The Gods Never Grieve Over Death, or Consider Historical Time to be Correct

THE GODS NEVER GRIEVE OVER DEATH,
OR CONSIDER HISTORICAL TIME TO BE CORRECT


The stones in his mouth did not interfere
with speech.
It was a Grecian method for improved oratory.

He spoke in the agora among bins of squash
and live snails.
The squash was wilted,
the snails crawled toward wet forests.

The prophets were discussing the sweet
honeysuckle smell of heaven,
The professors, semiotics, discussing
how all speech was futile.

A fat man, a baritone, listened to the high notes
of small birds,
Aphrodite appeared by the lettuce bin
as a girl of fourteen,

Anchises looked at Aphrodite,
yelled out the name “Aeneas.”
Everyone was drinking Chianti,
chanting about the birth of Italy.

A sage said, “Before all those tenors
DeLucia, Bonci and the rest are born,
Rome must fall, Lavinia must be born.”

Rimbaud, one legged, was hopping around,
looking for leeks to bang against his head,
derange his senses once again.

Apsyrtos, still in tact, not yet chopped apart,
observed “Time is out of joint,”
he wondered if the phrase would be repeated.

A Slavic Teutonic blonde wearing a bishop’s hat
kissed the ashes of the not yet born G. Bruno
carried in her hands.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Badosa