Tuesday, December 31, 2019

On the Nature of Daylight - Selah Upon Return to NYC after Two W eeks in France

Selah upon return to NYC after two weeks in France and 3 short sensuous days in Spain o glorious parentheses of days within too much halting along in urbanity...so many aftertastes meet the shock of the City. I am overdone happily run over with the whole of it to be parsed and partaken of in memory and find myself as I did yesterday in airport after airport (4 of them) trying to remain in France (Spain too) in the rain and river and tributary freshets saturated fields and vineyards (and roads) walking slowly with the swollen L'adoir (river) as soundtrack, the doves there too whose calls are unlike any I've heard on my sentinel East Village fire escape, the mud so cloying on my cheap boots trying to keep me there in most humble terroir so generous still for centuries and giving still, even an over abundance of water which I braved and prayed to with my improvised water laden walking stick, so relieved and grateful to be free of NYC money terrors and mindless manic pursuits of which I have no more use at all fall away fall away fall away all-o-that for me returning ever so slowly to pulse, and breath, and weighted meaningful steps and seeing (or trying to) the beauty in the quotidien offering in front of my nose and the rest of aging me. 
I did afterall sleep and wake to a monastery and church only a minute from my bedroom window, to that dove song choir of spatial shakuhachi tones syncopated otherly, and the chicken sqawks busy with dawn annunciations of the laying of THE acclaimed one and only egg of eggs (until the next one), the neighbor woman just yards away at other window singing softly as she hung her laundry out her window from a clever thin stringed, gray fade frayed contraption unknowingly offering me shades of veiled body parts laced or not, practically stitched and padded/weighted for certain parts, each is an interior castle to the one more than strongly hinted by the nearby monastery and church for centuries unused and unused still, appealing still to "archaic authority" (Julie Kristeva) but with enough dawn dove song and neighbor's breath paced melodies tenderly sung to cloth enclosures and supports, and so I am pleased to find then unexpected archaic (shades of the eternal) authority (not my overriding rote unconscious kind a bob bob bobbing along) sweet, enstoned (is that a word, just wrote 'sword') giving insistent weight to sublimity (how we do sublimate such indeed) to impress such upon me the coagulate dirt pecker nozzling at whatever's beneath the feet and beak...oy. And halleluh. To such and every I say, insist, 

Saturday, March 2, 2019

Evenso, In Spite Of, On The Other Hand - qua qua qua qua - Some Persistent Universal Multifaceted VERB Doth Geist The [W]Hole Of Humanity

NOTE: ONE - I have re-titled my post (see long title) after, now, 11 years of it being "Warren's Words" which was titled thusly by my friend Maria with whom I monthly published, along with mutual friend Joan, a newsletter. Since my pieces tended to be run-on and long we decided that I should start a blog for readers of my essays to link onto from excerpts published in the newsletter. Since I often spoke of etymology of words in my classes, my counseling sessions, my dream groups and my articles, Maria came up with "Warren's Words" as a kind of brand or trademark of much of my focus, words and the meanings of words and how they do indeed shape reality.  
TWO: Since there is no more newsletter to regularly publish in, and since I no longer teach regularly, etc. my writing subjects are more difuse, less formal, appear to arrive more aphoristically than linearly, which greatly reminds me of one of my favorite writers/thinkers, Samuel Beckett, and of his genius "Lucky's Speech" in the massively marvelous play, Waiting For Godot, a proof text for me for all of humanity's productions in Time, thus my new title, Beckett-esque and much of Lucky too, with a deep bow toward Friedrich Nietzsche, my funny bone and milk teeth toward the haunt of Deity always aching and demanding attention (and medication).

NOW: This, a loose synchronicity hovering around the Mike Pence/Theonomy riffs I posted on Facebook yesterday (you may read these rambles appended below this one).

There are alternative communities, socio-political mystics of various strains/hybrids in reaction to fundamentalists cults such are major world religions but it seems fundamentalisms all kinds are a preservative intent to "save" the original kindling archetypal spark/spur an individual encountered, shared, gathered a following who also want the same or similar encounter with that primal SIZZLE which, alas, always fizzles via adulterations upon adulterations of the original experience then the hermaneutics upon hermaneutics and arguments thereof.

These hermaneutics/interpretations are alway subjective though there are proclamations of so-called objectivity via revealed revelations experientially, orally passed on, written and otherwise....evenso, in spite of, on the other hand qua qua qua qua, some persistent universal multifaceted verb geist's humanity, if not Creation Entire, and so space and time bludgeoned individuals try to, attempt to, parse and describe this essentially ineffible VERB, not an IT but an -ING (as in be-ing/exist-ing) always mercurially flashing various facets/guises then disappearing into opposties and on and on and on so what, what, Virginia, remains to be said of that which ghosts/haunts/taunts human consciousness since its inception (yes, Virginia, there is an origin and history of consciousness)....

...all this above is to say this poem arrived today, not an earth shaker or star breaker but has some "say and sway" in it, in Poem-a-day, an Irish poet, mystic, activist, peacemaker from the Corrymeela Community of Northern Ireland (never heard of till this morning when poem-a-day arrived in my inbox)....

The goal and the grind (to use a word from the poem below) is cultivating and starting over and over again and again a healthy enough, honest enough, earnest enough relationship to the shadow, personal and archetypal (the personal is born of archetypal shadow). Shadow, the word, the concept, has made its way into media and common (enough) vernacular which is a good thing but it also, the concept, the word, like all good things, is adulterated by use as concept and word but who, really, is actually seriously doing shadow work? thus the "sin" of projecting the shadow instead of owning one's own curds and turds of it, AND the numbing/deadening/depotentiating condition of glibness about a very real and living psychological reality, the Shadow, human and Divine.

So, Theodore Roethke questions in a poem, "Was I too glib about eternal things?" This question also extends to psychological things, especially the Shadow. Yes. It's easy to talk about it, write about it but to actually do the daily grind and humbling humiliation of the work is another experience altogether. All too easy, how well I know, to project that shadow outward, and I daily/hourly do, instead of find, say, my "inner Drumf n Pounce" or who/whatever...thus I/we war with shadow 'out there' (and, yes, we must when it becomes a leader, a celebrity, a murderer, a hero or anti-hero, etc.) but there is the more important inner work with shadow. We need shadow workers and sin eaters (google it) now, not bliss ninny light bringers who have transcended (bypassed) so much so that they dwell, or so they think, with the angels, change their names and language games (google it) to reflect such, flick their shadows away - "namaste olé" - (for others to carry and work with when they need to do their own work) with spiritual sleights of hand and hibbity glibbity magical words they believe can dispense - "namaste au lait" - shadow into vapor (but actually transfers it upon others to carry and work with).

The point is, do your own shadow work while working collective and cultural and political manifestations of shadow at the same time (I'm preaching to myself here, reminding myself here to do the hard work of shadow work while busy projecting and preaching thumb and forefinger flailing and wailing (wankering often) away at that one or those ones out there, much evidence too, who are our collective shadow carriers we've "dreamed up" from Presidents to Columbines/Sandy Hooks, Iraq invasions, the whole sorry tragic lot of human history (though we got and still get some good music, art, books, music, science, etc. from the the mess n muck of civilization (syphilisation mostly) - read Freud's 'Civilization and Its Discontents' viz the contents created/born of the conflict that is human consciousness which creates/over spills into 'civilization'.

Carl Jung believed that individuals doing shadow work in good faith has a more efficient mitigating effect on collective manifestations of shadow, the Hitlers, Putins, Trumps, McConnells, Kavanaughs, Netanyahus, et al whom we collectively dream up to do our dirty work...cue instructive Steeley Dan tune here, "I'm a fool to do your dirty work..." To each their own dirty work done in good faith...in so doing, person by person the collective and, yes, the Shadow of God is transformed gazillion light years ahead unless there is enough folks doing it and eventually speeding that process of integration up.

More of folks like these, shadow workers, sin eaters, please, instead of Pencetawny Phils who are afraid of their own and collective shadows so go back into Fundamentalist/Evangelical/Reactionary holes in the ground (their heads up OUR asses) and shout shiboleths and sanctimonious slogans about their own shadows projected upon others...or go into mystical bliss ninny upwardly vertical (aka schizoid) splits away from material incarnate reality into light, into air to dwell and view from way up there with no shadows at all (they think, pray, hope, believe, they have escaped). OY. Many ways to escape the ground but results are the same.

Some years ago I read this about a notorious, eccentric and brilliant psychoanalytic mystic with a Jungian bent, and this was clarion to my own turning away from spiritual bypassing:

"Peter Redgrove's account of his therapeutic work and apprenticeship with the late John Layard, Jungian analyst extraordinaire. Redgrove writes:

Very early on... I was lucky enough to meet a great and widely known analyst, John Layard...a striking man, in his late seventies when I met him. He had snow-white hair that was worn long and flowed over his collar like steam boiling from a pot. His face in repose had a profound listening quality, and he was very tall. In the centre of his forehead, just above the eyebrows, was a small, round, skin-covered hole in the bone, like a third eye-socket. It was a bullet-hole, from when he had once tried to commit suicide, and you could tell if you had managed to interest him because it would beat with a pulse like a drum. When he knew you well, he would take out his denture for comfort, and then you could see that when he was absorbed in what you were saying he would salivate copiously...he told me he was a sin-eater, and that was why his mouth watered. I protested in the name of common sense; he replied, 'We've had enough of that. What we need is uncommon sense.' --pgs xiii-xiv, from the "Introduction," The Black Goddess and the Sixth Sense, Paladin Books, 1989"

A long, too too long and verbose intro to this poem that arrived in my inbox this morning, an excerpt:

And on the first day
god made
something up.....
....girth and grind
and grit and shit and all shit’s functions;
rings inside the treetrunk
and branches broken by the snow;
pigs’ hearts and stars,

Sunday, December 2, 2018

Warren Falcon's poetry at Poemhunter.com linked below

You may find my complete and ongoing oevre of poetry at this site online:


Photos by Warren Falcon - Photographed in Keene, NY
[all rights reserved to him]

From childhood our song: 

Hurry awake sleepy bee 
Softly sings the breeze 

To sweetness we are called 
when the sun high shall be 
freshened with tears our departing 

behind the barred door wait 

a lock of wound hair 
silk pouch of my gated heart 
it will be a hard arrow to pierce it 

What Can This Day Be Said Of Remorse

I live at the bottom of a hill near a 

broken fence beside tracks of steel. 

On the other side a stream moves upon itself 

not confusing itself as ice for rocks alone. 

A memory in the sound of water, a dazzle of 

sky takes a silly surface tone from what runs 

beneath outrunning rocks because it can; 

desire that force which drives the sand. 

The movement of water too is undeniable, 

solid in its course though sand, as does water, 

knows nothing of remorse. 

At the fence I wait. No train yet 

which will be a movement, too, beside 

the wet, and these thoughts here. 

That you are tissue essential and fabric 

to my own particularity. 

I send you a sound wonder, a welcome again 

to that place you dwell here within, 

Time the only disparity. 

Snow on Telford gravestones, tall 

houses on cupped hills in squared 

parcels back lit with sunset's down-light, 

juxtapose a Wyeth isolation and beauty 

which is the dutiful image of you, heart 

breaking through remembering our first meeting. 


Which is the dutiful image of you? 

Heart broken remembering the first meeting, 

then the departing? 

The distant gazebo of that small 

town wears white lights garlanded 

round, and snow. A boy without 

gloves reads alone. 

He is no fool who takes his time and 

place to know. 

I rediscover you a gift here still as 

I have in good counsel curtsied and coughed 

often enough, my own hand to my own groin, 

to discover a fissure again, again to repeat, 

that you are tissue essential still and 

fabric to my own particularity upon a hill, 

a house, one fence above a stream and rails, 

a blinking boy turning wet pages knows that 

you or someone similar, only a few years 

ahead, already familiar, dwells inside, 

compels his reading just before sunset 

squinting at words beyond and past the 

fence and the stream, the train late, 

footprints dark blue in the patient drift. 

Does not it all bear 
the familiar arc say 
of just-dawn color 
mauve-play at the liminal 
curve where sky beseeches 
bounded space to give 
its shapeless-nest a 
Cause, a nape conformed 
convex from Orbis what 
has been scored by breath 
pressed upon it? 

Who then falsely may decree 
any matted clot, spark-charged, 
blood engorged, who may not 
body-charge ahead and into 
'other' merge so must be flung 
expunged behind neglected Moon 
or plunged through the bruised 
ring of abjected Space? 

Hear me now 

Thrice trace 
an outline 
Give form to 
now dust me (I am)  
awakening surprise 

Here me how 
and there 
and yet 

there again 
after hammers 
and hosannas 
outward turn 

Warren Falcon November 24, 2018 - Keene, NY

Monday, October 22, 2018

When computer hijacks texts & makes cyber cuneiform cyphers - homage to Kahlo

Frida Kahlo. The Broken Column. 1944. 

....when you read this below


read "Frieda" or "Kahlo"....on the other hand, yesterday I went to work on a long poem since 2011, "when fishermen cannot go to sea they mend their nets", about Frieda Kahlo, her image and images and the ongoing collective imagination of her, the event, the phenomenon still ongoing/unfolding in progress and when I went to the site to read the text over before any future tweaking slash and burning came upon cuneiform translations, better than what I can write...thusly:

Here is "the Greater Relation" perfectly rendered. Find the hidden word which surds the calligriffins...why is the one word not rendered into glyphics? only Rilke knows....but the one word appears to be an ongoing ancient "hint"....

The weak translations of cuneiform revelation follow...

"All isreflux."
First "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."

compensations for blood-, 
earth-, carbon-, metal- 
deities. Incorporating Sky, 
an edible notion the more 
potent, sacrament of plants 
- fungus, febrile root, vine, 
leaf, pulp, spore, entire 
chemical choirs of angels 
gather in chew or brew, puff 
and spew, fiber fever swallows 
Uroboric Fractal which are
not so inclined to give us
ourselves utterly given this 
parity of storming  
exacting deities

"All isreflux."
Second "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."

Arab gift of the non-alloyed 

Zero unmeasured by mass, a 

better name for god depending 

on thermal history's twisting 

vector, ghostly mirage, if 

any are to be had - the base 

in spite of or within the 



the blacksmith heart hammering 

verdigris, chambers, ventricles, 

into shape, Newton's grave conju

gations, living time solidified, 

hardened, stiffens into dilute 

renderings base metal, chaste 


chasing plutonium wire unaware, 

bears the blunt end at the end 

the Aeon of the Fishes still 

barely beyond Bronze Age's just 

sharpened edge fluted, preferring 

obsidian one hacked, chipped, 

scraped hard flint


volcano born into conjugal vessel

Quetzal plume conjoined to Serpent 

skin extension of crash, returning 

God, boat, and horse delivered from 

the red beard of the bloated sea 

confronting yet one more deity 

requiring blood-canvas attempts 

failing to distill, to come to 

terms with what happened to her 

at 16 years of age, piercing metal 

violating flesh 

newly woman, turned her into some

thing completely utterlyastonished, 

livid and unforgiving pain burning 

her to vapor, yet, still, each  

canvas she falls ever backward 
within the cruel alchemical vas

glass splinters into 

unrelenting nerves, 

encased steel-plated 

Virgin takes a 

cyclops for lover  


[screen shot photo of papal mass for prisoners at end of 

Each viewing of a Kahlo painting 
a viewing of her life, body and soul, 
its alluded metal serpents, cyclopic 
hulking male tyros (Rivera, Trotsky), 
volcanic, engorged Titans of Malinche, 
chingares (goring ones as the bull 
gores hungrily) swallowed, too, hoping 
both to remain and to break free of 
Her, the Great Saurian Mother, Plumed 
Serpent, Quetzalcoatl, inherited deities 
extracting from Kahlo and Mexico literal 
blood, for paint is blood too, gashes in 
brush strokes she could never quite 
conceal/congeal (and thus her paintings 
turn hemorrhage to good purposes), 
becoming herself the clot, her flesh 
an unwitting tattoo of existence's 
beautiful and terrible forms. A life 
with needles, stitched, she pitched 
repeatedly into the long throat of 
the Alimentary Great Mother, 

Uruboros tail-in-mouth, recreating 
Her self in hard passages, throat 
to anus to birth canal and cave, 
galactic center point waiting perhaps 
at the other (no) end, carbon jesters, 
angels teeming on Quetzal quill tips, 
twinkling fires in the pitch, sometimes 
called stars, or ravens, black heralds 
of colors yet to brilliantly come.

Still, such timidity ends in engorged blood, meat requirements, rendering vaporous sublimity too thin for fingers, why forks were invented. If modernity, it's forks and faxes, returns anything of value to us stretching into denial which is all our futurity, it is the return of images, official and unofficial, which return us in turn to our official and unofficial selves, limping shod or un-, ens-not-Ens (being-not-Being) as we are chafed to particular part-selves multiple-imaged as they want or dream to be - 

Who are we?

Frieda with her Twentieth century stifles a yawn and "stuffs the universe into her [and our] eyes" (a line from a poem by zen poet, Shinkichi Takahashi).