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Poetry by Duane Locke

Word Trance no. 60
Word Trance no. 62
Word Trance no. 63
Word Trance no. 64
Word Trance no. 65
Published March 30, 2016

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Image for title.

Word Trance no. 60

Crowned, papier–mâché, pearls:  prenatal, memories
Of white-gold curls, rubies: shattered red glass fragments
From smashed stop lights.

Born into an asylum of air and puzzled stares, knowing there will be in
The future
Heron hoofs that turn the white sand into alphabets
That do not spell words but present transport,
There is always the feeling that someone is throwing in a towel,
Or perhaps there will be a Sabbath when sheep are asleep and shadowed
On their back twists
By a wizard oak.

It will all be mixed, daylight and its sweat digs a ditch.
The thistle that breaks apart will whistle wine.

The wax of oaths will melt before spoken into solidity,
The observant Noah will saw birch to build an ark for one.

I will own an undeciphered code that will be sold
To aliens as a many-colored coat.

When the tide recedes, the white forked tongues of cocinas will
Speak the coronation.

Word Trance no. 62

Winking tin roof slopped over case-history cobblestone street.
An exile from sunlight like the calligraphy of a slug’s streak
Slipped through dimness to brighten white sausage
In a town built inside a small German grocer’s show case.  Someone,
Someone, as if being baptized by naked priest, played on accordion
A melody of Ondine and mermaids.  In the melody was heard
Curlews signal with squawks a curfew for the fish.  Then a tune
When everyone cashed in and the casino closed.
I saw a pair of pink silk ballet shoes on the sidewalk
Bent in a triangular shape.  It was cold in the small German
Town whose name was unknown to me.  I watched
Snowflakes fall to turn oil-soiled cobblestones
In a sky sprinkled with white stars and a white moon
Although the time was noon and the accordionist was
Being more inspired.  He played a waltz from Old Vienna
About jasmine air blowing through blonde hair.
I saw on a thatched roof a stork’s nest with it strange
Gold chocolate color, and in the upstairs window
Candlelight and a glitter of Christmas tinsel.
A Siamese cat rubbed its fur against cedar’s spiky leaves.

Word Trance no. 63

It is contingent, whether contraction or expansion.

Brown-reddish half bottles without bottoms,
Rooftops seen from Boboli Garden heights,
Where a Venus with a hawk’s face ascends
In white marble with black tape gluing back
The right arm that fell to earth during summer storm.
A Medici adolescent probably saw her two-armed,
The Medici more than likely stared,
And then wiped his forehead with a Flemish lace-cuffed
White silk Chinese sleeve embroidered with an emerald fleur-de-lys.
On this umbrella morning Florence, Firenze,
Was a whisper with precipitations containing Egyptian ibis winds.
The espresso with grappa brought flutters of roofs
Like the wings of Cedar Waxwings happily drunk on yellow plums.

Word Trance no. 64

Knowing your own eye
Is like knowing
What playing card, Jack of Diamonds, or an Ace of Clubs trumps a
carbohydrate or a
Blind date.

It is rumored such an activity tempted nocturnal St. Anthony,
Put chorus girls out of work.
Alexandria had a library, Thais, and nearby austere desert.

Epictetus recommend while being a flaneur one should give intense attention
To what attracts the eye, and scribble in a notebook
If impressed, attracted, repelled, or indifferent.

The result of the Epitetus method will be self-mastery,
Or imitating King Lear
When he was a prince at age six,
Taking sandpaper and scraping off the black dots on white dice.

If an eye has a friendly relationship with the master of deception
And an expert at constituting or discovering truth, the human brain,
The eye can see a blocking wall turned into the oscillations of ocean waves.

Word Trance no. 65

Winter, lamb-white in Vienna, flaked snow
Fell on Johann Strauss iron violin bow,
Each Goethe marble finger wore a white wedding ring.

One wag watching snow fall, remarked, “Everything turns blond when
In Vienna, one exception-- Adolf Hitler.”

You were always blonde, a Slavic-Teutonic blonde,
Pastel olive skin, hair, white gold, a vocalize rather than song with words.

Our royal purple privileges, furred in winter Vienna, will be private diaries,
Never inked so never read, and now we are separated, shredded.

So today I sun my self-analysis and see that from my cuffs
Come newspaper gloves, not hands of flesh. So is impossible to unconceal skin
To touch your then Viennese skin.

The octopi candelabrum of Scheonbrun and six old Mozart gone.
Now, I swim through lights from fluorescents among the drowned.

Duane Locke, PH. D, lives hermetically in Tampa, Florida near anhinga,
gallinules, raccoons, alligators.  Has had published 6,967 different poems,
none self-published or paid to be published.  This includes 33 books of
poems. His latest book publications are
Duane Locke, the First Decade,
(First 11 books—Order from publisher Bitter Oleander Press
or Amazon---YANG CHU’S POEMS). Forthcoming:
Visions from Kind Of
Hurricane Press;
Terrestrial Illuminations, Second Selection (Sorties) from
Hidden Clearing Books. 100’S  of his poems can be found by clicking Duane
Locke on
Google. He has had 545 photos published, and his visual art can
be found in museums and private collections.