Hidden Door

A LEAF SPINS, LEAVES ARE STILL

Some leaves, a few, spin, others

Although close by, even touch, stay still.

A moth, speckled varied sepias, flies

Through V opening of oak twigs,

A map in sepia of the sunk Atlantis

On his slow moving ragged wings.

Nothing in nature corresponds to our

Man-made laws and bureaucratic

Shibboleths, even the Sabbath.

Our proclamations and behaviors

Are never copies, always originals,

Based on neural fantasies, fantasies

That have no correspondences anywhere

On earth. So strange, this man

Whose basic nature is to be a slave mentality,

Is loyal to and celebrates a master,

An owner, who does not exist,

Creates a society based on non-existences.

Philosophers would say he lives

By his invented epistemic facts

Based on his ontological subjectivity.

Man spends ardent effort in research

To imposed his lies, his laws,

On what is outside him, and

Thus falsifies what was real.

The wasp now dancing on a tree bud

Will be given a name that does

Not describe, or fit, or mean anything,

And his action will be classified

As something else that what

Is actually happening on this earth.

MAUVE MIST

The mist is mauve, and the mist

Is false. The mauve mist arises

Upward to cover the pants cuffs

And an ankle bracelet of a gold

Seashore on a thin gold chain.

It was the scene presented to me

When I child to as a simulation

Of love. It was the cinema wisdom

That oozed through our skin

And with its needle to tattoo our blood,

Left a mark that a million circulations

Through the heart could not purify.

A trace of The mauve mist colored

The knee of a crossed-legged girl in white dress

Sitting under the green of an Italian

Umbrella by a cage of captured monkeys

On a Fregene orange sand beach,

And the mauve mist added colors

To itself to become a multicolored

Clown’s baggy pants suit with

Acrobatic laughter like fire crackers exploding

From the gigantic, false red mouth.

THE MYTH OF TIME

When a child I believed

Time was numbers. “Time

Flies,” I often heard. So

I pictured the wings

Of a three flapping in the air

As it migrated to a better place

In the world than where I was

In a Tampa slum, and when

It arrived at this better place

It would become a five.

Soon, I learned “time”

Was only a word that everybody

Used as if they understood,

And no one understood

What the word meant,

Not even Einstein. But

Everyone speaks a language of lies,

And I, one of the few, who

Desires and cares to speak a

Language of truth, now

When asked by someone

Who gazes at the Rolex

On my arm, “What time is it?”

I reply “I don’t know.”

CORTONA

So far, upon recall, it is vague.

There is a blurry glass of Campari

On a wavy bedside table, a record

Playing a song from Napoli sung

By a tenor named Campora. The

Song seems to be about prima amore.

I think it happened in Cortona,

I do remember precisely a flock

Of European goldfinches shadowing

The small car’s white hood

As the goldfinches flew over the road.

If I tried to do the impossible

And be mimetic I would only falsify.

It is impossible to copy an object

Or an Aristotle’s action. Representations

Are all approximations or guesses.

We have to accept our destiny

That we really will never know

What happened in the past.

Our memory are plagiarists,

Or inventors of fantasies

That only slightly resemble the origin.

Realism is the great lie

That so many have lived by.

But, although the past in Cortona

Is now vague, and I really do not know

My reality of being there, I do know,

I now wish I was back in Cortona,

But I don’t know why

I wish I was back in Cortona.

SEEMS

The word “seemed” seems to cover

All my past perception, and the word

“seems” covers my present perceptions.

These two words qualify and delineate

Both my petite, concrete,

Radically singular, unique encounters,

And even more so,

The grand,

Those meta-narratives, those fictions

That society

Supplies us with under the pretense

These fantasies are truth.

Everything is a “ seems” it seems.

As Nietzsche knew, there are no facts,

Only misinterpretations. Facts

Are a grand fictional meta narrative.

It seems this morning is rainy, the

Color of the cardinal in the tree

By my window is a different shape

Of red that it was in yesterday’s sunlight.

I wonder what colors his feathers really are,

But I never know. I only know

What the color seems to be at

The moment of my perception,

And even then I am not certain

About what seems. As I sip espresso,

Watching a bird called a “cardinal.”

I am counting my eye blinks.

But in spite of intense concentration,

I think I miscounted.

DIVESTITURE 50

This now, as any now, is gone, before the quick

Articulation

Of the short word

Is concluded, but, this now, this occurrence of

A quick sequence actually a fluidity like the gulf water

In a toss, an accelerated uplift and collapse of a wave,

But this now, although now, a has been,

Was perception of a frigate bird dancing under

The stage of a cloud

Angularly

As dancer in a poster by Toulouse Lautrec

Above azure smooth water with masses of ultramarine

Formed by the shadows of clouds.

The now, now gone, is now an eternal

In the neural network of a body with a brain.

DIVESTITURE 51

　

Two lovers sat on a fragment of a long

Blank space

Boundaried by far-apart tall cypress trees,

Each having a limpkins in their tops who without cell phones

Were talking to each other.

The lovers felt epiphanies developing in their cognitive system

As they watched

A pulled skier, dressed in tight suit of red, white, and blue.

Depart from a slanting platform of weathered grayed raw wood boards

To be pulled through space with nothing beneath but the exploited

Waters of a man-made lake and then splash to disturb scaup ducks.

They, the lovers, intelligent, sensitive, erudite, looked sadly

At each other, spoke in a quasi-whispered chorus:

“How can anyone love as love is socially constituted and

Made into a myth

In this absurd world of skiers that man has made of the earth.”

They looked at each other for a long time, and then

Departed

Forever.

DIVESTITURE 52

The contest was won by a painting called “Constrast.”

　

What caused all the conversations, the attention, the uproar.

The publicity, and ultimately the praise

As a winner,

Then write up after write up

W

As

That all five identical unidentifiable objects in the painting were

An exact duplicate of the other.

Each unidentifiable object had a label

Stating in gothic scrip, three-dimensional rendered,

“This is not a work of art.”

----------------------------------------------

The audience responded “What a masterpiece!”

The chairman of the jury in tuxedo handed the

Artist who had directed the work over a cell phone

To one of his assistances who executed the work

A check for $50,000.

DIVESTITURE 53

I.

Easter eggs this 2010 were painted

With censored scenes from 1930 comic books.

II.

Each egg had a saddle glued on its shell. Each

Egg had a bridle glued on its shell.

III.

On each egg is was inscribed:

“This is not a horse.”

IV.

A replica of a tiny spear

Had been stuck in the side of each egg.

V.

Each spear in small print, too small to read, was inscribed,

“This is a spear.”

VI.

Fluid drained from egg by spear will be made

Into omelets for atheist-under-21’s Easter dinner.

VII.

The painted shells will be hidden on a bankrupt,

Abandoned horse-race track, now a church, for senior citizens to hunt.

HUMAN COMMUNICIATION RARELY
COMMUNICATES, BUT WE FOUND A
LANGUAGE WE COULD UNDERSTAND
WHILE DRIVING TO THE HILLTOWN OF TODI






We drove in Fiat below a hillside
Colored umber. The umber dirt
Called to us, the voice was colored
Umber. The language spoken to
Us was a minority language, the same
Language spoken by clouds when
Touching wheat fields or weeds.
A goldfinch flying over us translated
The language so our feeling understood.
It was the only language we ever really understood.








A BARN SWALLOW IN A FIELD NEAR MONTACINO
AND ITS BRUNELLO






A cinnamon color flashed from a barn swallow’s breast,
The illumination transfiguring the swallow into a flying cathedral
Detheologized, with a gorgeous high-up rose windows.
We thought of Rimbaud’s and Debussy’s sunken cathedrals,
But this cathedral was not beneath water under us,
But was swirling, darting, zigzagging above us.
There was a drizzle, tiny rain drops specked the car windows.
The cathedral was seen reshaped when viewed
Though the domes of water. The places flown through from
Were numinous with cinnamon colored light shaped like footsteps.








MUD






When a child, I confused space with time,
Thought if I walked walk long enough
I would find the end-of-the-world.
I conceived that the end-of-the-would
Not would have bricks, asphalt, concrete
Would not have any man-made pavement,
But the end-of-the world would be
Small mounds of moist jet-black mud.
Water oozing from mud would hold sunlight
In its arms, send out silver streaks to touch me.
As a child , I walked and walked,
But I never found the end-of-the world.





ONLY A FEW CAN HEAR THE LANUAGE OF TRUTH






Subterranean aberrations’ expressions are rendered
By an alphabet of colors created beneath the dirt, make
Appearances as in the sapphire and sepia of flower petals.
It is a parabolical language never understood by parliamentarian
Or Parmenideans, ineffable without an essence,
The communication comes from a inner music
Composed to be a color by a concealed rivulets,
Varied by a distant conductor who wears fire for a suit.
Only those who have a similar mind to the inventors of Pan
Can understand this language that grows on stems.








BEFORE A WORLD OF FROZEN PEOPLE






I remember the silver quiver of the winter spiralling river,
The warmth of the scarlet birds partially hidden
By large yellowed, umber-spotted leaves, shaped
like aberrant triangles and soles of beggar’s shoes.
It was the time when proverbs were a blue pigeon’s spin.
When joyous skepticisms stirred in attics of asters.
Fallen seeds, that were as red as the hair
Of the girls who modeled for Gustav Klimt,
Scattered over cellars doors, rose covered.
It was long ago, before fixed belief froze people.









I WAS THINKING ABOUT THE RAM
THAT ABRAHAM SACRIFICED INSTEAD
OF HIS SON WHEN



A grayed-silver upright sheet
That wrinkled with shapes
Like knuckles becoming blue, white, pink when
Pressed in a meaningless handshake
Became a horizon and in front

Was

A leafless, many-limbed, alogical

Bay bush              

Whose roots                                   

Cracked

A grayed-silver frozen surfaceInto a design

That had no familiar or traditional

Classification,                      

Thus                                

Became

A reality and pulsation in the processOf perception.                      

My poem, my linguisticReality emerged                         

From what was notPresent or known                           

When

The poem began.   It exceeded and

Surpassed                

Any conscious planning.

I shook and sipped Armagnac while

I sat passive, letting

Language               

Show me

What language can do.

As Andre Breton said: “Words make love

On the page.”

NO LONGER ENSLAVEDTO PRE- EXISENT THOUGHT

The Alps appeared, snaggedBlue silk,              

Happened above dark

Green waves of deep green leaves,

Light green tipped                             

As

The wind turned the leaves to send

From        

Undersides and spins, light greens, it was

An ancient grove of spilt-trunk olive trees.

The sky was glassesOf chablis,                

Pink jellyfish.I was far away from the univocal,

Precise, clear, distinct concepts

People speak to communicate,

And since the univocal, precise,

Clear, distinct concepts are by

Their very nature false, people

Never communicate,

Live in approximate accords

With the apparitions

Of approximations.

I feel rapturous with my complete

Break

From all past thoughts,

All past beliefs.

I no longer had my public face,

I did not have any face,But had a visage.

THE EARTH IS WHAT WE OVERLOOKED

There are no gods, said Alethea

To    

The oscillating ovals atop the turquoise

Pond,         

Blued by the sky’s atmosphere

And       

Unknown chemicals inside the sand

Grains that cupped the water.  No

Zeus,         

No Hera, no Heracles, No

Aphrodite,                 

Or Athena, Minerva.  Now, there is

Only barbed wire and hallelujahs,

Fossils, insults, rope tricks, expressways

And broken white peacock feathers.

All the goats, rams, pigs, lambs sacrificed,

Were knifed to bleed in vain,

Murdered in vain to propitiate non-existences.

The not-heres.

Water, water, now the gods are gone,

We are no longer imprisoned by lies,

No longer degraded by lies,

But are open to what is.

But water, we are alone,

For the people do not go away

When the gods went away.

The water replied, “We are not alone

Anymore, as we were alone

Before the gods went away.

Although people stayed to make us feel

We are alone,We

Have

Goats, rams, pigs, lambs.”

AN ORIOLE AMONG GUAVAS

The poem is not personal                                        

In

The sense of a subject, a poet, representing

A response                 

To an objective

External event, but personal

In the sense of a process in involved

Engagement and participation with a mo-Bile perception and its unknowingness.

An oriole              

Orates

When perched among the large

Pale green veins on the dark green, rough

Textured, thick bodied leaves quivering

From a slender spiraling guava branch.

The oriole among guavas, orange feather
Crossing the pale yellow fruit’s texture,
Is the origin to the openness of the
Concealed real.

The unthought,
The unperceived,
The unfelt--

That is present and rarely known, never
Known in quotidian and scientific language,
But becomes known
When poetic language participates in,
Not copies, no mimesis,
The appearance of
The oriole, the guava,
And the involved verbal participation
Emanates the unsayable,

When the known language speaks glossolalic
And opens to what is.

The oriole among guavas is the origin
And oracle.




REGINA, JOHANNES DE SILENTIO

HerCognition of my feelings for her is only

A surmise, her surmise

Carved by a drum roll, a blue bird’s syllables,

A bowl designed in Morocco-- she quotes

Mumbles mumbled by marble.                                                            

Can shadows

Dropping from the cormorants stretching out wings

On a long pine branch and quivering over us

Alter the ancient masters.

Can the shore birds that wait the outflow

Of the white edges of the waves change us.

I can only surmise what she surmises

As I surmise what I surmise.

My body is crowded with the blindfolded

Who repeat aphorisms,                                                   

The furrowed

Forehead of the gargoyle’s tulip face,

Ice pick nicks on a thick steel door.

NON CONCEPTUALIZABLE




The estrangement of autumn, the tangles
Of ice cold hugs, fire in January snow,
But ashes in autumn, crumbling grays.

In corridors the candelabra glow is shaped
Like a migrating goose, whose outstretched
Luminous neck points in the wrong direction.

The unheard high pitched sound of touch then
Believed fictitious became a facticity
As a fixed souvenir of every chimerical summer.

This rebellion from fugues, thought a new
Order, but was not new, but old and stale,
Practiced, but unrecognized by singers of hymns.

REALITY CANNOT BE CAPTURED
BY FACTUAL REPRESENTATION



What is seen
In this painting, Zen,

Splashes, different shapes
Of the same green.

Splashes, sparse,
On abundant

Ivory white surface,
But what is seen,

Felt, what is real,
The unseen.

What is seen
Is not what is seen,

What is seen
Is an openness

To the real,
What is not seen.


NEW YORK CITY STREET SCENE



Today, evening, as the empire state
Building wears a mauve dress,

And has dyed its hair a punk pink,
The street tree in its iron grill

Has fortissimo dimpled elbows,
And pianissimo gargoyle-faced

Knuckled long slender fingers.
The James-Cagney capped chestnut

Sellers dreams that he tiptoes
With dogs on the moon’s surface,

Simulated on a Hollywood
Movie set.

The single mother passing by
Named her daughter

Marcia Polo, and when is sixteen,
She will send her to Asia.

A man who writes junk poems
Is on the way to the Bronx

To see a state of the poet Heine
In a Catholic park.

Another man, who is also
Writes junk poems

Is talking to him about going
To Cloisters, ride on a tapestry unicorn.

I saw a sad office building
With all its windows

Painted an opaque orange.
Brown, blue, hazel eyes

Stared out of peepholes
Scraped on opaque paint.

My hand clutched the white glow
I grabbed from a stained glass lamb.

A LETTER TO A TEACHER
OF THE APPRECIATION AND CREATION OF POETRY



No, Jane, the language of communication, the quotidian language
That reputes to be a transfer of information, although it mostly
Fails, is not the language of poetry, the language of poetry is
Not the equivalent of finger pointing. Language of poetry is estranged
To the ordinary usage of language. The people speak
A language of lies, the authentic poet, only a minute few, speak
The truth. Most of our published poetry is junk poetry, the
Language of lies the people speak. Poetry negates the thing
As object, an alien object, a ding an sich; poetry negates
What are called “objects,” for the concept of an object is an
An illusion, and what is called “the representation of an object”
Another illusion. The people have faith in a language of lies.
The language of poets negates “objects” and transforms
Language into words that engender an openness to things,
An openness to thing, not the fixing and designation of things.
Poetry express not the cognition of things, as a biologist
Expresses information about a bird, but the language of poetry
Expresses an involvement with the thing, an involvement
Through not fixity but progression, openness and not closure.
Thus in action, poetry is a language of negativity that as process
Opens to the unsayable, unknowable, and what cannot be
Expressed in informational, quotidian communication. In this
Sense poetry is not communication, but communion. Ordinary
Language communicates the general, the absolute, the universal
And thus communicates the false, the openness of poetic language
Brings us and makes us intimate through the intelligence, the emotions,
And the senses with the radical singularity of the concrete progressive
Particular that is indeterminate and can never be fixed. Singularity
Cannot be expressed in everyday language. Poetic language
Discovers the world, discovers the truth, negates the lying language
Of subject and object. Jane, you have taught for thirty years,
The appreciation and creation poetry, have wasted your life,
And have harmed many sensitive minds, for teaching them lies about poetry.
You have taught to honor junk poetry, and overlook the authentic.
You have taught people to write junk poetry, and become incapable
Of understanding Authentic Poetry. You, in your ignorance
And misdirection are the true enemy to authentic poetry, elite poetry.
And there is no other poetry than elite poetry.


A FEW MOMENTS
IN WURSBURG, GERMANY

After watching the theater gold

Perform

And participating

In its uncanny acting, this gold

Of the Residenz Wursburg cathedral.

I strolled out into geometry

Of 

Wursburg garden, the Hofgarten.

Trees, neo-classically trimmed, into

Green cubes,                    

Green caskets,                                             

Green

Catechisms                 

Of the bygone Age of the

Enlightenment                   

When it was said people

Had faith in reason,                              

And later found

They had tricked themselves into being

Misled,           

And had never inhabited the

Earth.

I looked at the green cubes, and longed

For defamiliarization, then I

Saw her, a blonde in beige-the beige

More a cloud than cloth.

She was sketching the tree forced

To be a green cube by anachronisms.

The pencil strokes slow, but appeared

Quick, deliberate, but appeared spontaneous,

Soundless, but appeared music.

She was restoring through art

A holy wildness, to what had been

Profaned by a precise paring

Of  growing tree parts.

On her sketching pad, the tree

Grew naturally. The imposed

Theoretic conception disappeared

And existential treeness prevailed.

Gazing at the radical singularity

Of the color of her blonde hair,

I felt the wonderful destabilization

Of temporality. I felt the possibility

Of life, and I felt  the impossibility

Of living this life.

I thought of the excitement we could

Experience together,

And I thought of how we never would

Experience the excitement together.

I departed to a table in the beer garden

At the entrance.

Later, we were drinking together

Trocken white wine fom the valley

Of the Moselle river. We smiled,

We laughed, talked about trivial things,

Talked idle talk, then departed forever.

“MAN IS NOT A RATIONAL ANIMAL,”

MERLEAU-PONTY

Clicks fingernails together as if castanets.

She is not content.

Two padded circles pressed over ears

Sends skin-less sounds down the spine.

The tattooed Proteus on her back

Will not change his shape as she had faith he would,

But pasted a quarantine sign on his

Salt water soaked lips and frisk.

Some times when among rare quietness she hears

Proteus speaks Latin.

The cosmos covering her ears

Sends out songs that are skeletons, sends out songs

That come from jaw bones without a tongue

To turn, twist and roll out tunes,

The lyrics were commoditized by a committee

So they would be understood by the masses,

The slave mentalities, and thus had no link with the real world.

Her live-in lover was a mixture of“Ready-Mades” and “Pop Art.”

She longed for a liaison with a wild thistle

In the middle of a cow pasture.With this hermetic alchemists as a lover

She would be turned into goldAnd wear see-through clothes to church.

SLOVO KAK TAKOVOE

The cocktails, regimented, close ordered drilled,

To be a refill at five clock, were wilted flowers,

The fragments of the brown crumbled petals

Were the sails of the gunboats in their brains,

Genders were sent out like smoke signals

On a windy day from their perceptions of

The thin-stemmed glasses with the squat containers,

She saw next to the crimson-fringed white carnations,

The crystal verminThat wore the masks of diamonds

Standing in a circular line without no destination

On a wedding ring,

He saw what he was when an adolescent

The pink crackled surface of a vase with

An erotic Chinese shape that was jailed

By a magician wearing a body shirt advertising

Light beer and  waving white flags.

Both realized the forces that shoved

Them together to hug was what was

Spoken in whispers by their neighbors

Who created fiction as a surrogate

For lived experience, spoke signifiers

Without signifieds, spoke words about

Something that never existed, and those

Spoke words without meaning, because

What the word meant had never existent,

These neighbors spoke words as themselves,

Like a Russian formalists, as if words

Without reference were not a

Mediating, message bearing medium,

But a reality of their own.  Both

Had believed what the status quo,

The majority had spoken, beliefs

Expressed by words without meaning.

He died by over-having a good time

With his buddies by over-taking a dose

Of au courant drugs. She immediately

Remarried a missionary she had met

Among sawdust scattered over grass

As the floor, foundation, of a canvas tent.

WHEN I TRY TO SEE MYSELF AS OTHERS SEE ME

Usually I miss the turn-off. A sylph,

Dressed in wrap-around gauze, wantedRevenge,              

Changed the street sign where I

Was

Directed by a gadget to turn and learn.  The sylph’s

Sartorial attire                      

Was indeterminate, could

Be the wounds from a  drunk car accident, or

She was an Egyptian mummy

Made in Taiwan,                                               

Or was

Costumed for an artist’s party in the

Latin Quarter.  She had departed from Ybor

City after being tattooed,                                       

With a blonde,

Long haired  cypress swamp goddess on the left

Arm,       

Went to Majorca to find Chopin’s

Lost piano and play a polonaise.

It does matter who this sylph was, for no one

Can never know another,                                        

Are destined

To solipsism, false criticism, and the

Customary fictions that all have faith

Is the truth about their lives.

No one,

No matter how many grants for research, can

Determine the motivations                                         

For her vandalism

Of changing street signs,

So all will go to the wrong locations,

When trying to find the charlatan who will Tarot cards,

Or her unassisted personal psychic endowments

For a price will tell how others see you.

EAST

Everyman with any ambition

Was      

Go-ing

East.

Money was to be made from the Crusades,

Real estate men wearing Panama hats,

Land developers wearing second-hand derbies

Were on their business cards                                             

Having

Crucifixes

Embossed, the cross, black uplifted ink, the blood,

Red,Dripping in tiny drops.

Thais, who was born with organic beauty, dyed

Her hair, punk orange, was going East,

Go-

Ing

With her dulcimer.  One, named Narcissus,

Who did not believe in any ideology, Marxist,

Or Adam Smith, Paulist, Gnostic, or the Tao Te Ching,

Counter to popular opinion, did not want to be

A Crusader.

He preferred to wear puce gloves,

Look at himself in mirrors.

He was so beautiful that he was

Watched through keyholes.

Narcissus discontented with human limitations;

Their never knowingIf they or others actually existed, whether

Or not the cogito was real or a fiction.

Narcissus wanted to be a stained-glass window.

The pressure of the people, the slave mentalities,

Were fervent for him to enlist, go East,

Bring back a splinter from the true Cross,

Narcissus was insulted, threatened,

His five mistresses and his wife refused

If  he did not become a crusader

Not to swim anymore

Naked in his swimming pool.

Narcissus first escaped to Canada,

But ended upIn Norway, living in

The old cabin of  Ludwig Wittgenstein.

WE MUST BREAK AWAY FROM WHAT

IS SEEN AS FAMILIAR SO WE CAN SEE

The sinking sun has dropped down orange

To color the white tips,  the white left sides

Of the white fuzzy fungi stems sticking out into space

From the raw wood blond boards barnacled, bleached white

By months of inclement weather and salt water.

This short fence stands with a slight lean upright

Slightly off from the white shore dry sand.

In front, the still water is a pale azure; behind

A different blue, dark turquoise, made

By the fence’s late evening shadows.

I gaze at the temporary orange glowing

From the temporary white fungi on white boards,

Think of the strange orange specks

In the indecipherable color of her eyes,

She, thirty-years younger, who had gold twisted hair,

She, temporary, in despair, drove her BMW under water.

The boards, many years ago, was built

As a small fence to keep the shells

From their homes in the gulf, so

The shell could be gathered, the mollusk

Inside killed by boiling, the shells sold to temporary tourists

For temporary souvenirs by an old man

Who hated alterity, loved somewhat himself.

The old man died, an overdose of drugs,

The fence he built remained, rarely anyone

Knows why the decaying fence is in the water.

NO ONE CAN SEE

HIS OR HER SELFIN A HUMAN MIRROR

The unspoken is

The new billboard,

Stays unseen,

But I surmise

It advertises tears

And blindfolds.

The old billboard

Is now scraps, smears,

Desires to the scraped away.

The old billboard

With shredded quarter-moon light,

And lipstick shaped like lips.

The lipstick had never

Touched flesh,

But had the west wind’s contours.

She heard the unspoken,

But misinterpreted,

Heard Moses, red silk dresses.

The new billboard

Still invisible, silent,

But a wall before me,

Coral and an empty closet,

Rainbow-colored sheets

Cover a bed of crossroads.

Duane Locke lives hermetically by an oak, the home of a squirrel, with a daily

Visitation from a cardinal, a bird, not a cleric, not a baseball player, in Tampa, Florida.

He has as of January 2010, 6,542 different poems published in print magazines, American Poetry Review, Nation ,etc. and e zines, Counter Example Poetics, Pen Himalaya (Nepal)

And 21 books of poems. His three latest books, 2009, are Yang Chu’s Poems (376 pp.)

Crossing Chaos, Canada( order from publisher or Amazon); Voices from a Grave (40 pp.) erbacce, England (order from erbacce), and Soliloquies from a High Wall Hidden Cemetery (37 pp.) Differentia Press, California (Free download, www.differentiapress.com) .

His first book published is 2010 is 53 paged A Marble Nude Pualine Borghese with a Marble Apple in her Marble Hand, Scars press, http://scars.tv.

Has interviews in Counter Example Poetics, Eviscerator Heaven, Pen Himalaya, Ann Arbor Review, and Bitter Oleander. For more information click “Duane Locke” on Google Search, over 3 million entries. Is in Who’s Who in America (Marquis).

He is also a painter and photographer. An account of his painting is in Gary Monroe’s Extraordinary Interpretations ( U of FL press). His sur-photos are scattered throughout the internet, and he has done many book covers. Has a Ph. D, specializing in English Metaphysical Poetry (Donne to Marvel). His doctoral dissertation, “Images and Image

Symbolism in Metaphysical Poetry.” is on UF internet.

His interest are philosophy (PostModern, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Martin Heidegger),

Insects, butterflies, birds, Opera, Mahler, and Viennese music.