Topanga Canyon, the final day

A few fragments from the last twenty-four hours (E.J. suggests I do a book of poems about this trip called "Poet in the Promised Land"...I'll consider this).

That's Going to Leave a Mark

that's going to leave a mark
the stark, raving sad
of a parting of lovers
when the covers are blown
and the seeds sown
on toxic'd soil are wasted
like lovebirds basted
in a twisted, fisted memory
that never really happened
the way it could have, should have.
but the scar remains, nonetheless.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.


Tight, White Skirt

You don't need to flirt
when your tight, white skirt
does the dirty work for you.

Those eyes and lips,
those thighs and hips
that dance like speculation.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.


clown red lips

pretend to be my friend
at least until the check comes
and the tab is payed.
decisions swayed.
judgments stayed
as the roles are played
with a half-assed half-cast
of reality with a hidden player,
a prayer on clown red lips.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.


Well? Is the scent of night blooming jasmine and burnt desert scrub impregnating me yet?