Hog Which, Something, Is A Beginning - For Tom Gone Awandering Somewhat Shakespherical Poem by Warren Falcon

for Tom Dybek


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 (are)

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