Clockwise Cat Strikes Back

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Forthright A cavity chuckles Behind my cheek, My teeth are Yellowing. A hangnail lies flat on My left middle finger, And a centipede is Embedded on my right wrist. Floaters oscillate Before my eyes, Heavy bags lie Below them. I have claws Of voracious instinct, Yet my horn Tends to be dull. I am a selfish sloth, A slave to a master, and my own lab rat.
Two Poems By Duane Locke ECO ECHOES 139 The farm was a doctor, Its prescription: the Little Green Heron atop a pine. It cured the pain from the tightness of the halo Put as a hat on the head. Everyone had been wounded by weapons of mass destruction, human words, And with drops of blood drew hats for halos , Wore dark glasses to protect from the blindness Of the dazzle of the constituted brightness. Much of the time blindfolds were worn So as not to see the lost and longed for boulevards, Or to change the plowed furrows into a mystic river With water nymphs and a bearded old man playing a zither. But no one understood the collision or colliding in Connecticut barns. There was confused talks about nightgowns of snow, And soldiers playing the drums left intact in bombed dance halls. Some had memories of city visits with Ferris wheels And merry-go-round white enameled metal horses Whose bridled were gold painted. But others, The droughts in April. The disorders in April Were adjectives without nouns and no predication. But the farm was my doctor, The Little Green Heron atop a tall pine, Wind ruffled head feathers that gave it a crown.
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Clockwise Cat Strikes Back

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