Duane Locke



    We travel through travail to find no trail,
    The journey to classic Cytherea or medieval Avalon.
    Places not on any honest map,
    Or copied by a historian from a contemporary chronicle.
    We might accept an invitation au voyage,
    Or travel on a drunken boat,
    But there was never prairie, crater, or destination.
    Only a buried meaning in our fantasies.

    What was wanted was an island without bells,
    Wristwatches, or surveillance towers.
    We were even foolish enough to want answers
    For our metaphysical and physical speculations.
    We often found a musical score, but never heard the music.
    Some praised Byzantine design, or imagined autumn had pleasures.
    Most settled down to live in fantasies of personal experience.
    The vision in its clarity became unclean; we are saved by obscurity.



    Will my memory commence with a trumpet call,
    A soundís celebration of an arrival. If so,
    What will arrive? Will it be an emanation
    From what was left between the iron bands
    Of old trunk now cobwebbed in the attic,
    This letter on pale blue paper written on
    By a dark turquoise ink whose contents
    Is now vague and inaccessible, as vague
    And inaccessible as when it arrived.
    Associations return, the wooden bridge
    Make from the trunks of cabbage palms,
    And the pond speckled with the gold eyes
    Of turtles, but when the images return,
    They return scrubbed and cleaned,
    The interior feelings that fused and invented
    The external images were not recovered.
    Now I find something picturesque
    With the grotesques of the actual living situation.
    There are so many realities, the reality
    Of a particularized and singular moment
    Of the past, now unrecoverable in its fullness
    Then difficult to encompass and grasp
    And the reality of the recovery of this moment
    By memory is unknowable but gratifies
    And exalts by it the very nature of its fiction.
    There is a wonder in what now
    Is the obscurity of the event, and wonder
    In the memory in which so much is absent.
    I could settle all by playing an imaginary
    Game of backgammon with David Hume,
    But I prefer a solitary walk of Jean Jacques Rouseau,
    And the study without a purpose or goal,
    The wild flowers encountered beside the road.



    We are born in our writing, and in our writing
    We disappear. Writing is our existence, and outside
    The words we do not exists., but our words exists.
    So to the ones that observe us and talk about us,
    The talk is about a fantasy they invented because
    We have never been present to them. Our words exists,
    But most who read our words cannot
    Make our words exists, and thus substitute their existences.
    To really exist and the only existence is our words
    Is a rarity, but not an impossibility. What
    A miracle is an existence. An existence can happen,
    But when it does happen will we know it,
    And if we know it, then have something equivalent
    To that ancient lie, heaven, here for a moment on earth.



    There is something of the occult, the genuine occult,
    Not the false and shallow occult of the popular mind
    And its exploiters, in each moment of our lives
    If we do not overlook by concentrating on a fantasy
    Or a falsity. There was the occult in the second
    when I kissed the eyelid of a women with had
    A dark I pigmentation on an otherwise
    Evenly colored, smooth eyelid skin, but
    There was nothing occult when she, really
    Believing, placed a magic eye in my yard
    To ward off the evil of my six cats. The occult
    Is everywhere, but the oculists, have turned reality
    Into a simplicity and a lie. Too bad, the occultist
    Were not deep enough to understand the occult.
    For if so, we would have had a better earth.



    I write, I write without preconception or foreknowledge,
    I just write, but I write to overcome, surpass
    The ready-made and received language of lies
    That is imposed upon all of us. I write, I just write,
    And then I read what I write. When I read what I write,
    I began to understand what I was writing during this moment
    Of writing, one of the selves that I am, or one
    Of the moments of a transitory self that I am.
    I read my writing, and this transcription
    Of a momentary, transitory self seems so wonderful.



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

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

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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