In The House Of Dead Skin On The Planet Purgatoria - Notes Elegiac Written During A Searing Illness Poem by Warren Falcon

for Josef - tightrope walker, dancer, eye glancer where I once and forever fell continually onto soft landings. My demands are over. I find you now in clover beds behind the Metropolitan, Temple of Dendor overlooking our search for the rare four-leaved still-common flower. You are uncommon always to me. I am the grateful commoner once supplicant at your heart's many chambered door. I am content enough.


Also, this piece is dedicated to Cafe Orlin, that down the alley place where for 35 years I long sat allowed my solitude and soups beside books and notebooks stacked, my sereptitious longing glances at the servers and chefs, the scrap-and-crumb-removers whose dark eyes lit fires and fueled at least a million words and imaginings (how much the breaking heart can bear astounds and resounds through the bearer forever) . Orlin has recently closed its doors for good or, rather, to go with some imagery in the text below, has folded its tent that daily featured the myriad circus performers of the East Village and Manhattan and the world...this place, one stepped down from the street to enter it, is where I once wrote my millionth epitaph:

'We shod our feet against what long loss of motion,
eyes downcast or boldly returning the stare?

Beneath each eye there's some familiar look we refuse.
We map our way to sleep in the palms of shy or frightened hands.'

Cafe Orlin, years of moments glad, sad, and in between, coffee spills upon expensive pages and poor ones too, uncountable and unforgetful smiles and jokes, aspirations and dreams, inspiring and aspirating as do all hopes seize re-size us all these that go all in with spice, grease, with Meditteranean glad tongues daily ensouling cycles - crumbs in beard and lap, breakfast, lunch, dinner - I will miss you as I-the-thinner become foregoing more than peasant repasts of sour dough endless dull knives of butter slathered upon, sprinkles of salt flung over shoulder for all
my spills, mindless drippings, and breaking the trembling china. SALUTE!


And to Jean Genet: 'So once again begins the three−cornered life in the garret which looks out over the dead, the cut flowers, the drunken gravediggers, the sly ghosts torn by the sun.'


Please pass through this poem but be not 'torn by the sun'.


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Lectio Divina

'There is no other source of beauty than the wound - unique, different for each person, hidden or visible, that every man keeps within, that he preserves and...he withdraws when he wants to leave the world behind for a temporary but deep solitude.'
- Jean Genet, from The Studio of Alberto Giacometti 1957

'It sounded vaguely like the kind of thing
Christ might have said if Christ had a sense of humor.
The empty bar that someone was supposed to swing to him
Did not arrive, & so his outstretched flesh itself became
A darkening trapeze. The two other acrobats were thieves.'
-Larry Levis, from Elegy with a Darkening Trapeze Inside It

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Ingressus

Sweep up the nightly flesh harvest,
flush 'I' silt down toilet with blessings
to underworld deities -

by me be they nourished enough, grant
(O grant me please) reprise and other
wants, blurt here, and bleat, (I am) your
meek hurt shorn to nerve, skin no longer
but what sheds cell by cell, I am to Hades,
Dis, Sheol, Inferno, returned, all too real
no matter the Name,

perhaps Dessication's the better.


How strange

wake up in these
sheets

feel my
grain surface-me

forced out
and off by what

within
seeks to free,

move about,
perhaps as mulch,

into the
apparitional

legs, arms

fill my street.

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The Night Watch

all night tv,
Catholic station,
awaken in
hallucinations Roman.

Father B. and
me giving
commentary
run on in Latin

upon 'revered
Saint John of
the Cross
imprisoned by

his very own,
the worst by
Deity though
remaining

Lover-at-the-brink, '
ward walker
feet first into
the world one

clinched fist
wishing to
reverse to

return

repair placenta
there drift umbilical
in potential always

on-the-way but
glad-stalled in
no-think little fingers

pink spider-curl
thread blue veins
do sift am-me-not-'Ich'*1



Lover, I'll struggle to rise for the proffered
Drink, (from whom? I live alone) , Real Presence.
I shudder feel mystical urge forge Dark Night
again that purgation again that emptying out
of once was meaning bereft again of all striving
after earlier seeking almighty rafter upon
which to hang again keep above the fray

but wins the nights and days sandpaper skin
when knees unable to bend ache elbows too
too raw-red oozing each move a pain a prayer
of sorts in what now is lair the old tv set
lunar again stares stark blind into monochrome
rearranges furniture, books on the shelf
myself too dismembers reassembles

(kingdom come
will be done again
that which is not
nothing but some
thing is the question)

redundant

Church bells near do ring the hour, or half,
hear them divide into parts that which is
more than me now strung now quartered

yes<>no

yes<>no

yes<>no

between chimes

dust is

can be

quartered

one finger cuts in

in traces

a thought last minute or sooner

soon, soon god willing

I'm a goner

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Prime

wake to Rome

the most handsome African face scars a startle on the
screen, in St. Peter's Mass for Prisoners, final mass to
conclude the Year of Mercy inaugurated, a year's worth,
by kindly Pope, to him I nod nap between Latin the mass
those masculine faces, prisoners leaning forward on knees

become dirge itself me as Demi Urge reveal voracious lust
exaggerated masculinity in full flower in agony, in humility,
what hands have done heat bidden to others remains a god
stain for this Mass the mess it is - that it is flesh and blood
that is eaten at the Table we're unable to escape the animal

nor the perambulating

spirit that crawls lurks lunges leaps toward some integration
once transcendence is given up, the hope of it, one's knees
hope at last or, as I am now for a year, on his back raw meat-
ed hairy, winter's lion caught out of season in insistent and

urgent corelatives.


An urgent corelative wake again a face pleads a kneeling prisoner
the camera adores as do I, O Face, his, familiar much, Saint Genet,
Our Lady of the Flowers*2, from pénitencerie France, more than
once sprung, the redemptive narrative there from his artistry


that mysticism of The Abjection

articulation in underworld the excoriation alienation
unimagined but experienced agonies primitive infantile

such must be inexorably conjured emerging unsought

but fated seizure

caesura
upon gut
soul eye
roll him (me)
inside out

why/how appease impersonal
deity hiding behind cold bars

doors demanding merge
love to flesh metal?


In answer perhaps in
bed stunned into sleep
by the question

in beatitude,
in dumbstruck,

a most beautiful boy,

Beatitude Itself,

in Vatican choir rapture,

soprano

sing crystal sing plaintive,

virginal to prisoners,
holy, pure, singing such

O replunge each criminal
each kneels into further
exile into further Glory
and me he weeping abyss
returned to skin and nerve
endings sheering cell by
cell raw my raw hands
long nails bloody matted
hair belly

is that smell the smell
of animal me captured
not the Unicorn but the
winter lion lying on sheetless
mattress gray yellow,
gutted self opened who
would be once again
caught in those rafters
whose only crime is to
live anxiously for church
bells ringing the here

to hereafter.

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Sext

A Probatory Reprise

This mid-day surprise. Freed!
momentarily, of course;
in self-imposed imprisonment,
in flesh, no divorce permanent, final.

Evenso, less brittle, a little, enough
now, take myself, Crustacian Man,
masked, the plain man, wall and
sidewalk shadow scuttle into

HUMAN world.


To brace myself, to soothe, I take Genet
with, him devour him consent, yet forbid
tears for the tightrope walker astounded,
his last lover, Algerian, a circus lad stretched
blooming in spotlight emerging into

rope-into-youth
and man-falling
a falling-man willful

imolation leap
luscient eventual
inevitable pale

impaler


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Coniunctio








[]___________________Le Funambule____________________[]



[]__________________The Rope Walker__________________[]








such are attempts (transcend via ropes and swings and rafters)
upon Palomino's back upon which balances urgent youthhood
in tights holding a gay umbrella over his concentrated head, his
bluer than blue eyes fixed upon some other-world-anywhere-but-here,
not hearing the blurred masses crashing against him-the-projected

that they need
and so feed upon
him torso
him balance
him stillness-dance
on the haunch

him unreal unseen
as real so him peel
down tights to
skin moon-white

each gallop each
bounce portend
him rope and him
fall at last into him
past which refuse
memory itself nor
need for recall (or
fall) especially when
the bereft remainder
the lover pins him
past to now-agonies

tender pinner he
remain reminds
him splintered
one to sing and say

of him splendour
of him acrobat
him ropewalker
him child/man
of tents
and stray
grave but
gay hint
there is more than a year
a moment in Mercy arms
legs breaths twined till twain
and pain doth them part,
lips forever part muted

too stunned in loss
to sound the repetitive
moment of him legs
and him white arms
flashing down

there is no sound then

but

him thud

just

one

more

than

enough

to

end

all

that


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[Cafe Orlin - Josef's Station]

Contemplation - Stations of the Cross

Down the brief street almost Spanish in intent and shade, I/he, Crustacion
Man, read Jean Paul Sartre's book, Saint Genet, difficult, dense, his own
transcendent tongue tightrope aspires/aspirates requires a specialist in
both levity and gravitas to ken, but one reads as one chants over, now, the
opening sore, or soar from rope into fire, discover there the soft landing
once breath puffs out, shoots through the tent, retains some depth, some
sanctity there or near or above ascending past circus, past tent, in the air
close above but also close behind the ear last breath a prayer between
shut eyes thinking finally shattered...such is the rarer art, soul's cost wrest
from cauldron lad/man rope taut beneath wobbly hope of all too human
wings which aspire to be mind heart sinew and sole, the drunken circus
band honking on on and on such is gaity and play staying crises while the
tent is secured enough the elephants slow motion sway the lad dances
raw on horseback or pony, pennies tossed beyond him to gold the center
hopes-us-gives that living's more than the stumble-and-stale but the he

rope______________________________________________________ walker

attempts, tempting us into presence-enough even as skin dries
from raw red to sand-sundered self-dust lying-abed shelter in place,

how much more scrape to get to essential bone?

my thoughts alone at a round table dark scarred of fork and knife,
how many lives in the alley to table taken to meals and books,
mistaken harlequin moments turning the page, turning the ruby,
the color at least, in the glass?

How can this reddening world not be loved inspite all glimpes
aheadforward to the last page, the backcover closing within a
clover there pressed, the paler lad/man upon the prancer, its mane long flowing spotlight glow in overflow, the moment movement illuminates, now, at last, until the circle's swept
at last, the flung pennies gathered.

Rehearsals unseen begin anew before searing noon topples
morning toward concluding shadows,

the band practices another
tune but always in the end a stagger, evening's adagio waiting

the curtain pull-back, the neighing horse and band when the
standing lad/man balances, easily it seems,

glad upon the tigher
rope or the cantering haunch, centers the miracle in the sky-blue

tights what lights the motion-maddend crowd-now-all-one-child
screaming -

Look!

no wobbling! no saddle!


the tent walls tremble,


for us he

pretends the miracle of never falling.


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Lectio Divina - Sacred Reading - Read > Reflect > Respond > Repose

['His defeat astonishes and overwhelms him, but he claims that he has doomed
himself since childhood... submerged in a ghastly present, he leaps, at the same
time, far into the future, turns to look at his dead life and finds it exemplary. He is
himself and the Other, as always; and, as always, the Other is imaginary...

...Hopelessness is its own hope. He creates a way out by himself; he is even the
way out; and he knows it. He knows that he is being observed by an invisible witness
who will come and lay his hand on Jean's brow and whisper gentle things to him:

'You would not seek me if you had not found me.']*3

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The Sacrifice - Misericodia*4

him Jesus

(the secret can be told,
him a believer was after all

despite
the cleaver)

executed between two prisoners, thieves of
lavender, appropriate much, thieving-grace in
graceless human world, Jean One Cross,
violets violently bloom from his feet, his hands,
the scarred youth a pastel still forever thrown
from circus mare, unstrung from tightrope dashed,
is hung stunned to be fallen, is raised upon the
other, each thirsts

why must thirst be hidden when it is thirst beyond
magic and illusion

though acrobats accomplish
much with their bodies illuminated in beams of light

but even they, as all/us/we, are incomprehending
of the word

'necessity'

needful things all three criminals we too crave
the vinegar sponge for drink, each prisoner
serves us, and who shall notice a last blood
wink with Him eye to a settling sum.

'Year of Our Lord' and all that, still another
lad climbs the height in darkness before
the beam hurts his eyes their pledge to
stretchedness between rope and ground
(and canvas) , but for screams' delight or
fear, with balance enough the end easily
near reveals each step that matters, each
breath emboldens defiant walks or rides
a pony's hide, or horse's, the rope is
straight, tight, horizon of coming night,
the course curves to trace trotters the
ringed romp is all design and mirrors
dividing centered magic from crammed
masses in the risers, a beggars convocation
of clocks unwinding, congregations of
dark birds flock the nearing obscurance,
the ecstasy at last beneath big top bent
on distraction though redemption beggers
most there in need of a latter

(but not
ladder
to rope
to swing
where clowns
times three
prevent
indiscriminate
ascents by
the all
too ordinary)

such rarely think upon any escape actively

still again
always

they do need
and so feed upon
him torso
him balance
him stillness-dance
on the haunch

him unreal unseen
as real so him peel
down tights to
skin moon-white

each gallop each
bounce portends
him rope and him
fall at last into him
past which refuses
memory itself nor
need for recall (or
fall) especially when
the bereft remainder,
the lover, pens him
past to now-agonies

tender penner he
remains reminds
him splintered
one to sing and say

of him splendour
of him acrobat
him ropewalker
him child/man
of tents
and stray
grave but
gay hints
there is more than a year

a moment in Mercy's arms


******

*1'Ich' = German for 'I' thus 'am-me-not-'Ich''is word play with 'amniotic' turning into
'am me not I [me]

*2Jean Genet,19 December 1910 - 15 April 1986) was a French novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist. Early in his life he was a vagabond and petty criminal, but he later took to writing. His major works include the novels The Thief's Journal, and Our Lady of the Flowers, and the plays The Balcony, The Maids and The Screens.

Existentialist philosopher Jean Paul Sartre wrote a book, Saint Genet, Actor and Martyr, 'about...Genet especially on his The Thief's Journal. It was first published in 1952. Sartre described it as an attempt 'to prove that genius is not a gift but the way out that one invents in desperate cases.'[1] Sartre also based his character Goetz in his play The Devil and the Good Lord (1951) on his analysis of Genet's psychology and morality.[2] Sartre has been credited by David M. Halperin with providing, 'a brilliant, subtle, and thoroughgoing study of the unique subjectivity and gender positioning of gay men'. - wikipedia entry 'Saint Genet'

*3This passage is from Saint Genet, Actor and Martyr, by Jean Paul Sartre, page 191.

*4 Misericordia = Latin for Mercy


Photo below of Jean Genet, author of Our Lady of the Flowers and many other novels and plays.