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Duane Locke

     Doctor of Philosophy in Renaissance Literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, Poet in Residence at University of Tampa for over twenty years, publisher of over 2,000 poems in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander, author of 14 books of poems, his latest being WATCHING WISTERIA (to order see www.vidapublishing.com or call Small Press Distribution-1-800-869-7553), cyber-poet, since Sept 1, 1999 has had 530 acceptances by online zines, photographer, listed in PSA's WHO'S WHO as one of the top twenty nature photographers, painter, currently having a one-man show of over 30 painting at the Pyramid gallery in Tampa, winner for poetry of the Edna St. Vincent Millay, Charles Agnoff, and Walt Whitman awards, now lives alone and isolated in the sunny Tampa slums.
     Duane lives estranged and as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language, some form of postmodern English, of his surroundings. The egregious ugliness of his neighborhood has been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police who put up bright orange and yellow posters on each post to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.

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Duane Locke

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Duane Locke
2716 Jefferson Street
Tampa, FL 33602-1620
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FRIENDSHIP

Our meeting would be unbearable If we sensed the other were present, But we meet, Do not see human beings, But see illnesses, Sickness reunites us in a congenial greeting.

This situation is what has sustained
Our social lives since our births.

For my part, I reach into my backpocket,
Take out an old-fashioned flask.
It is silver and has embossed dancing girls.
I take a swing of Tennessee mash.

I offer you none,
For I assume you are on medication.

You know I live in a shack in the slums,
So you tell me you have a new house, two stories, on the beach.
You know I ride a bicycle,
So you tell me you have a new BMW.

I watch you walk away, posing a good posture,
But I know the pain it cost you to walk upright and straight,
I know about your secret limp.

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