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(page 84 of 93)

Terrestrial Illumination (2014) no. 258
Poem by Duane Locke
Previous (page 83)  |  Return to Contents  |  Next (page 85)

Terrestrial Illumination (2014) no. 258
Poem by Duane Locke

(page 84 of 93)

Keywords: eleventh transmission, poetry, fiction, photography, visual art, spoken word, film, socially engaged,
political, human experience, writing, satire, photojournalism, activist art, activism, socially conscious, art

Terrestrial Illumination (2014) no. 258

by Duane Locke

Someone I met
And who had mistaken me
For the wrong person
Invited me to drink with him.

He talked about the fun
We had together at beer bashes
When we were in college together.
I was never at the college mentioned.

He came to this place every five o’clock
To antidote the poison his dull work
Had spread through his anatomy,
He told me how lucky I was

After the wonderful drunken party he
Crashed the car into a live oak,
And the result he lost for life
His right eye lash. I was unhurt.

I looked at a wall fresco,
There among the Rhine Maidens
And their floating gauze was not
The dwarf, but Eros.

It was a stereotype painting
With a stereotyped Eros.
Eros was depicted as always depicted
As a baby who had just learned to walk.

He was depicted as overweight,
Partially deleted, with rosy skin.
He had rolls of fat on his upper arms,
No muscles, and his arm were short,

He could never throw a football
Over twenty feet.  Around his bald head
Was wreath of wax leaves, and he resembled
The baby Nero who would grow up to burn Rome.

Why this artist like so many artist chose
To paint Eros as a rose, I never understood.
It seems to me Eros skin texture
Should be that of a nickel plated hubcap.

Perhaps, my insight was due
To an apparitions of few silver sequins
Twisting on a nickel-plated pole,
And her spins gave the appearance

Of a snow storm in an artic region.
Spinning created an atmosphere of extreme coldness,
And it was intensified by her artificiality and simulation of life.
But we were warmed by an invention of the Industrial Revolution.

The drink buyer remember a joke
He was supposed to have told me
Twenty years ago, and in happy laughter
Shook his body back and forth.

More poetry by Duane Locke.
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