Dark's Magpie, Me, The Ambiguities - Alienation With Bruises Poem by Warren Falcon

'In me divine magnanimities are spontaneous
and instantaneous, catch them while you can.' - Herman Melville

'...236 miles
above Earth where up & down are instructions instead
of directions.' - Adrian Matejka

'I am this strange thing I despise...To become ourselves we are these
wayward things...Naked the man come forth in his mask, to be.' - John Berryman



I bow to the bruise exquisite,
address the tree newly vernal,
full moon just passed

passing what is seen not
seen between veins of each
stillness-leaf waved in suchness,

what acts or yields, what
moment-by-moment brings,
awaits revelation of foliage
and trunks.

I seek what they have
never having had it,
these graceful young
men, masculine, easy,
at home in their skin.
They live now and ahead
at no one but life's behest.
As for me, twice aborted laity,

God damn the West, it's deity.

.

I bow to the bruise exquisite,
address the tree -

Meaningnest,

this purpled edge of summer
new, barrage of storms ex-
panding, call it Maple, call
it cathected projected me,
these young men Africaine
on benches easy with each
others' heat - maples peek
at their blossoms their purple
bark, they freely piss, return
relieved, shameless. In such
easiness, theirs, their grace
embodied, I feel the itch, the
drive, the hives invisible in
damp air where young men and
trees thrive. What is it there in
them that I cannot have? or seize
in some, even minor, measure?

Goddamn the West, its deity.

.

As for me awed before purple
leaf and loin, I am a pagan old.
Few were able to touch demure
me, that is, the very few, confused
as I was for a feminine tongue.

Dark's magpie, me. What
say you now if say you could?


Distant cousin,

we're made more close by
sorrow. Time's a borrowed
longing, reaches us each to
each - or yours to mine, for
nowhere now we are but
within, perhaps, merely a
conceit but, I in you and
you in vague, yes, me, a
guess, a venality, vanity
being a human trait common,
quite. It is still a trace to
be, to convene congenially.

Goddamn the West, its deity.

.

I now confess:

I preach too much,

from high horse be-
sotted try to sing
a'stammer with all of
England's Pilgrim-more
behind beneath me us
who would be poets.

It is tone that can home
or disperse us, skin or
spooks thinner than thin,
reflections on walls or con-
fused for traffic or meteors
periferal. Didactic, pro-
lific, heiractic much. Ig-
noring transparency's bend,

let excursus end.

Pretend or pray such
extends us into more
than infirm materiality

but let it rest or give,
if rest can be given,
riven from wrested
Pleiades retread Maidens.

For now, let's, craven.
Encompassed much verily,

God damn the West, its deity.

.

Come cauterize come
correct, impress of self,

homo erect us bears
on what's for other fools

now to court, stalk, woo.

To palmer instead Word-
ward, on tinted oars

bend or pleining sails
snail pace skies turn

away day from sun
toward Polaris or

Ursas Major/Minor
two, close each
to each, almost
would reach but
for each a leg in
stellar traps so
endless beeward
they wheel they
limp simple enough
bearing in mind
to suffer redundant
motion, helps to
know as all natural
things do no matter
where placed in
curved Space that
night skies every-
where indeed are

a sad

sad zoo.

.

They're dead now too,
the Bears,

& most seen stars,
a chorus of ill sorts,

to keep time out of
habit and rhyme as

a kind of home to dwell,

(in no where do I)

but liminal bring
them with, bearing

in mind, doubtful
at times, as are

shadows

seen from an
ancient Greek's
wandering eye,

at times to allay
without impunity,

Goddamn the West, its deity.