Tore Carefully The Edge, Open, Of The Thing - A New York, Perhaps, Story Poem by Warren Falcon

1

a New York, perhaps, story


drunk, again, postmaster/
mistress deposits, months,
your long sent gift into the
wrong mailbox downstairs,
tenant of said mailbox on
vacation long away he has

only just arrived from Barcelona
only just got to his mail, found
your gift for me now delivered
at last at my surprised, happily,
gray door only just this dull blood-
shot morning making/waking
into migraine coffee cup which,
too, the flavor of, is flat until
the surprise knock, arrival, I
tore carefully the edge, open,
of the thing, which brought/
brings me still surprise, joy,
eyes, scanning in the images/
words and I am

greatly in the
entrance/in trance
of the unfolding
elusive eventing
of it.

Thank you.


2

Just to let you know

that

I have written, angry, a note
to the post office, this, delayed
gift arriving not on time but
timely, blame is no good thing,
yes, to waste on minor salvation
at the door

when two filthy floors below,
just, a note post haste, slipped
under my door, and posted,
the super, on infested tenant
door, yellowed paper, hand-
scribbled, declaring, pencilled
the now in-premised,

[sic]

BADE BUUGS

such tenement woes,

now go forth,
I, afraid to touch
walls, fast walk

wide away,
around, from
it, hard done,
the narrow
stair too close
it is, fearing
what lives,
skin crawl,
therein and
creeping

up

now

the

biting

stair


3

That said,

flit nearby,

I am in a thorough, now,
(enough) read/study of
that, your arrival, which
would have eluded me
as, once, a young man,
now yields, if one can get
through the densities,
immense, his/my own,

narcissism

but there is, clear,
some greatness therein,
it, manuscript, yielding,
for which Narcissus can
justly be stroked

and fond-ed.