bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountain
cannot see)

I am rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal

toks

glocks

in pots all kinds


*


O stand radiant-starred late afternoon

O stained stark shadows black frieze


astonished stooped man

time's wee piss-boy

damp bunk-bed mattress fears


O stand glazed from edges

gaze to bark

vine maps of escape


Iron shadows

impress long into

wet pit


sun shard

spy glass

throat sore


cracked song for dirty boots
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  79.     

De Asterisco, Preciosa Flor

imaginar
este asterisco
que contiene un Aster
una rosa transformando una vez mαs
porque puede
porque
Lorca
*
ha querido que, obediente a la existencia
*
carta
por carta,
pιtalo a pιtalo
abeja besado por descarada
abejas un embrague de estambres
tinta del asesino
florecimiento
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  80.     

Dear Goodfew, Regarding the Poems I Sent

Don't worry about reading them.
If good enough they will keep.
If bad they will linger like old garbage
placed outside a neighbor's door
in the middle of the night only to
wrap tightly around when opening
a morning door to leave for work,
pushed back, turned off, sour,
5 flights of breathless descent
cursing the occupant in 5A.

The front door slams behind.
Stepping into sunlight and shadow
the day is won, has worn away the
mal-odors of morning. Burn now
instead to live, to leave a strong
rot when put out a lover's door
because of laziness,

a partial rejection hung upon a knob.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon