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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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A DREAM OF ANGELS

I dreamed I was in a massage parlor run by God.
I was rubbed with sweet swelling oil by angels.

The angels all had multicolored wings,
Spotted with eyes like those on peacock feathers.

I had taken one of those sleeping pills that can be purchased without a prescription;
The dream was vague, but the angels dressed as you dress, Carol.

It means the angels were almost undressed. I am sure these angels
Were not pure intelligences-donning apparitional bodies for earth visiting.

Carol, are you still studying medieval philosophy?
A jail is a fine and private place for such perusal,

Carol, why did you stab that stranger you thought my lover
Who accidentally knocked on our door.

I miss you Carol. I recall the moment the police came
To take you away from me and your four other lovers.

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