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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/10/2014 8:00:06 AM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
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Haiku For Mathematicians

for Zakieh

in math's pristine world
even crying has its place
else laughter's wasted
Warren Falcon



Haiku-Taken from a Photograph by M. Asghari

for Mohammad

Stone fence unmoving
beside flowing water
and there you sit with legs.
Warren Falcon



Hard Days On In At The Rehab For Drunken Poets, An Opera Of Sorts, circa 1981

They can't all be like these, I guess.
The days are good, though, when they are.
The formula is simple really -

We take our ragged bones out of rented rooms for long walks.
You point out between bricks the rainbows in windows, the dirt
now become your dirt, your genius for transformations.
I ram my own by now trite and hackneyed points
home over and over, but it works on days like these.

Reprise. Then cold beer in the dying light of
a gray bar. The stage is set. Laughter over the
wear on those other faces as we shudder behind
our own, the usual exchange of wind.
Full darkness mutes the swarm and it begins.

Curtain up.

Back inside our rooms, last castrati on the radio.
Enter winter under the door crack.
This becomes an event,
the retelling in high C;
'...I guess it's just as well we speak
this way in America and call it poetry.'
See. I'm ramming it again.
Cold breaks my concentration.
It's moving up my legs like hemlock.
Poetry should do the same.

OK. I'll get serious. A brief libretto: :

Today sweet Molly with the black eye
and the cut on her breast cried then
decided to return home to Bud who
beats her when she's drunk. I tried to
talk her out of going but she was going
and she went. Scherzo here. Interlude.

Johnny didn't come home but drank a beer
after court, walked down Highway 25 to see
his little girl, called to say he was sorry for
being late. 'You can't come back, Johnny.
You been drinking again.' Coloratura. And gravel.

Joe vomited honey and banana in bed, a real mess.
I caught most of it in a trash can held up to his head.
He roared when he wretched.

'I've vomited more years than I've lived them' he said, shaking.
'I'm a damned drunk and I'll die a damned drunk.'
Warren Falcon



Harlem Palimpsest - What Is Seen And Overheard At Six A.M., West 142nd Street, August 1984

for Wonsook Kim

Palimpsest =

1: writing material (as a parchment or tablet) used one or more times after earlier writing has been erased
2: something having usually diverse layers or aspects apparent beneath the surface

Latin palimpsestus, from Greek palimpsē stos scraped again,
from palin + psē n to rub, scrape; akin to Sanskrit psā ti, babhasti
he chews

'Oye! Garcia Lorca who chews still
Harlem's the better for your shade
once and still there'

Old women

lean out windows

swaying between

backyard buildings

old clothes lines,

gray string



'What's will when

the window slams shut?

Just old cake thrown on the street

Purple flower boxes

woman's hands

folding letters

sweet soap smells

on top steps

wet shoes full of wind


'Just catching a cool breeze is all.

Street don't belong to me...'

'She may be crazy but she's polite.

She puts her hand over her mouth

when she coughs...'

'Don't be flattered a

breeze blows in your window

Run! Run like hell'

Shouts overhead:

Keep offa my clean floor

Lay outta my porcelain sink

Ya hear me? !

That mirror's not gonna change your face

What is read:

'After so very many years, it's pointless to

look back on it.

Give this looking back a rest!

A clear breeze the world over

-what limit could it have? '

- Setcho, zen master & poet

What is written in response:

In ice streaks upward

here's breath for you

even this ink on paper

this flesh on mind

this writing on air

Why try be happy/sad?

don't affect it

disinfect your mind

play possum

Who's somebody's darlin'?

Jus' time and

gism taken on flesh

dead soon enough

so pace yourself

You've run backward too long

Don't want it

as does the

dirty river



Warren Falcon
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon