AN ANARCHIST UNDER THE ARCH IN ST. LOUIS
Since childhood an anarchist had cherished
The roots of hibiscus that surrounded his house.
This anarchist wore a Turkish turban
With a tear in the top circle’s center,
But only wore the turban on Tuesday and Thursday.
The rest of the week he went bareheaded.
The anarchist stood on boulevards
Looking for blonde crows with blonde caws.
Seeing none, he wrote protests
About his bent fenders in bank parking lots.
The anarchist had a reddened face
When he faced the fact he adored
The roots of hibiscus that held the hibiscus in place.
A MAUVE COLORED SPIRIT
Today, Thanksgiving day,
A day meaningless to me,
As all other holidays,
My inner spirit is colored mauve.
My mauve inner hands want
To change their color,
So these hands seek
To touch the fragrance
That emanates from oak leaves.
I know a change of color is possible
For once on Sanibel Island
My spirit turned from gray to gold
When I was touched by
The feathers of a burrowing owl
Who had just come up out of the earth.
TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK
I sit here alone
With a glass of Shiraz
Listening to something old-fashioned,
A clock that ticks.
Tick-tock, Tick-tock.
Each tick, a momento mori,
Each tick
Shouts
I’m a tick nearer death.
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
I listen to the ticking,
I would like life to be more intense
With not only wine, but with wine, women and song,
So I would not notice the tick-tocks.
Tick-tock, Tick tock
As I grow older,
The tick-tocks become louder than ever.
Tick-tock, Tick tock,
Tick-tock, Tick tock.
CLEARWATER BEACH AT EASTER
I watch young girls, quasi-naked,
Stand, giggle, on walls to pose for cameras.
In a few years, these girls wilt
After building nests in backrooms.
The prison walls, their mortgaged homes
Will sing the love songs whose lies imprisoned.
These middle-aged women will bare their asses
As they did when young, but no one
Will look, but turn to look at youth on TV.
So these prisoners will wrap an apron
Around their buttocks, hum an old love song.
A DRAGONFLY ON A CEDAR TWIG
Dragonfly, you are
The navel of the naked day.
Dragonfly, you have arisen like Venus
Out of the cedar tree shadows dark waters.
I gaze at you, navel of the naked day,
Think of what is above and what is below.
|
 Duane Locke
2716 Jefferson Street
Tampa, FL 33602-16200
| Announcing: THREE NEW BOOKS OF POEMS By Duane Locke
[Duane Locke has renounced print publication to publish electronically. Duane Locke has over 4,000 poems published, over 2,000 in print publications, American Poetry Review, etc. and since September 1999, over 2,000 in e zines.]
E books (all published in 2002):
1. The Squid's Dark Ink-$. 99
The Ze Book Company | ZeBookZine@aol.com
2. From a Tiny Room-4.50 Euros
Otto E Books (Spain) | guiam@wol.s
3. Death of Daphne-$5.00
4*9*1 | Stompdcr@aol.com | Walksfreeman@aol.com
4. Memiors of Damniso Lopez-$ 5.OO
4*9*1
5. Luncheon Duets or Solipsistic Solioquies
of George Samson-$5.00
Print Book:
6. Watching Wistera, paperback $9.95, Hardcover, #19.95
Vida Publishing | iod@ironoverload.org
Or from Barnes and Noble, Amazon
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[BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest is WATCHING WISTERIA ( to order write Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake, Park, FL. 33405-0665, or Amazon or Barnes and Noble). Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet and started submitting on-line, and since September 1999 he has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with 1,195 acceptances by e zines.
He is also a painter. Now has exhibitions at Thomas Center Galleries (Gainesville, FL) and Tyson Trading Company (Micanopy, FL) Recently a one-man show at Pyramid Galleries (Tampa, FL)
Also, a photographer, has had 116 of his photos selected for appearance on e zines. He photographs trash in alleys. Moves in close to find beauty in what people have thrown away.
He now lives alone in a two-story decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives isolated and estranged as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language (some form of postmodern English) of his neighbors. The egregious ugliness of his neighborhood has recently been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police force who put bright orange and yellow posters on the posts to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His alley is the dumping ground for stolen cars. One advantage
Of living in this neighborhood, if your car is stolen, you can step out in the back and pick it up. Also, the burglars are afraid to come in on account of the muggers.
His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.
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