Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A Poem by Duane Locke


What exists, the alterity, and even one’s self
Can be converted into off-white colored ashes with dark edges
That are crumbling into oblivion after a burning at a steel stake
By an auto-da-fe of the human mind that believes in the absolutism
Of either common sense, reason, logic, mathematics, or the occult. All this
Is unknown to a giraffe stretching his neck to reach a large
Leaf in shape of a parabola, or a giraffe that is painted as
Dancing on piano keys and playing Chopin. We lived
In a world of chaos and order, either not understood, and talk
About things we have never seen: Greek Temples, Italian olive trees, Utopias
And Dantean paradisos—that even if looked at or journied through
As a tourist we are were not seen. We assume from scientific hearsay
There are flurries of particles and their hurricanes or siestas keeps
Us alive. Some believe, some blaspheme, both only antics for the sake
Of being picked by the thorns when kissed by the petals of die
Nemandsrose (Paul Celan).

Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga,
gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.
He has published 6,680 poems, includes 29 books of poems. His latest
book publication, April 2012,

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