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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  11/25/2014 9:57:01 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  77.     

Brief Prayer After Viewing Grunewald's 'Isenheim Christ'

.
'Genuine knowing begins when sentimentality no longer bars the way.'
-Eugene Monick



I, too, have hung

on a cross, my own,

but nonetheless everyone's,

too often disowned,

denied,

decried as untrue,

unnecessary, that

there is no Adversary,

only Light,

that overbearing Rightness

which never

leaves room

for me.



I only know

that deep night,

that way beyond sentimentality,

that way over and beyond 'the Path'

into the thicket, the swamp


where the god of gators waits,

submerged, calling to me to

step less lightly upon the world.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  78.     

Brittle Goes the Bone

for Ocean

The animal we are
reserves just rights
to complain -

empty bellies,
encroached territories,
crotch urgencies,
skin withers,
fur falls -

brittle goes the bone,
so small the gathered human corners,
so great the needed mercies.

We must not dishonor
the animal we are.
We fight for blood right,
birth right, some bread,
a place to lie down
with kindred beings.

A patch beside a stream,
a doll house street,
sweat-and-blood won,

proclaims a personal kingdom.

Listen now.

Milky or Muddy Ways
somewhere require stunning loss.

We are falling,
battered lips praising
still.

We have
witnessed,
yes,
cracked
all this.

With a kiss
love in the crush
and crank is

sealed.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  79.     

Brunch With Nietzsche, A Dazzlement

'It's undertow that matters.' - Jango Kammenstein

Dear Friedrich,

I am the man most pursued in last night's dream.
That emaciated thing at my back keeps tracking me.
I remain just out of reach. Classic. Even there
as here I am escaping something, a life time of
practice in this 'Kingdom of the Canker'.

It was no banker who followed me last night
but a starved lacklove rejected by 'Canker' and, well,
by me. Who'd want that part all start and no finish?
Replenishment has often enough meant hiding out
and a demand that it keep at least 5 arm lengths away.

I will try, I tell it, to look at it but I find its presence
most disturbing. Its handful of leaves continually
proffered leaves me in a quandary. What do they
mean, this offering, though my father was a lumberjack?
Perhaps this is a track of sorts to follow for an end
to the mystery.

I am stumped.


One adjusts. Continually.

The persona is adaptation
appearing to be solid but sleep reveals the neutrality
of the animal.

Dreams tell us otherwise
when we remember them as it takes an ego to witness,
to remember.

They reveal that we are
caught up into something so much greater than
flush and stir.

It's a wonder we make do
as much as we do and still call ourselves by name,
a species of animal, 'homo sapiens'.


I regret self pity.
I'd reject it if I could but it adheres,
last resort of old coots born honestly
into it no matter the copious Mercurochrome baths,
the smelling salts obviating the needed nipple.

The stippled trout I nightly catch,
pink insides turned out by blue blade
kept beneath the pillow,

baits me with the riddle
again and again.

Something about a stand of trees,
a man carving some bark,
what breath is for.


Today the Market reports a run on Mercurochrome.

Birth goes on.

I am for rebirth.

A dirth of days makes me suddenly Hindu,
foregoing gurus and bindu point.

I've made my own here.

Selah.


Still, methinks I'll have your ear
for a little while longer, a handful of leaves only for
my thanks,

one foot well into
'Cracked and Crank', the drunk tank a memory
worn out.

Doubt is my companion.

Love, too. No remorse here.
Buys me time, aftershave and
loads of underwear for the trickles ahead.

Thank the gods for all that.

Oh. And one last good cigar.


Truly,

Birdie
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  80.     

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
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon