A Sort of Beach Activity Whose Way of Being is Existence

A SORT OF BEACH ACTIVITY WHOSE WAY OF BEING IS EXISTENCE


What
Is
Publicly called the "unknowable"
Is
The
Only knowledge that has echoes.

Launched by
Lyricism, an anchor
Sails or steams
Oceans
Without the burden having a boat.The anchor
Is not made of iron, or shaped
Like two bent arrows on a thick shaft with a hook,
But the anchor is constituted by Sandpipers
Leaving foot tracks
On the gray, wet sand
That edges the white shore sand.
Sandpiper tracks are anchors.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Counter Example Poetics

Micrathena Spiders

MICRATHENA SPIDERS


Behind the Cinnamon Cinema,
a vacant lot with anarchic weeds
and Micra-Thena thespian spiders.
Micathena spiders are SF Movies.

The narratives were written by the shakers
of glasses with cognac.
But since in vacant lot there are no
box offices, no popcorn, or hallways
with five doors that open
to five different movies,
no one sees Micathena spider's SF movies.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Counter Example Poetics

A Green Insect Called a "Walking Stick"

A GREEN INSECT CALLED
A "WALKING STICK"



In my existentiell existence, my own
way to be, when I was cleansed
of publicness and am very authentic,
I experienced a preontological ontological
ontic moment, then I was free
from the daily concerns and obligations
that makes one a slave mentality and one
of the living dead,
then I was no longer possessed by
the persuasion of the "They,"
their sanctioned values,
their cherished and beloved beliefs,
the event that finally convinced me
that life is worth living
in spite of the civilization of monstrosity
and lies that human beings have worked
so hard to create.
The convincing event was seeing
a green insect called "The Walking Stick"
on the bark of an ancient oak.

Duane Locke

Posted over on Counter Example Poetics

Yang Chu's Poems #86

YANG CHU’S POEM 86


Most of my long existence
Has been dislocations.

So now nearing the end
Of my existence

And resistance to dislocations
I seek a location,

But only location I can find
Worthwhile is writing words.

When I write words I locate
Myself in a linguistic reality.

But when I write words,
I don’t feel I am doing the writing.

The writing is done by things,
Mosses quivering on oaks,

By colors from insects, gold,
Blue from Oncometopia orbona.

When my writing is written,
I am in a location, otherwise

I’m in an illusion, a lie, a hell.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Linnet's Wings

Halos

Halos

Sandhill cranes fly low
Over iris-spotted bogs,
Have red halos
As twilight ruffles
Their head feathers.
How different from us
Who to have halos,
Must renounce
The things of this world,
Beat our chests with stones.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Electric Acorn

Dancers

Dancers

On a strip of white damp sand,
Surrounded by bright blue-green water,
She dances.
Pelican dive for fish,
Never pause to look at her dancing.
She pauses
To wipe sweat from her forehead,
Then repeats hand gestures over and over.
As she seeks perfection,
I turn to watch the splashes
Made by the pelicans' dives.
The splashed water is also dancing,
Doing a very complex dance.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Electric Acorn

Marigolds

Marigolds

Every Sunday at two o'clock,
A slender, old man, creaseless
Black pants, starched shirt,
Suspenders adorned
With tin American eagles
Goes to the cemetery
On the side of the white plank church,
Puts a jar of marigolds
On the red clay dirt
Where no one
Has ever been buried.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Electric Acorn