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Warren Falcon

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

Where Dispose Of The Joke Of Bones - Minimalist Cryptics Sometimes Metaphysical, circa 1981

For two:

Agnes Martin, American artist,
minimalist painter extraordinaire

Elaine Bellezza, artist, too,
and traveler,
and early Anima-as-Fate,
and 'eye giver'

'Is that dance slowing in the mind of man
that made him think the universe could hum? ' - Theodore Roethke


off the square
in the darkest cell
where darkness is at its deepest -

some sense of home

those forms bursting forth


seal us in
ascetic fire -

and the cave become a dissonance
the lament on your face of saffron reddening


but the grids never are
little girls jumping rope

challenge circle words,

the self of rings

like a brown back

the empty form goes

extends outward

yet these words do not contain you


you have an 'element'

the word is ugly too
dearer than a son
cut cut cut out
the heart that lies

walking seems to cover time

the summit is rounded

outline of a foot on a rock


you speak in circles
though loving squares

when I cover squares clad in ashes
are all questions then mother of pearl


the pilaster speaks
loudly of days

dearer than wealth
the silence on the floor


discover the last image

how skim the ocean of brine
you wear on your face
that gray weight

die for more

this is life


the plain can do almost
nothing but weep

to turn my eyes away
destroys its power

the untamed fire


between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear

I am sad when I see you


your letters arrive fat
swollen with human form

they fly out from my palms

look around you


mind now

dying flowers
not traceable

instead -

believe the sky is not so wide

it reaches forward

(let us pass)

it is a far cry

is pervasive

get rid of everything

only see in me a part


tell me now
glass-handled knives
I'm not clear where we started


the pagoda and the spire
poke the eye
I once understood you as
articulate who couldn't stand

now knowledge is less and less to


and a clear mind -

the rose
are squared

white edge
of the world


sitting in


where dispose of the joke of bones

one must feel the forms
bursting in the tranquil shade
the reality of virtual form
sitting in said snow

the beat of a wing we grieve
certain words repeating -

the world 'ugly'

and just is the 'plain'

what becomes of skin

what becomes of a lotus petal

it tears apart


believe the streets are blistering

Nature is the wheel

settle for less

some sense of home

those forms bursting forth

between the rain

whose throat is blue

like a wild fern is clear

they fly out from my palms

look around you

Submitted: Friday, February 19, 2010
Edited: Saturday, July 17, 2010

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