Exodus-Excursus After Folly - An Aging Poet Addresses One Who Wanders In Mountains Remote - Reprise Poem by Warren Falcon

for Andrew Linton

Now I've broken my ties with the world of red dust;
I spend all my time wandering and read all I want.

Who will lend a dipper of water
to save a fish in a carriage rut?
—Han Shan, Tang Dynasty, China

1

There's a wary Moses in the distance counting pocket
change to give to the ferrier, coins to fit the eyes.
I'm hanging at the back of the crowd. There's manna
enough for pockets. My Red Sea is long parted but old
Pharaoh's got a new army. Each day is a scrape in the tents.
Prayer and fear is sustenance dragged further out by pillars
of fire. A volcano rumored to be God publishes 'Mandates for
a New Junta', led by a well-bred stutterer (prototypical politician,
it seems) . In odd limbo there trail reluctant murmurers.

That Golden Calf Incident was a silly mistake,
an overreaction, but there were agreements made
at the outset, sealed in blood, first born sons threatened
or worse, guaranteed real estate for dairy farmers and
bee keepers, oodles of milk-and-honey futures, money
to be made in hopefully greener pastures. Now it can
be said with certainty, a 'promised land' comes with
big catches - I've exchanged one for another, same
mistake - the barbs are plenty, mostly mistaken people
thinner than scripture loudly staking claims to land
and deity in long meander.

It's a luxury, sure. Some choose to wander. Some don't.
Water is scarce in deserts. Wheels are few but for
chariots of war, not many ruts though there's thirst aplenty,
not the bounty promised before the journey.

A penny for a wet tongue.

I'm of that hung up crowd forced to flee, a victim
of unleavened fate, or is that too Greek a notion?

The question begs asking. Unintended impertinence
must be forgiven. That's the theme, right? the long
march of history, that of redemption in time though
each and every has an opinion. Can't be helped.

Much to explain.

All's a seeming washed in blood.

2

Old friend, I've been reading zen, the death poems,
and Sayings of the Desert Fathers, in many ways
the same. These orient, assist. I can still lift a head
up among stars while swatting flies just to be silly
for what do stars care at all but for real-ing eyes,
they're wanting to be the more perceived, more
than lumps in solidity, but as sublime, as they once
lightyears dreamed, as a boy's fright-years dreamed,
too, despite a hard father's boot-steps on childhood's
stairs just other side the door to send him packing,

Future's shy Desert Father
anonymous on purpose,

beneath the bed,
a wilderness of sorts,

hiding still.

3

Now

I'm flung further into the fray though I sway up 5 flights
of stairs, long in exile, dizzy with the street, the human
beauty and brokenness there, all those flower pots in
windows, on stoops, the blossoming tree brightening
between darker bricks to truly dwell. It is for me, a shy
son, to see in spite of big chunks missing or torn out,
to remake the world as it always is for gods long to
be bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then, I am
'the Dude', a daffodil in my lapel, gate of heaven and
h*ll open at the end of the block. I skip forward singing,
'La La La, ' poems a'pocket. If questioned at the gate
I'll blame you, meandering still, granting permission
the entrance to boldly storm.

Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work.