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,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Minimalist Death Cyphers, A Meditation In Nine Rounds
.
for Mooky,
not even two hearts
could contain your
great spirit
1
Blue cornflowers
lean forward
Reach again
One hand
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poem by Warren Falcon
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For All The Words Dished Up - Two For Emily Dickinson
1
For all the words dished up,
A plate without meat. Maybe, bone.
No love fattened you,
never used your flesh.
Green as grass you stayed.
Dauntless, no narrow fellow passed.
2
This talk of death, dear Emily,
I know it intimately - plain talk
describes it best, as you know,
this Mystery grotesque -
concreteness like tombs hard in
the eye or that slant of light
obscured by a fly.
OK. It's done now. And ever will be,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Anunciación - Una canción para César Vallejo y Hart Crane
Llegar tarde para amar
la torre rota
llora su ruina a sonar.
Larga sequía del aire
una vez acallado el badajo.
Sin embargo, una respiración, Trémulo,
grietas metal.
Mutismo cae.
Dispersión de palomas miedo.
Anunciación de vigas:
Venir.
Recuerdo la alegría,
la forma de dominio.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Dinah Washington, All Alone On The Street Of Regret (circa 1977)
.
It was sunrise, October.
Karen had just done herself in.
I suffered it through with
William Blake and gin.
Over the fence across the street
Children ran to class and Blake,
Too, chased those kids fast through
Leaves in the chill school yard.
I thought - the ground's already hard over
You, Karen. To Charon, then, and keep
Yourself warm. My arms no longer can.
You left no note in the dawn.
Out of lime and song at 7 a.m.
I dress, spin down the steps like then
In this morning now thin with Spring.
There's green over you now.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Two For Nimal
for Nimal Dunuhinga
Cracked Song For Dirty Boots
This tree
grows still
a child's mind
a bedroom window
This house
this window
gone but for
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Jack Spicer Makes Me Weep This Morning
Jack Spicer makes me weep this morning
waking up, bitterest espresso and heart's
tourettes, expostulations against what is
trying to enter in through the window...
workman on the roof across the passage,
shirt off, sweats, gleams, banded brow,
suddenly a cry erupts unstopt past my
mouth & ears, 'Snow man! Upon the bleak pitch! '
then hear, he is singing out loud in
creosote, the sweetest song, of black
hands, black eyes wet, black brush
tar thick in slow rhythms,
'Coo coo roo coo coo, paloma'...
then Spicer breaks to shadows
across the page, a fruit fly
insists upon the sweetness this poem,
Spicer's gift:
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Regarding The Apple's History, A Theological Trifle - After Emily Dickinson
'It's good for the breath! '
With this she tempted Adam to death.
Properties of the apple are renowned since
their eating made it a greatly frowned upon thing.
Still, it is not without its lovers.
But for an apple's charm we would live boring lives,
never a fling or two to alarm the pear,
and we all know an apple will never harm
a teacher's pet, its fables to lure
the imagination, that Golden One's
strength to subvert us to the core.
Let's eat the jelly of sin and tell it!
William Tell's a good shot!
Let's split the Apple in the pot
and stew it for Eve's sly.
Even so our breath is sweet.
Tis the tart one of death
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poem by Warren Falcon
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No Difference In Memory - After Reading Li-Young Lee
for Karthik
I am flying.
I am falling.
No difference in memory,
the smell of rose oil in your hair
my body can find even in the dark
its scent upon me when I awaken
is the cup alone I drink.
I shall go on drinking when
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Woven Little Mouths Many
You emerge
from the bath
reaching for the
towel, soft, obeying
daily habit, wipes you dry,
each cleft, the pit of my
longing rubbed without
caution.
I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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