Sunday, May 21, 2006

3 poems by Noah Falck


Dancefloor Hieroglyphics

the fields hilly, the hilly fields,
fields of miscellaneous autoparts
where dad fell in love
where backgrounds became
the center of attention

later, drugs on dancefloors
with cardboard cutouts
with people in sleeping masks
making out

dancing has always been
an emotional construction site,
a way to rebuild body language
and smell those close to you
without seeming too strange,
too drunk, shining with glee



Cities of Untamed Sound

after the folk song ends,
your memory ,
a series of silhouettes  

the melody of light fizzling
under a neighbor's bird feeder,
a jet taunting the horizon.

It doesn't matter,
the moment a song dies
it's not finished inside.

It retreats to the part of the brain
where thick clouds reflect
static movements of sound,
climaxes triumphant.




Conspiracy Theory

But now, pizza begins with a song

on the jukebox breaking when it shouldn't.
Like a pepperoni olive patch on a plain sausage.

You are like a tobacco
stain of the teeth or a side order of breadsticks

gathering sweetness in the oven. How
the sunset remains the hue

of burnt crust dipped in garlic butter,
no one knows.