Monday, August 24, 2015

Duane Locke- A Poem


This is the trap door day,
As predicted
By patriarchs
And old parchments found rolled and ribbon bound in ancient handwoven baskets.
Doors of the earth will spring open and become mouths
To swallow all civilizations and primitives not known,
And for security sake then covered the earth with fire and brimstone.
This event sometime today will be known,
Although there will be none to know, as the END OF THE WORLD.

Everything and everyone will sink into darkness.
The only light will be a repletion of one of Nero’s public poetry reading
When bodies were burned to supply light for the artistic occasion.
But no poetry will be read.

It was all predicted by these well-wrought documents in ill-wrought baskets.
So to get a last glimpse of the extended, enamel, abstract designs of fiddler crabs claws,
I went out at dawn to a salt flat.

I found a white water puddle that reflected the early morning sun.
The puddle had turned this pastel orange reflected sun, known to be round,
Into an oval. 

The sun being an oval rather than a circle gave me some hope.

I decided to spend the time before the trap doors opened everywhere
Writing an epic
On how in reality Ulysses did not want to return home to his duty,
To be a slave mentality, a governor of people, a husband to a wife,
A father to a son, a murderer of suitors.
He tried every means to avoid returning to be a slave mentality again.

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