Treasure Island

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


1

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

some sense of home

those forms bursting forth

2

seal us in
ascetic fire -

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

3

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

4

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

5

you speak in circles
though loving squares

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

6

the pilaster speaks
loudly of days

dearer than wealth
the silence on the floor

7

discover the last image

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


die for more

this is life

8

the plain can do almost
nothing but weep

to turn my eyes away
destroys its power

the untamed fire

9

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

I am sad when I see you

10

your letters arrive fat
swollen with human form

they fly out from my palms

look around you

11

mind now
mistaken

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

12

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

13

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

me

and a clear mind -


the rose
are squared

white edge
of the world

ugly

sitting in
snow

14

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

15

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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