#adam falkner

[brainfreeze27]

[april-is]

April 28, 2025: Connor Everywhere But, Adam Falkner

Connor Everywhere But Adam Falkner

after Jericho Brown Connor on the four train, sports page rolled           into a drumstick.  Connor stretched out shirtless on the front lawn, a football propped           behind his head.  Connor laughing against the red brick of a café, head thrown to the sky           like a sail snapped by the song of a quick wind.  Connor in The Daily News: a balcony           mishap, twenty-four flights, faulty railing.

Connor through the bottom of a pint glass.           Connor through the crowd at West Fourth, a fistful of fence in each hand.  Connor through           the bottom of a whiskey glass.  Connor hobbling on a kickstand crutch, swinging           at stray frisbees, tree trunks.  Connor on Channel 7: a good-hearted young man, filled           with hope, always whistling. Connor drunk-leaning toward a woman at the bar, whispering           a smile of green lights across her face. Connor in black and white, frozen on a bookshelf.           Connor in the tire-gravel high note of a blues ballad, the scratch of careless stubble on another man’s           neck.  Connor collected cleanly into a shoebox.

Connor in the search bar.  Connor on G-Chat:           Invisible.  Connor floating in the corner of a cooler, tucked behind the last Newcastle.           Connor circling in a breeze above the Neversink, curling around the Hemlocks like smoke           in a dead room.  Connor in a porcelain vase on a mantle.  Connor in poems that have nothing           to do with Connor.  Connor sitting shotgun in the silent 4Runner on the way to his own funeral,           bare feet propped on the dash. Connor between eye-rubs on the couch before dawn,           flashing in and out like an old time movie, shower water running in the next room.

--

Also by Adam Falkner: Origin Story, 1993

Today in:  2024: The Mother’s Loathing of Balloons, A.E. Stallings 2023: To Be Alive, Gregory Orr 2022: A Metaphor, J. Estanislao Lopez 2021: Ode to the Unbroken World, Which Is Coming, Thomas Lux 2020: What Kind of Times Are These, Adrienne Rich 2019: Conversation with Phillis Wheatley #2, Tiana Clark 2018: Love Poem, Denise Levertov 2017: Young Wife’s Lament, Brigit Pegeen Kelly 2016: For the Confederate Dead, Kevin Young 2015: Awaking in New York, Maya Angelou 2014: when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story, Gwendolyn Brooks 2013: Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey, Hayden Carruth 2012: My Place, Franz Wright 2011: from The Wild Geese, Wendell Berry 2010: Love After Love, Derek Walcott 2009: To This May, W.S. Merwin 2008: Father, Ted Kooser 2007: from Little Sleep’s-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight, Galway Kinnell 2006: Crusoe in England, Elizabeth Bishop 2005: Dream Song 1, John Berryman

[lillyli-74]

I am overflowing with words I do not have.

~Adam Falkner

[larrygordons]

Realised I hadn't shamelessly plugged my redbubble stickers on my SAW blog which didn't make sense???? so go get that Sawtistic swag i guess xoxox

createdbychloe Shop | Redbubble

createdbychloe Shop | Redbubble

[spoiledsunflowers]

Please get well. Please do not stop moving.

Get Well Soon from Riverside Church, Adam Falkner

[liljester]

Sheeesh I didn't post in a wile, here I have some sketch with cuties

[hepatosaurus]

national poetry month, day 17

Origin Story, 1993 Your grandma says you look just like your cousin Frank, mostly in the eyes when you grin. They chuckle at the dinner table when there is Frankie in your hair, towhead cowlicks bolting into sky like strands of snapped hay. No one stays long on the subject, really – just the way he lives in your laugh, your funny faces, how he smokes like a ghost from your whistle. Once, your nan had to grip the back of a chair to keep from buckling. And he’s not dead. He just moved. They told him he had to. So he bought a blue ‘82 pickup & went to New York to “get AIDS and die.” Which he did. But not before filling his lungs with sky the size of God country & the new-fashion baptism of a sequined, hungry life. Not before flashing through a decade of open-mouth laughter & living room play readings, crowded apartment holidays & finally, the big breaks. Not before the coke parties & park muggings & good news to share with the boys & dinners at diners that let you run a tab & hard news to share with the boys. Not before beach houses wind-whipped with salt & memory, where they sit arms pretzeled to watch the sun steal into the other life. But that’s later. It is 1993. You are nine-and-a-half but going on knowing. It’s the fourth of July & everyone is here except everyone who never is. Your giggle lingers like grease on the walls as you float the hallway, dull murmur carrying on from the kitchen & there—frozen on the dresser, like a trophy & a prayer. He kisses you back. —Adam Falkner

[uaravsh]

"I am overflowing with words I do not have."

- 𝙰𝚍𝚊𝚖 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚛, When It Matters ||@uaravsh