LIND, NO. 31
Lind, it has been ten days,
One year since you died.
My mind keeps returning to a night in Montepulciano
Where we together sat with Vino Nobil
In a bathtub while it was raining outside.
Next morning, we awoke to find
Wet wisteria flowers scattered on our balcony.
Now outside,
An old man,
Once the mayor
Of our city
Under the glass dome
Holds a jug of wine,
Is trying to sing a song.
But the moon stretches its arms,
Puts its hands
Over the old man’s mouth,
For the moon wants silence
On this dark night,
But the old man bites
The moon’s fingers;
He sings
His obscene song
With the blood
Of the moon
Glistening from his teeth.
LIND, NO. 32
This is the eleventh day,
One year, since you, Lind, died.
The neighborhood is excited.
All are out with shovels,
Digging into their backyards,
Trying to find where they buried
Their then unneeded eyes.
Their eyes are needed now,
A parade is coming to town,
A parade with many clowns.
Each clown will wear as a face,
The mask of a former president.
Lind, I will stay home,
For our streets will be overcrowded
In this city under a glass dome.
LIND NO. 33
One year, twelve days, Lind,
You have been dead.
People, who never knew you,
And are too obtuse
To know you even if
They met you where you were alive,
Are always giving me advice.
These people say, these sages, go get tattooed,
Live with tattooed tigers on your shoulders,
On your stomach, on your ankles.
Their growls will be your kisses.
The people say tack sepia photographs of the anonymous
On your walls,
And kiss their anonymous paper sepia thighs.
The people say
Go to harbors
Wait for cargoes of shadows
Who left bodies in China,
Shadows that can unboard
Without a gangplank,
Can turned the water into wine,
And walk on the wine to the shore and bead curtains
LIND, NO. 34
On this day, the thirteenth day, one
Year after your death, Lind,
My memory takes me back to Cottonello, Italy
When I was with you.
Down below the cliff,
We watched roseate clouds
Reflected on the rain water
That had gathered
In the indentations
Left by the tracks of donkeys.
In the present,
The city is festive,
Another parade,
A night parade,
People are running with torches,
To burn their shadows,
Sell the ashes at the charity art show
Sponsored by the noble guild of strip teasers
Who take off their clothes
To display their stock portfolios.
LIND, NO. 35
One year, fourteen days
Since you died, Lind.
I keep
Closing the door,
But the door
Won’t stay closed.
I keep locking the door,
But the door won’t stay locked.
In front of my opened door,
A father whistles
For his daughter to come
And bark
Until the ambulance arrives.
Prophets of profit,
Who hold bags of fees,
Wear ermine,
Squeak like the rusty hinges
On old plywood doors,
Delivering the message
That an ark must be build,
And a white dove in a gold cage
Be put on the deck.
In the front yard, Lind,
From a bird’s nest in a Laurel oak
Your wedding ring
Was hatched from a brown, speckled, blue egg.
Since the ring was not a bird,
The ring fell to the ground
To be stepped upon
Until all its feathers were broken.
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 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.]
1. Published in February, 2OO2, E book:
THE SQUID'S BLACK INK,
Published by Ze books (the publisher of poetry
For only 69 cents per book)
Contact: http.//www.blquanbeck.com.zebooks. Inquire:
NOVLNymph@aol.com or Ward708@aol.com
2. Published in February, 2002, E Book:
FROM A TINY ROOM,
Published in Spain by OTO' S E-BOOKS, http.//atotos.gksdesign.com/ebooks/locke or http://atotos.gksdesign.com/ebooks/buy1.htm or
http://www.atotos-ebooks.com
Inquire: guiam@wols.es.
Price: 5.60 Euros.
3, Forthcoming in April, 2002, E book:
THE DEATH OF DAPHNE,
Contains 50 poems never published before. To be published by 4*9*1, URL: 491.20m.com. Inquire: Stompdcr@aol.com Price $5.
Order the above through the internet.
[Duane Locke's 14th print book is still in print, WATCHING WISTERIA. Order from Vida Publishing via iod@ironoverload.org. Or order from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and many others. Paperback, $9.95; Hardcover, $19.95]
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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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