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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  10/26/2014 2:39:41 AM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
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For Zukofsky, Alphabet Streets - Beginning & Ending With Lines From Zukofsky,

for Louis Zukofsky

'O framar of
the starry circle'
O what is the name,
lost perhaps, of
he who once sharpened
all our knives,
the old Jew?



O Shapener of
the duller blade
turning hammers
sickles for Workers
everywhere, bricks,
straw, verse

The breast naturally
of Woman is bread
before was bread,
the child loaf-swell
in Her arms to farm
and from such
frame a world.

Thus Labor.
Bread, History.

Child's toil unspoiled
forms a culture beast,
crawls forth, makes
bread of soil native
& other, a Mother culture
all & still, everywhere.


History before was brunch
ever in the world. Sunday.
Avenue C. Door opens to sun
and saunter/the wanderers
now' arm in arm they goes'

just past every corner where
is found Rosenbergs still
bound, abandoned, run over,
bleeding ink into avenue
black scroll, trial,
knee/kneel, rather,

evoke schtetl horse-drawn
vender runner-about cart
heaving vegetable grief
returned to synagogue
alley dead end where

what is left out of grief
carves into brick with knives
the daylong silver Jew-beard
fills with sparks
and children awe

trace metals trail
splintered steel falls
pushes he of the leaden
cart spokes-handmade
wheels-wooden old tongues'
leather an old seeing
shaping art or 'new it
up' outwith
forth- for hind-
or other-sight
heat lightning
render new sight

some sundering strike
each individual eye/ear
torn/turn toward whatever
century's year may yield

'O framar of
the starry circle'
O what is the name,
lost perhaps, of
he who once sharpened
all our knives,
the old Jew?



'...What wer, what be, what
shall bifall..how found knowe
Suche forme..wiche knowes not
shape? As oft the running
stile In sea paper leue,
Some printed lettars..marke haue
none at all..But a
passion..sturs The myndz forse
while body liues, What light
the yees..bit, Or sound
in ear...strike.'** - Louis Zukofsky


** '...What were, what be, what
shall befall..how found know
Such form..which knows not
shape? As oft the running
still In sea paper leave,
Some printed letters..mark have
none at all..But a
passion..stirs The mind's force
while body lives, What light
the eyes..bite, Or sound
in ear...strike.'
Warren Falcon



Forward To 'What Is Known Is Variable And Dependent Upon Available Light'

Note the screen door behind the kid, a 'scream door' he called it in his boy tongue hearing 'scream' for 'screen' and so it means something...I now see that face multiply, a clown's sad smile, a grimace with dimples, a sorrow face, head turned slightly to the right, an appeasement gesture to father, unable to look directly at the camera, father's eye, fearful of contact with that threat insisting that the knuckle-shy son 'smile goddamn it'...poet Theodore Roethke once wrote, 'Fear was my father, father fear'... squinted for sure, kid did, into just too much too much light, eyes already staring out and into some unfocused place of Escape-To but nowhere to go but inward, into woods, bountiful books, into night stars in the front field soft and yielding to all the weight a small boy could live, the ground gave and so the boy was saved a bit by sparkles...not pitying here, just that I know that little soul by then was stunned by what existence had already become, the skinned knees can't be seen in the pic...a kid in need of available light...which he found in nature, books, music...NOT people...well, most of them, there were the few rare exceptions among the living and a very very many in books, companion souls between pages he wished he could live between and away from the hurting world...seems all these listed here are still his closest allies...

'I am old enough now to realize we are all trying to live sufficiently long to see the self come true. None of us is likely to make it. Therefore we invent selves, we prance and pose and dream and labor, confirming what we might be by what others think we are and by what we see we have been.' - Dave Smith, 'A Secret You Can't Break Free'

'We go towards something that is not yet, and we come from something that is no more. We are what we are by what we came from. We have a beginning as we have an end. There was a time that was not our time. We hear of it from those who are older than we; we read about it in history books...It is hard for us to imagine our 'being-no-more.' It is equally difficult to imagine our 'being-not-yet'. ' - Paul Tillich

The first quote sets the tone, autobiographical (Smith's) , then Tillich's leading one about 'being-no-more' and 'being-not-yet'...the happy news is that the being-not-yet in the thin-skinned kid did arrive and all things considered it's been a helluva shock to fall finally into Presence afterall having stalled for many years perched noon-blind on childhood's top step...Such 'Kindly Light' (reminiscent of the front field's stars) surprised the boy and does so still. One gives the will over to the 'what is' and the 'not yet' and so far it's been pleasing to the mind though the body will always complain for it is for life - Freud's Eros principle in the body prevails,

'Life wants more of...LIFE.'

I read of Plotinus today in Wallace Fowlie's marvelous book, The Clown's Grail, A Study of Love In Its Literary Expression...and wept like a silly in Simone's by the red beaded windows...'Plotinus says that all systems base themselves upon two questions, do we love? whom do we love? ...thus the events of our destiny (or of our sensitivity) are measured by the love we bear...this ascent toward love [you can see Dante in all of this] is by three kinds of men, the artist (in love with Beauty) , the lover (who needs the visible beauty of a single body) , and, of course, the philosopher, the third kind of man who follows the contemplation of physical beauty and the love of a human soul then enters the purified zone where harmony and beauty are merged with truth. The artist, 'the most primitive of men, ' lives the nearest myths and knows the reality of each thing...the lover, that most vital of men, is the protagonist of myths and knows the death of each thing...the philosopher for whom ideas and intuitions remain fresh and new is the most idealistic of men, the decipherer of myths and the one who knows the plenetude of each thing (the philosopher sees through the myth via the pointer of the myth into the Real, the plenetude of each thing) ...'After giving order to the chaos of matter, he tries to give order to the chaos of his heart through a knowledge of that love which will lead him to his ultimate goal, the 'flight of the one toward the One.' - Wallace Fowlie

Which for me is where available light comes in...and what is known is indeed variable according to that light...but even dim light is light nonetheless and something is gathered, some love is gathered in the perception or rather, better, in the effort to perceive what may be revealed...the dark all the darker from the revelation but altered too by what is seen and by who is doing the seeing...

That little boy in front of the 'scream door' was seeing ahead past the door and the porch, down the four concrete steps which seemed so high and steep and so far the hard falling into those two questions intuited then as a waif but now lived more consciously in the fallen stooped man:

Do we love? Whom do we love?

The kid and I have concluded thus far, still only a few feet away from the bottom step, this,

that Beauty is the Name derived from both depth and height.

What is known is variable and dependent upon available light.

To read more regarding the above copy and paste what is here below:
Warren Falcon



Four Against the Shapeless Wind

for Selin


You may find me thundering in a hut
on the small of the mountain reading
poems to curious goats. They listen
patiently before eating the paper
upon which they are written.

I have now resorted, denying loneliness
(thus the always hovering goats) ,
to arguing with the sad priest twice
a week over bad sherry transported
over the mountain. The pass's old Rock
comments on the shape and weight of
each bottle carefully wrapped in soft
flannel curved the shape of the way
upon which unsteady travelers depart
and return. From such a journey it
is believed the cheap, sweet sherry
is redeemed in taste borne to the priest's
back door into his shaking hands casting
into legion swine divinations of sorrow.

As a grace, after some cups, setting aside
the card deck missing all Hearts, I hear
his confession, soul bared tearfully before
me. Pen in hand, I write sins tenderly down
on a yellowed page to be fed to atoning goats
who keep secrets well. They freely forgive
all faults for a taste of paper, a kind favor
for the priest then.

Only ink, the accusing words by drool undone,
stains their bearded chins.

Alone in the empty church I hover before
Stations of the Cross confessing poems
to believing dust, to patient corners.

How utterly and always irrelevant I have been.


In variations of weather and seasons
devoted dust shouts,

'Cousin! Cousin!
Come! Join us here.
Even now you succumb to us
slowly rolling beneath trembling
altars, fearful of candles,
an old woman's mop.

You are quieted as are we though we now
shout. Your presence provokes us toward
proclamations, manifestos against the
shapeless wind. But shapeless we remain.

At the Master's feet wounds, now bled
away to splinters, forget an ancient tree
in a carver's hand an ocean, an age, a god away.'


Torn feet tred a hard trail yet.

Without tongue, in the broken tower,
the recluse spider shapes its uniform prayer.

Unburdened, I depart, passing
old graves.

Dear friends the village dogs, thin,

Before my pine door -

a stooped body like these wooden

more knots than wood -

a stranger pants in tongues
poems he shall never write but
only feel breath by breath

a visitor, long overstayed

remote neighbors are gracious still

pulling words from ears, he hurls them away



One blind dog sleeps

Indifferent before all machinery
it moves only, curiously,
before burros gray,
their large eyes wet, shining

the cooler shade and fields of hay
hang upon
the long lashes

A redundant whip in a whipped boy's hand
loudly cracks

Sway backs are unburdened by little cries
which simpler crickets take to heart,
their singing legs suddenly still to sighs

This makes absolute sense
in some discreet window of
the world where Meaning knits
then unknits what is
Warren Falcon



Four Snortets, A Parody With Fondness For Thomas Stearns Eliot

'Now we come to discover that the moments of agony...are likewise permanent with such permanence as time has...Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination-We had the experience but missed the meaning.' - from 'The Dry Salvages' by T.S. Eliot


Burnt Snortin'

Mister, or Sir, rather, Thomas Sterns Eliot left his evening door,
late middle age, having lived into the postmodern 'new' millennium,
having again reiterated his propounded new diet whereupon
wandering on a deserted shore near mumbling twilight one might
meet a most inarticulate soft peach or unutterable yet edible Christ,
or a close match, a little kidding, upon which we may, if we dare,
reiterative quartet playing plaintive though palliatively, dine four
squarely in Piccadilly sempiternal before getting sodden after
sundown, preferably on Friday, which is a good time to do it, to eat
and drink again, remembering that it is end of the week, out of the tube

finally unethered, trousers unrolled at last, the mission to get plastered,
doing lines in the stalls, toilet seat become an altar of dissolution.
But, despite numbness of lips and tongue, of nasal passages,
do not hope that trousers shall roll up again till Monday, and do
not call it fixity. And do not call it fistula for that is to come but not
quite yet.

And who cares? or let us forget. Teach us, O Mannered One,
to care and not to care having lost muscle plasticity which a
good pair of dark socks can cover what was once pliant and
supple, now a gruesome obscenity. Have I overstated?
Shall I overstate again? Shall I? No? not now? how all things
crumble, even a souffle caves from expectation and thus we
wait with dope, we wait without hope for hope would be hope
for another line, and yet another, and we are reduced to shouting
repeatedly shouting, Muther f*cker! Muther f*cker, overwrought,
in the stall, temperatures and ovens not withstanding.

So listen, I said to myself stalling for time for the coke to take
effect, wondering why the hell I mentioned a souffle, to kick
in wait without prematurely crashing, for the night, O Friday,
is still young though I am not so young,

I grow old
I grow old
I unfold a
hundred pound
note roll it
tightly tightly
greedy for
lines and
more time
more time
for laughter
in the bloody
garden now
grown with



Wasted Coker

so I said to my soul, yes yes yes wait without eating the dish eaten
last week which gave me the infernal trots, now giving me something
else to think about, f*ck that old Edenic garden, wait without faith that
the waiter will return the dish sent back merely because one can,
because one (note how I go to the third person but f*ck that) , ONE
ONE ONE is really angry at the boss and one is in the stalls not for
coke but for yet another freshly chewed double anus demanding attention.
And all things are stalled for in the stall all is bloody and ONE,
erhebung with motion too too much, squatting, endlessly squatting
wiping squatting wiping ad infinitum of bum unto bumbling attempts

so I said in the stall,
wait, wait dumbly, tongue lagging,
for the dope to kick in, forget the late
arrival at office, f*ck Mondays! the usual scene,
one can recover here by porcelain cool

white o white as
the lines are white

which, too, porcelain, is waiting to be cleaned,
and all things shall be cleaned, but only after
midnight for I shall have left by then having forsaken
all hope and the sink where I have discreetly washed
my skivvies in order to go home again, return
uncomfortable, without support, to throw them in the
turning dryer to dry again for I do not hope to return
again until next week to probably reenact the same
scene again, (bringing another pair of skivvies with
just in case) , the patient server, harassed, must add
and re-add my check again and again because I am




pissed at the boss, at the chittering fetuses mocking, always
mocking, in the shrubbery near the well-used apothecary and
I shall go home foregoing mulberries, for I am too blitzed, having
forgotten the rejected dish, the wish for justice, for mum's steak
and kidney pie, and I have remembered all too late. Alas.

So let us go home then, which is a kind of personal Golgotha,
for which the rent is beyond my means but let us go and
make our supper remembering to take the gonorrhea pill.
No, let us purchase our meal though on a budget, and forget
even all this trivia. Let us forget all that, too, looking in,
deja vu, the bathroom mirror from the stall

(have I left or do I remain?)

Recall then that I can leave the comb unhandled
until Monday morning. It shall not cruelly beckon
again from the toilet, or it can be justifiably ignored,
to comb what is left of what is left to fall, or grow,
but that's a laugh. Come Monday, and only then,
we must find the diminishing part again, searching
ever searching,

scalp and England
all one, or soon shall
be One

scanty scanty



The Drying Assuages

'And all is vanity amongst these my ruins, '

says Sweeney, whoever he may be, tidies
up neurotically, gin on the breath for he
is bored unto death but awaits daily the
post for possible liberty which he took
once with a wealthy widow who mistook
him for someone else. The scar forever
reminds of dumb lusts and dumber luck
for loot never dreaming she was a black
belt. His teeth, now wooden, remind him
'be mindful of the good against all wants',
and so he sits, wise, chaste, chiseled,
a wastrel in ruins reading Sam Beckett
but that is another story written
in stars Centauric
qua qua qua
sisk boom ba
'tween Fuhquaad
& Apothecary
near the corner
time forgot
but o not I
when the clot
broke and people
screamed no
help at all as I
stood pale,
pale, paler still
leaning upon
a tailor's wall
he, too, no
help at all
to call the cops
It closes me in
again to recall
qua qua qua Fuhquaad
amongst the forgotten roses
where one is hungover in the
supposes he began with that
he can never finish like this,
pissed, which goes on, which
goes on, 'I can't go on but
I must because I am losing my
hair and so on' dot dot dot into
eternity (should one believe
in such but may use the idea
of such, eternity, go forward
or behind living in the blue rind
of the sky crumbling on the
nether shore where relentless
waves tease/disturb relentless
terns tracing uremic rims of foam

shall I call then eternity a
home for shells, the curve of
space? disgrace myself yet again
with belief, any one, believe
that such shores are a where
after all, a place to shelter
where each wave is somewhere
by someone or something
counted as is every hair
numbered counted still
they fall as do waves into
crescendos rainbows
should the sun so shine
for what is left to comb
of shore and hair is a
disturbance of fractions
refractions the lonely
redactions of what is
perceived, felt, spilt
upon the chillier pate?
and so I must wear a hat but let us not go then,
you and I, patiently into all that now but come the
proper time...

now then here then
remembering the chaffing bloody garters

Fibonacci Fibonacci



Little Skidmarks

O the stall, stall, stall, we all go into the stall

Nevermind, just follow the trail of yesterday's shoe,

talcum and dust mingle taciturn
undoing intention to haste
powdery traces unhidden guidance

the prayed for thunderstorm never come to wash
tell-tale treads reveal some rash is spread,
scaling crud of gory glory and more stains to wash
but what of shame? Do we not hope to turn it to other
than no more to blame? Thus we gait without soap,
panicked, for what is to come, to scrub, to un-stain,
but soon, the boss is pacing. But what is to be gained
in running knowing already what waits ahead?

Another annus. Another anus.

Nothing more.

Hidden children in the mulberries
chittering, heard but unseen.

Note to self:

Must take Thorazine before bedtime.
Goddamn wankers! !

But let us leave them for another dosage,
for another week's prelude sans qualudes,
the sullen departure to work again combing
the faces in the crowd pitching, another aphasia
I prefer to call an 'occluded interlude', yet
another distracted fit caught in a sun ray upon
seeing that the poorly stitched seam hastily done
between the shower and the tepid tea,
between the sorting through the dirty laundry,
the deepening ennui for something to wear,

o do not hope to wear it again and again evergreen

(whatever, BTW, 'ennui' is, but it is fun to say and
in this aesthetic some other language needs to be
gratuitously writ to make the poetic voice more valid
if Americans attempt to art, 'writ' is a good word, too,
let me then write it repeatedly: writ writ writ, to wit)
begins yet again, o Ariadne, obsessive compulsive
to the end,

Thorazine Thorazine Thorazine
must must must remember to wit!

...to unravel that which is still, to look on the
bright side, yet another beginning, the public,
pathetic, peripatetic tugging of shirts and blouses
over the widening rip in the thinning trouser's seat,
pant legs remembering to be gay scrolling ever upward.
And yet we still call these knobs 'ankles', forgoing gaity.

Nothing to be read here, now, in Merry Old,
but old age, varicose. the blank stare dreaming
comatose, of repressed rage, still pissed at the boss,
shamed of ankles, the chittering twats in mulberry bush
near home, following, following

No wonder these
little snots at me laugh.

Them I'll clobber
here then now then

Shall we turn the page again?
Shall we? Shall we turn over yet
another leaf? Shall we repeat it all
again forgetting the unraveling stitch?
The itch and the burn?
The Itch and the burn returning,
for one bought the store brand and not the original.
Now it hurts to sit or stand. Shall I say it again,
under fetid breath, dentures stained?

Yes. Yes!
Sit or stand.
Sit or stand!
Now goddamn it,
bloody move on!

I shall say it again because I can.
But later. But let us remember


now then, here then
hidden laughter behind
hands pointing at loose stitches,
boxers gray.

Forgot to do laundry.

Another note to self.
Another task.
Do the wash.
Most important.

Still, it is a good Friday so, sighing,
at last forgetting all Mondays past
and to come

not withstanding, for it hurts either
way to sit or stand, the late pay check,
piss poor pittance, mind, is cashed
probably on bloody Monday but
never mind. Let us presently pour
our penurious libations

Chianti Chianti

Warren Falcon
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon