AL FRESCO CAFÉ POEM #182
 
RENATA POEM:  THE BIRTH OF THE AUTHOR  #20
 
Trap set
To
Break
         The voice’s legs
 
Our minds
Set
     The sharp-toothed traps
 
We agreed
To
Step into the traps
Scatter
Our voice’s blood over
 
The parlor upholstery
And the affable fables exchanged
In after-dinner conversations,
 
Spread the blood even on
The plastic bowl of wax apples
On the table
Of simulated wood*
 
*This is a late poem of  Renata’s shoe period
 
 
 


AL FRESCO CAFÉ POEM #183
 
RENATA POEM: THE BIRTH OF THE AUTHOR #21
 
Approximate imprecise
Opaque
 
We agreed to accept
As the clear and distinct
 
Inexactness
Certified and celebrated as exactness
 
                       We wiggle
                       With our own hooks
                       Stuck through our tongues
                       Praise the absent fisherman
 
Hegemonic
counter hegemonic
                            Are our joy
Our toys
 
Once upon a time
After Lent
Or after paying the rent
                                   We
Had a sudden awakening      saw
We
Did
Not
Exist
 
        So we spent     the rest of our waking lives
Asleep*
 
*This is a late poem of  Renata’s shoe period.
 
 
 
AL FRESCO CAFÉ POEM #184
 
RENATA POEM: THE BIRTH OF THE AUTHOR # 22
 
Self-satisfaction
At Captiva
                Self-
Satisfaction
                  With an
out patience cocktail a churchgoer cocktail
A back seat cocktail
                              An eye closer
                              A nightcap
                              One for the road
In a wicker chair under a beach umbrella
 
Good cheer among smiles
                                       Smiles smiles
Smiles
          Let sleeping dogs lie
After the praise the celebration the proliferation
Of an artistic quack
 
No mourning black arm band around the part of the sleeve
That
      Covered barbell biceps and barbell concepts
For murder of art
 
Be as merry as the day is long
Gleeful about
The sense of virtue decorum prestige
That came from the closing of eyes
 

And following a quack*
 
*This is a late poem of  Renata’s shoe period.
 
 
 
AL FRESCO CAFÉ POEM #185
 
RENATA’S POEM: THE BIRTH OF THE AUTHOR #23
 

In the tenor’s
                    High C’s
The fire escape was found
 
Our hands had already been burned
 
My ashes caressed her ashes, or what is
Her ashes caressed my ashes.
 
In the intermission lobby where we stood
Hung a painting of a pastoral scene.
 
Our love left specks of ashes on the rug
With threads
That were a cracked white vase with roses.
 
With self
Timer
         Many photos
Of our ashes on the
 
Roses
 
And many many many
Photos of the
 
fire escape*
 
*This is a late poem of  Renata’s shoe period.
 
AL FRESCO CAFÉ POEM #186
 
RENATA POEM: THE BIRTH OF THE AUTHOR #24
 
Dove
Of
     By-
Gone
 
         Not gone
 
Aroint thee
 
Yesteryears contemporaneous
 
Aroint thee
 
     Times of yore here and now tonight
 
Aroint thee*
 
This is a very late poem of  Renata’s shoe period.
 

---

Duane Locke
Apartment 1011
Lake Morton Plaza
400 South Florida Avenue
Lakeland, FL 33801

Duane Locke has some incredibly sensual photo art around and the poetry to match. Duane is a Doctor of Philosophy, English Renaissance Literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, and was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. He has been published in such places as American Poetry Review, Nation, and Bitter Oleander. He is the author of 14 print books of poetry, and in 2002, added 3 E books, The Squids Dark Ink, From a Tiny Room, and The Death of Daphne. He is also a painter, having many exhibitions, his latest at the city art museum in Gainesville, Florida. Also, a photographer, he now has over 184 photos in e-zines.

His old biographical notes, published many time, are now obsolete. The notes stated that he lived in an old decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. The house was condemned by the city of Tampa inspectors, and after his living at this location for fifty years, he was force to leave within six days.

The forced move was due to the fall of the bungalow in his large back yard.
The bungalow contained a priceless literary scholarly library which is now under debris. An army of inspectors descended and decided he could no longer live in his home, so Duane Locke became one of the homeless.

The fall also crushed his car, so Duane Locke is car-less.

The saddest accompaniment was that his seven cats had to be sent to the humane society and his dog, Pookie, put to sleep. Duane Locke is now cat-less and dog-less.

As a transient, he is temporarily living, bereft of all his possessions, as an exile by Lake Morton in Lakeland, Florida.

• grafitti messageboard •