Scroll For New York City - A Son To His Sums of Eros & Father, Oh! & The River
memory
torques
into soft
teas
June
steeps
turns
steaming
said window
(and torsos)
said prints
views obscured
of nothing
in particular
or special,
but
troubles,
troubles only
of passing birds
enamored-of
(their lighter
bones)
or
are they
cloud and shadow,
merely the steep
sun declining ashen
into New Jersey?
occluded
silhouettes
contrails
glyphs &
Maxwell House sign
'Good To The Last Drop'
the familiar
cup for decades
tipped
tips &
one
(out-spilled)
drop
x 0 suspends
o suspends trembling
reflected in the water
river made of the many
countless drops
x (again) infinity
x (surprised) my
father there
(memento mori)
opening the
can all blue with
the same cup tilted
spilling that dark
brown dropp imprinted
x (the
dove, to recall,
brown, shaped like
said drop, now
flown, or) finally
spilled into water,
river currents
downward, to bottom
pulled sort/sift
my father always
complaining of grift,
a weather man by trade,
a cloud man once a pilot
WW2 drifting often since
enough into sky,
he turns
the silver opener
butterflied
round and round
with effort his
arthritic com-
plaints upon the
ridged silver top
of the can blue
with coffee
'course grind'
the better to drip
with within that
satisfying hiss
compacted air
hissing out
from compression
now released
the smell
then of coffee
fresh not yet
brewed in the
kitchen
the twist of
the edge jagged
silver metal
carefully turned
with fingers to
break the remain-
ing stem of metal
holding the round
to the can entire
unsealed now try
without spilling
the grounds
out
x at least 100 thousand
to guess having no
acumen with numbers
and math but father's
over
there in the cup tilted
over
spilling into
o endlessly
it's seams, it seems
from river bank
into memory which
is, already
over-said
overheard redundantly
as river
and time,
this one
now recalled
to Mind, dad,
dad
the cloud drift
and the flows
the tides beside
the city
both sides
is as ancient
as it always was
& is
as in the beginning
was darkness over deep
water & a word, any word
really would do it,
form something
out of deep, of
dark, of water
which shapes it-
self only by outer
circumstance,
in this case
a word
leading up to
this -
Palisades cliffs
above bridge tilt
toward, always,
currents,
the river
over-
flows north-
wards
tides rare defy-
ing the moon
that other pull,
you
live the other
side of
sand
the palm sewn
swaying adhered
to Mind
x 1
still, to pass the
time now
x 1
the sooty hand
x 1
over black
'mouth'
or word
allude perhaps
to river's at
city's start
up from water
the silver bay
capped, remembering
frigates
x countless
ferries torn
and Tories be-
tween seas
wars
vast to
the east
x duplicating
waves, stretches
the narrows,
the necks with
rocks strewn,
the lonely buoyless
waves over depths
their vespers
intone
once was laughter
spent
seeking out
between bodies
continents
valleys eternally
shifting eluding
rapture
x 1
whisper
contraction
of sentinel
bells against
each of each
reaching
x 2, the clappers
x 20,000
(of bells
anatomy there
is much to
say
(of the
elements,
zinc, copper,
tin, & more
while not for-
getting brass
more commonly
used)
of infusion
into cuppolas
the beating
the shaping
heat also to
be given account
amounts much into
bells conformed
gracefully out
in the end,
but only
as metal,
sharp tongues
blunted can of
bells then speak
tonally only
overtones inviolate
in violent swings
side to side the
hard knock shocks
into, quake into
belfry beyond
dance of iron
bronze overtaking
&
annunciant round
of hammers)
so many dawns
x so many goings
down of the sun
x fortune the lips
x myriad ones gone
before of murmurers
O lover
of thee
I adore
in timbre
thru the
window rings
the arms too
wring out
breath to
breath
x no more
embraces
into indolence
This, just to
reintroduce some
levity
for we (loves)
were many day-ed
x merry
we merrily played
harming no one,
not even the
mouse unmoved
perhaps, watching
perhaps, still,
still, from beneath
the god you insisted
be excluded from
all our nakedness
x 1 too many breaths
exchanged, groped
x many ropes all our
wanting
father loves
with his cup
his pipe songs
of love
of love will
he dance between
the violent fasts
from love,
our mother, with,
fast around around
& around the danced
living room
phonograph brass
loud plays
where June
curtains sway
me and Mr. Miller
(Glenn)
I stand behind
them the curtained
dancer entranced
entered into/
upon a mystery
how one could
be so, well,
swell, so
marvelous &
so cruel, (upon
one silver stem
hangs the metal
tin top jags
tears at
memory edge
opens facts
FACT
that there was love,
there was love after
all
I can see
it smell it
feel it there
dancing round
the living
one dropp Mr.
Maxwell holds,
hold on to &
upon goodness
brown pulled
from below down
& dark into deep
such this is
the riddle it is
all now become
since you
departed, love
since you
departed I shall
count backward by
3's then by 4's
these father
memories
torquing
the
door which once
embraced you now
never lets you
go
x brooms
or releases
now you, love
are new memory
hands emptier
sensitive finger-
tips filligreed
prints your
body hairs
sifted imprinted
touching softly
x all the x's
here accounted
for, listed,
besos as kisses
scribbles, notes,
letters,
no matter
the black or
blue tide
of thee
O lover
what
slips out
ebbs black
back into lapis
lapses into what
self is
uttered/poured,
scored trans-
parent upon
surfaces
faces which are
even
eyes which now
glaze with love/
loss
beside the flue
glaze upon the
pane
the black
mouse remains
stays,
is many,
a multitude
of petals
x 3
the jasmine
unspurned
at last
at last/least
O return
soft Junes
the lips of
which are
sometimes
pink, of
lavender
swollen, as if
to kiss
x memory
x Maxwell the
house the cup
O Mr. Miller
an O'Day serenade
plays close
...'Hi ho trailus
boot whip
boo boo daddy
floy floy'...
the late night
suppers of chops
the peeled onions
the laughter the
potatoes boil
& bubble in the
pot then
father
to dance
the butter in
the sizzle in
the cast iron
pan
their vespers
now descant,
descend
...'How high
the moon...
hungry
the
dish it has
all become
feast for
black 'mouth'
& mouse makes again
x 3 the antinomies
a string
of pearls
anemones
& thee O lover
bring all them
back, so many,
to me now
x Pennsylvania 6-500.
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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