Still, All This Grief, And Trees - Elegy For Toni Poem by Warren Falcon

1
Still, all this grief, the trees
just below me blossom brightly
as the sun has burst from
clouds dark, such shine on
such fragile things,

new blossoms flung from
branches ripped to street by
last night's high howl (or
was that me)

even this urban crawl space
is sheer, is utter, brilliance,
beauty...would be blasphemy
not to say it, to give praise as
Toni's tumors grow so large
she looks nine months pregnant,
agonized she scratches her
body entire, a new regimen
of meds, toxic sure, that will
surely send, most probable
alas, her to death, clawed
skin red, gritted teeth working
out her 'what did I do? ' she
asks other day,

'what did I do to deserve this? '
I cry too, stumped through and
through, staggered, mute, holding
her, she struggles to breathe,
tumors press, evil evil tumors,
press her guts into her lungs,
less space for air, for life, her
entire body and the entire f*cking
crawl space of the planet entire,
nothing but grief, grief,

all grief and quandry.

Unanswerable quandry


2
there is still always the laundry


3
Grace, I can't, or won't, argue
but can welcome. Meanwhile,
Toni and tumors and the suicide
friend, the falling man who chose
such intimate relations to gravity
and end, gravity's end (such is
not a friend of mine but) betimes


I wonder if going on and on de-
spite eternal returns, or so it
appears till our sun goes nova,

blossoms perform for the eyes,
conform trees toward affinities
for seasons, rooted, they are
and remain in place, are places,
without envy of motion, they
even fall or parts of them do
which does not surprise the sky
or dirt, all hurt seems born to
every option, seems to some-
how know every plot


4
still, there,

ironically,

innocent as

they are,

the blossoms,

are close

They are

not not far


Look


5
Shivers in a park behind the
glass construction at Astor Place.
Weather man lies re: warmer
climes today. But let's say for
the moment I'll climb, or want
to, but might could decide to
deride the insistent obscurancies
perhaps I'll stridnet be forget-
full of the moments lost, the
losses a lifetime gathers, I'd
rather it not be so but as it
goes so it goes, come see,
come saw limb from tree heart
from these who've left willy
nihilly but occupants of mem-
ories, members rendered near
or almost, ghosted, a smile
a tear here in the chill creep-
ing to marrow.

What of tomorrow for now
I'm here verily elegiacal, un-
friended the feels, and I am
the longer than contracted or
contraction, in spite of others'
death I AM

underdressed, rife with loan
days, 'haps years, a'fever so
here sit weeping from cold
wind, nose running, me chasing
years afade with frayed rope
self yelping after, calling names
no answer, now a piece of
bread in the sack, nibble here
nibble there, bunched and
discomforted by underwear,
I stare at the writing hand,
remanded, benumbed but
pleading as proof old but
able enough opposable thumbs
but pleading to what or whom
I'll not, Dear Incomprension,
even pretend to proffer,
vaunt a venture, adjusting
buttocks and dentures, as
to the question, the afore-
mentioned quandary, suggest
names for the elusive blister
a sun, and stars too, does/
do make, but old baked
slice of peasant loaf in hand,
or beside in brown paper
sack, I'll name incomprehension,
afore mentioned just above
these lines, a cypger with
or without rhymne,

Bread Crumb.

I'll beggar rather than bother
the aeons long question and
endless rehash more a thrash
or thrush on the tongue or
in the throat...beg, please,
forgive and forget the mote
in the eye

I'll bleat if that helps
or bloat frozen on the
marble bench upon which
I'll pretend, not only of
thumbs opposable but
prehensile too fingers
do or can - wag,

In mind alone chizzle the
stone impervious to heat
or cold, names of those
head long ones whose
hands I held, in whose
eyes I have gazed and
theirs too, hands and
gaze gave, do give, life
enough and unsuspect
fondness realler past
and beyond projections.

Recalling these and such
abjection my holiday, be
swayed into distances
enough to linger content
enough while rough life
stings on but I'll cling to
what's held within and
spills from the pen here



trying to write by rashed
and frozen fingers, can't
read clearly through tears,
the here now, hear now,
though I should know how
to do that all and moreso
easy peasy, cycles of squints
and scries through briney lenses.

So let, now, all
verb tenses confuse themselves
for seasons


6
Grief, Mr. Berryman, not life, is a bore

So,

a bientot

tout et posible

I remain

prehensile

but tense


7
No longer on the fence.


8
I've chosen my side now in
loathe of edges. Not going
to hedge or even venture a
guess regarding the mess of
living but live by gods I will
though I may someday over
spill, fall, but hopeful still in
spite all or nothing, further
into life, become silence more
on purpose instead of this
discharge, this dread, in
urgent need of an edit.

But all's a final edit till the
credits do roll, finally, ,
as they say and it's read.


7
a reprise to that/these
what somehow, meaning,
know, what might take root:


till our sun goes nova

blossoms perform for the eyes,

conform trees toward affinities

for seasons, rooted, they are

and remain in place, are places,

without envy of motion, they

even fall or parts of them do

which does not surprise the sky

or dirt, all hurt seems born to

every option, seems to some

how know every plot