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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  9/2/2014 1:45:01 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  77.     

But That's Not It On A Hartford Train

Riding backwards
each brick is
surprise peripheral.

Gaze shapes itself
solidly

a moment then to movement
succumbs.

Again.

And I am dumb.

Strike no pose
that a poem
could love

much less linger
petulant in a
tinted window.

A brick sticks
in the throat.

No.

An eye.

No.

It is red.

It is dead
weight leaving
residue in
a palm

or place it
sighing to my
chest still
overcome by
the last

brick, and
the other
one

and so on,

all lost,
a last attempt
to see without
poses and write

it.

The heart says,

No.

The other eye,
the one turned
away from the
window, says:

'God forbid I'm
going to crash the
whole universe.

Goodbye.'

But that's not

it.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  78.     

Cleaning Fish On Good Friday,1963

.
Fate, then, heavy in a boy's hand
hoists dead weight to a nail on a tree.
His knife scores firm flesh yielding
beneath freshly limp gills - there is an
instrument made just for this, pincher-pliers
for catfish skin - he grips and tears,
uses his weight down-stripping smoothly
bare to such luscence little ribs of roseate
flesh.

Only the overly large head, the ugly face
whiskered within gilded monstrance,
remain pure to form, thin-lipped and
mocking, restrained by depth pressures,
sustained on surface trash, dead things
that sink down it's treasures.

Tenderly sing, then, to a nail,
to a boy's blood catechism -
hands, minds, are meant
to be stained, mercy's quality
unstrained neither by will nor gill.
Scavenging flocks gladly fill their
gullets inhaling entrails tossed
in supplicant bins.

In unison Gregorian they scream:

There is a nail for me
plain, a chorus of barks** -

splintered lips
punctuated surprise,

glossolalia of rivers
now given weight.

One can only will
praise to 'The End',

and spill, post-pliers,
one's silken guts in offering.


**A catfish when brought to shore barks, a rasping, barking discharge of air.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  79.     

Confusing Thumbs For Radiance

An idiot squared,
the schoolchild slowly
counts thick fingers.
Starts over and over
confusing thumbs for radiance.

He leaps beyond sums burning
through a window framing numberless
blue scansions turning over
wing by wing.

Rolling velocity
mindlessly over,
no sums are required,
round is easy.

Vertical extension
beyond thumbs,

everything.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  80.     

Cracked Song For Dirty Boots

for Nimal Dunuhinga


This tree

grows still

a child's mind

a bedroom window


This house

this window

gone but for

frames crater

now

once was

home memory's

red dirt


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 shards

spy glass

throat sore


Cracked song for dirty boots
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon