Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

.
1

Haven't heard of, from you.

Are you OK or mighty fine?

Perhaps in love merely which

is why one escapes mortal time,

friends, especially such as I?

Or is it 'me'?


No matter the matter.

Wondering how, where.

And how fare you, farther flung.

Or me, the further sending these

unasked, unsought. Few to send

to who might care or at least be

bothered yet not required just

a basket to catch my froth enough

at this stage.


Sired upon rock and thus know

stones for suck, I am more that

one, not to inflate, in parable,

who sows seed upon rock.

Some roots may come but come

high wind or burning heat, well,

one gathers what can, what's

left, sees if something be woven

from strands perhaps become the

better farmer more patient the

more resigned by far for attempts

and fated reaping life's own rock.


But, not complaining.

Gonna, rather, go hog wild,

burst open, try make sense

of messes/mezzes,

pinky raised effetely to offend.


2

One can arrive at such a place

where one's no longer 'scaped

all this - those who consent -

who becomes arrives but willing

participant in inexorable awake

which as yet does not totality ken;

always the upended flames are

rushing, vortices assumed progress

an assumption only a wish but

sweetness, but tenderness for

some few beloved

things may steer,

may guide some,

stir us, even me,

oink oink,

forward, ahead.

One cannot be

sweet toward all

except in mind

alone.


Alone,

the hog loves

lowly,

loves slowly,

but it loves

thing by

thing which,

something,

is a beginning.


I am for something.