I THINK I REASON IN A WAY EXACTLY
THE REVERSE OF THE USUAL WAY

It is the radical singularity in the hand
                                       Whose touch
And tombs
         And tom-toms
                     And tourists
                                 And
Tourniquets
           INVENTS, brings into existence
The MANYNESS
            That nests and fly in the forest of  her blonde skin,
And swims
         In her underskin wild rivers of singing blood and
And its red birds with red fins.
 
Those who walk and vaporize into the grip of the generalized
And bless 
the shackles of others’ eyes
                          Throw dice
Against a skull.
The dice bounce off, roll, stop without numbers.
 
There are no skies,
                  Only
                      The light from the sky on an alley,
Turning the rust on an abandoned and bent hubcap
Into a glow of gold.


MY WORST ACT IS TALKING
TO PEOPLE
WHO ARE NOT POETS
 
White gauze curtains the glass door,
                                 Whitens
Outlines of red flowered bushes,
                              And
The dropped feather of  last night’s silent owl.
 
The outside view, liquid, no rigidity even in the stems
Of geraniums.
            Frees the consciousness to cast out
Closures and conclusion,
                       See
The geraniums’ green stems as oriental dancers
In green silk flashing green lightning
                                   From
Green silk shook sleeves,
 
Frees the consciousness to find an inner companion
And teller
          Of  fortunes.

 

© 2004 Duane Locke - Contributor's Bio