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Warren Falcon

Rookie - 239 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Pisciatoio de Nero in Zero world


[reveries from many years viewings of Fellini's 'Amacord' -
'Pisciatoio de Nero' means 'black pissoir' in Italian]

'Hear me a moment...
Perhaps it is better
if the jubilee of small birds
dies down, swallowed in the sky...

The senses are graced with an odor
filled with the earth.' - Eugenio Montale, 'The Lemon Trees'




the blowing spring blossoms
the falling snow
the sex-crazed madwoman
has her place and is made place for

in the seaside town - Gradicia
sacred prostitute
important to matters of State

of stuttering male
desire of all ages

at film end her
marriage
a new beginning for all


motorcyclist
as Time too
zooms in/out
punctuates
scenes throughout

spring blossoms again
return the final scene

the ubiquitous blind
accordion player
Time's other guise

pestered by brats
perpetually pull his tattered hat

plays throughout
eternal return

*

film family
the schizophrenic brother/
uncle of papa/nephew
climbs a tree on an
out-of-the-asylum family picnic

the day is late
family needs to leave
countryside for city

Tio, uncle, refuses to
descend from the tree top
end of the stony world

loudly shouts
hours over quiet
farmland and fields,

I WANT A WOMAN!

I WANT A WOMANNNNNN!

deeper sanity reveals
in his call for the restoring
Woman

the sanity of Desire
his coniunctio
(consummation call)
in the arms of a tree

rocks tossed
plucked from
coat pockets
rags
keep saner
interlopers at bay below

the love-mad one
in piss pants
sways embraced of
the Woman Tree
reunites vistas
seen above
tearing opposites
of the seen world
mean in over
extended glory

coagulates
the promised
black boots
of State

Unpersuaded he

in primeval arms
innocent
returns to life

wants a wife
or lover

lightens his load
throws stones from
threadbare

pockets full o full
upon the glass house
the loo-loo world

spread out beneath him
a 'pisciatoio de nero'
in Zero world.


*

actively dreaming I am
of a cabin, some woods
(or Tio's Tree) or Mexico
mountain crotch

draw water from
artesian well deep
bathe with night stars

swelling in night-mirage

heat vectors from day
heated earth making

giddier stars dance...

my vocation then -

porch sit
write
pick up
paints again
seek the missing

Ear

hike/walk/wobble
a patch of canvas
dirt squabble
the 3-legged
dog his name
is 'Trinidad'
(his 3 legs)
whose meanness
knows an evil man
when he sees one


cogitate to more write
cook simple fare
raise some corn
a little hay the locals
that itch of skin for
skin embrace Tio's
primal call to sin over
into the blurred sanity
of digitally hog-tied
corralled world too
easily pixilating O dust
to dust

after all is said/done


Go back in time then
'io recordo amacord '
is always circular
as space is not linear
but spherical live off
grid as chimera
an old man tin-can spit-
cup in hand can without
doing harm to self chewing
a niggardly weed tobacco
growing wild in Mexico
ditch and dale

will need espresso
wine nearby (or larders
laid coolly in the ground
for chill and preserve) ,

space large enough for
books and to entertain
2-leggeds - even
Trinidad come to pant
happily at my heels -
who will come if they
come for counsel
talk story
dirty jokes

side by side silent
readings an occasional
'hear this' something
then read aloud which
becomes bread
heads nod agreement
smiles and meals beneath
the witnessed reel of
glancing stars gathering
stones at dusk filling
their pockets own
while climbing
World Tree at apogee
they downward turn
fling themselves low
toward the dawn stumbling
Sun alone fire seeking
fire

I WANT A WOMAN!

I WANT A WOMAN!

in such male heat
Light cries up/
reveals the morning
dove the crow their
sonorous response
to the Sun's Call,
different as they are
unconcealed...


what is revealed:

the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - 'be gone!
no more! ' one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy
turvy heel-worn shoes before the getting
into because scorpions and spiders dwell
therein and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found a skin shed
on a flower-patterned pillow case where
fleecy lambs forever pink silently low
as the cloth grows thin from head wear
dream wear because I was once a sleeping man

(this happened
to me

lived 3 great years
a mountain
one hundred year old house no electric
a well for water
spring house chill in
cold mountain spring
milk butter meat
thick mesh and laden
plywood over basin
keep critters out

bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountains could
not see) from rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal
toks
glocks in pots all kinds) ...

*

but for now
out the theater
into city street
I've been drawn
out and now

long overdrawn

am drawn the
more in
drawn in
not sketched out
but stretched as such
state old men are or
soon to be, arrive
their ire in retire
crow songs
strong for not
too much longer

but damn it all

hear such
being here hurts,
stone stars

I'm cold! I'm cold!

I shout up to them
Sun star tumbling old
bodies down to dirt song
of the earth

'Das Lied von der Erde'

I will listen then
as I do now, Mahler's,
pour out red wine
hiss at the intrusive
mouse herald of The End
in alto sung

over-strung/wrought-out
I will listen will
recover such enough
air around to go on
sing my song
a tio-tangle in
treelimbs the kind
Van Gogh still somewhere
paints

knees, sore,
now and always
a call
to prayer
to woo

in old boots
worn leather
weak knees
make me to
existence/being
adore

to which I
have only just

in a dream

renewed my wedding vows.

Submitted: Tuesday, November 06, 2012
Edited: Sunday, November 11, 2012

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

I published this below, the original from which the above is derived...I was never happy with 'Io Ricordo 'Amacord'' as a poem or as prose or as a prose poem but still feel something within the mass of it which is redeemable and so the above and a related but different derivation, 'Tio, Losing His Sums, Ontologizes 'What Has Become of Me', have been attempted. I have unpublished 'Io Ricordo 'Amacord' but publish it here as the rhizome from whence the above and the Tio poems derive. W. Falcon


Io Ricordo 'Amacord' - I Remember 'Amacord'

'Take this song and shove it up your culture...' - Leonard Cohen

'Of course the ego doesn't sit back
asking delicate questions,
it supplies answers.' - N. Erhlich


And here is mine:

In Italian, 'Amacord ' means 'I remember'.

The movie, 'Amacord', is Federico Fellini's loving recall of his childhood and adolescence, of innocence and loss, during Mussolini's Italy just before the second World War. Having viewed the film many times through the years I have found that it gets even better as I grow older, almost now officially 'old', for memory adds restoratively an elegiac, tender quality to biography and autobiography, even their tragic aspects, which in its own way is a return to or at least hovers near 'once-was-innocence'.

Filled with longing and love for such strangely innocent times, hysterically preserved yet always failing to perfect, the all too human characters encountered in the film are interpreted through Fellini's once-were-youthful eyes in the throes of beginning adolescence, sexual and emotional storms toward and against the familiar now turned alien and disturbing; even the city Fellini grew up in is a character in the film, and Italy, too, is a long sigh fraught with emotional resonances, humor, horror, humility and humiliation, overwrought ambivalences of clashing developmental phases from boyhood to teens in a now shining terrible world which beckons, flatters, mocks. Fellini achieves all this via cinematic symbols simply and beautifully conveying textures of the time, emotional layers of not yet at war fascist Italy wherein people are evolving, too, as is Italy, at various stages of their personal and collective lives:

the blowing spring blossoms, and the falling snow,
the sex-crazed madwoman scenes throughout who
has her place, and is made a place for, in the society
of seaside town; Gradicia, the sacred prostitute,
important to matters of State and of stuttering male
desire of all ages, whose marriage at the end of the
movie heralds new beginnings for all; a motorcycler
as Time, too, zooms in and out of the movie punctuating
scenes throughout;

spring blossoms which open the film return again at
the end as the ubiquitous, blind accordion player,
Time's other disguise, pestered by the young brats
pulling at his tattered hat, plays throughout the one
year which the movie documents.

From such the above, somehow, we see even our own lives documented onscreen though lived in other places and in later times, the present unfolding with humor and compassion in the midst of tremendous befuddlement and pain of growth and loss and growing into the facticity of loss which one can hopefully learn to no longer take so personal.

Fellini presents the fascists in the film with compassion, not forgiving the fascists but renders their pathetic image in their being gripped as Italy was by the negative side of a power archetype making them fawning ass-kissing, ass-kicking clowns, victims of grandiose national delusions of a mythic Golden Italy rivaling Hitler's German 'Reich.' Fellini does not mask the saturated threat of and actual violence of fascist Italy via cinematic sentimentality or nostalgia and a desire to rewrite the blood-thirsty shadow and reality of lived history. One feels pity, disgust, even love, for a crazy culture trying to come to grips with the clash of medieval mind with that mechanical 'scientific' promise of Progress come via 'modern' culture, human madness and evil being (and continuing) in the use of modern machinery for still ancient/medieval torture, control and warfare. Madness, indeed, and even more present in this new century and Fellini addresses it understatedly yet clearly scene after scene, human meanness amplified mechanically, all the promise of silver and metal unsettling private and collective minds which eventually overthrows an old order for an uncritical use of the 'new' which brings 'an old [and all too familiar] chaos of the sun, ' bled and bleeding toward the always profligate sea, to quote and add to a phrase from poet Wallace Stevens.


Amongst many memorable scenes, the most profound scene from my many viewings of the film which sums the striving for normalcy within the madness which was sweeping Europe and the world in the 1930's, comes when one of the film family, the schizophrenic brother/uncle of the papa and nephew (the nephew is Fellini as an adolescent) , climbs a tree on an out-of-the-asylum family picnic. As the day is late and the family needs to leave the countryside for the city, Tio, the uncle, refuses to come down from the tree where he begins to loudly shout for hours over the quiet farmland and fields,

'I WANT A WOMAN!

I WANT A WOMANNNNNN! '

Heartbreakingly funny, human all too human, yet his deeper sanity is revealed in his call for the healing feminine, the sanity of desire, his coniunctio (consummation) coming in the arms of a tree, and rocks tossed - symbolic cajones (testicles) ? - plucked from his coat pockets to keep so-called 'saner' interlopers below at bay; he, the love-mad one, at sway in the supportive embrace of the feminine tree. What restorative vistas could be seen from up there above the world of tearing opposites, of sane and insane, of good and evil? In primeval arms, innocent, Tio returns to life, wants a wife or lover in the midst of personal and collective destabilizing emotional/mental/political storms o'retaking the 'civilized' world.

Who is 'normal' here? The scurrying kin below, the hat-biting tantrum-throwing, impotent brother or 'Tio Toto' obeying his pecker's call for union, lightening his load, throwing stones from his threadbare but ample pockets, full o full, upon the glass house of the loo-loo world spread out beneath him, a 'pisciatoio de nero'** in Zero world [**'black pissoir' in Italian]?

I'll take his tree any day, pockets full,
balls full, a tree for a lover...run for cover, 'Sanity'! !
Run and hide in your fascist world!
I'm throwing stones for love!

I know. I know. I'm swimming backwards
in the sump. Pulling at stumps now forever ensconced.
Picking my nose during the apocalypse, or thumbing it,
I sing out loud with poet/minstrel Leonard Cohen,

'Take this song and shove it up your culture...'

I am actively dreaming of the day when I can get to a cabin, some woods (or Tio's Tree) , or a Mexico mountain crotch where I draw water from a deep artesian well, bathe under night stars swelling in night-mirage heat vectors from day-heated earth making giddier stars dance...

my vocation then, to porch sit, to write, pick up my paints again, hike/walk/wobble, squabble with the 3-legged dog who's meanness knows an evil gringo when he sees onr, his name is 'Trinidad' for his 3 legs (Carl Jung would love this for the 3 and the missing 4th which a wholeness - and a Western god - makes) , to cogitate, to more write, cook simple but tasty fare, raise some corn, and a little hay with the locals, that itch of skin for
skin embrace, Tio's primal call to 'sin' over and into the blurred sanity of the digitally hog-tied and corralled world too easily pixelating, O dust, dust

after all is said and done
the human body/mind the greatest and bestest machine of all.

Go back in time then, 'io recordo amacord, ' which is always circular as space is not linear but is spherical, and live as off the grid as a chimera,
an old man tin-can spit-cup in hand can without doing harm to self chewing
a niggardly weed tobacco growing wild in Mexican ditch and dale...

...I WILL need an espresso supply, definitely wine nearby
(or larders laid coolly in the ground for chill enough and preserving) ,
and a space large enough to contain mountains of books,
and to entertain those 2-leggeds - even Trinidad is welcome
to pant at my heels - who will come if they come for counsel,
dream work, talk story, dirty jokes...

...and side by side silent readings with an occasional 'hear this',
something then read aloud which becomes bread, heads nod
in agreement, smiles and meals beneath the actively witnessed
wheel of dancing stars gathering stones at dusk, filling their pockets
while climbing the Cosmic World Tree then, at apogee, turn downward,
fling those stones low toward dawn, the largest being the sun which
stumbles alone in the day-blue sky screaming,

I WANT A WOMAN!

I WANT A WOMAN!

in such male heat enough to light up/reveal the morning dove,
the crow, their sonorous responses to the Sun's Call,
different as they are, unconcealed...

what is revealed:

the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - to 'be gone!
no more! ' yet one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy turvy
heel worn shoes before the getting-into
cuz scorpions and spiders dwell therein,
and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found a shed skin on
my flower patterned pillow case with fleecy
lambs forever silently lowing as the cloth
grew thin from head wear, dream wear,
because I was once a sleeping man

(this happened
to me when I lived for 3 great years in mountains,
a 100 year old house without electricity, a well for
water, a functioning spring house where I could chill in
cold mountain spring water (a tributary of Dismal Creek)
my milk, my butter, meat n things - thick wiring and laden
plywood over the basin to keep critters out

...bathing
naked on the porch at night (so the shy mountains could
not see) from rain water gathered rhythmically from the tin roof tonal toks
and glocks in pots of all kinds) ...

Granted, young people would NOT want to live this way...
appropriate to their age they need all kinds of stimulation
which draws them OUT into the world from which egos are made...
I've been long drawn out and now, overdrawn, am drawn more in...
I be drawn in, not sketched, but stretched and kvetched as such state crotchety old men, or soon to be, arrive, their ire in retire crow songs
strong for not too too much longer..but damn it I'm here, such being here hurts stone stars into dancing, I'm cold! I'm cold! I shout up to them,
sun star tumbling old bodies down to dirt which is an exquisite
song of the earth...

I will listen as I do now to Gustav Mahler''s
'Das Lied von der Erde' - The Song of the Earth,
a poem cycle - pour a glass of red wine and,
hissing at the intrusive mouse in my house,
herald of death, listen and recover enough breath
to go on and sing my song, a tio tangled in tree
limbs the kind Van Gogh still somewhere paints,

knees sore which are now and always a call to prayer
to woo in my old boots when they and my knees make me
to existence/being adore, to which I have only just in a dream
renewed my wedding vow.

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