Tio, Losing His Sums, Ontologizes 'what Has Become Of Me' Poem by Warren Falcon

'The world of dew is
a world of dew...
and yet...
and yet...'- Issa


Y que? Yet what?

I am a cabin

some woods

Tio's Tree

a crotch mountain
in Mexico

I am drawn water from
artesian deep well

I am a bath with night stars

I am swelling in night-mirage

I am heat vectors from
day-heated earth making

I amgiddier star dance

bathing
on the porch at night
(so the shy mountain
cannot see)

I am rain water
gathered rhythmically
from the tin roof tonal
toks
glocks in pots all kinds) ...

I am

porch sit
write again
pick up
paints again
seek the missing

EAR

hike/walk/wobble
a patch of canvas
dirt squabble
(I am)the 3-legged
dog his name
is Trip
(the missing leg)
whose meanness
recognizes evil
stumbles when he
sees me

me (I am)neck hairs
fiercely rising
I am gums drawn
exposed teeth
the terrible tongue
sound of fear
the hunger pit
the stomach wants
wants
the burn there
the dejected bone
tossed to the heap
the creeping past
the field's edge
the burning stalks
the tin can bent
beneath a child's
bare feet playing
the brown eyes do
not see

the worn chain red
brittle in dust lost
without locking
embrace of gates
doors the sweet
child whose name
is known only
from her smile
the bruises
her arms tell
something of
what is sheltered

the squat house
always smokes

the valley

the dry arroyo
trace

snake crawl and
vermin chase

I am the food chain
NOT rusted
brittle the war
is on unseen
real beyond the
porch the tin
above groaning
witness for me
asleep

the hammock
leaves grids
on naked skin

I am the dead
weight the
sleight-of-hand
of eyes shut
the unseen battle
only a dream I am

the wasted

the water gathered
from dew the few
drops winking
in the web

and yet the
black spider and
yet the dawn
and yet still...still
it (I am)

yet waiting

as such
state old men are or
soon to be,
arrive
their ire in retire
crow songs
strong for not
too much longer
pour out red wine
hiss at the intrusive
mouse herald of
The End in
alto sung (I am)
an old man tin-can
spit-cup in hand

can without
doing harm chew
a niggardly weed
skunk tobacco
growing wild(I
am) in ditch
and dale
cogitation to
more write

I am cooked simple fare
the raised corn
the little hay the locals
play that itch of skin for
skin embrace Tio's
primal call to sin over
into (I am)the blurring sanity
of digitally hog-tied
corralled world too
easily pixilating O dust
to dust after

all is said/done I

am and so run on

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

I am 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