the podcast for this week

The new podcast is up, featuring the new song "They're Shooting Monks in Burma".

You can listen or download either via Radio City of Legends or at Apple's iTunes Music Store.

The Gods come down to play

Myanmar (They're Shooting Monks in Burma) is now available as a downloadble song from archive.org...free.

Listen, share and let's rase some awareness.

Thanks to the band...you guys rock.

goin all Bob Dylan, part II

I've called the band together to lay down "They're Shooting Monks in Burma" for this weekend's podcast.

goin all Bob Dylan on ya

Oh I am going to get hate mail on this one.

They're Shooting Monks in Burma

They're shooting monks in Burma
to silence cries for peace
Men of hate cannot dodge fate
just delay their own release
When bullets rule as chosen tool
of those who seek their ends
they'll find the grind is unconfined
to those they'd not call friends.

We are a thirsty people
too often slaked by blood
Too often quenched in evil
and drenched in saline flood
We turn on backs on burlap sacks
they tossed in graves en masse
If there's no money to be had
we don't sweat the trampled grass

They're cutting off the lifelines
of the people without hope
Our silence makes us as guilty
as the mob that brought the rope.
We're too busy setting example
pound the plowshare inta sword
So we can protect profits
for some fatcat oil lord.

They're beatin' priests in China
but that's where we get our toys
and we don't really seem to care
what the church does with small boys.
As long as we go status quo
we're content to keep the peace
with silent tongues and bodies flung:
When will the madness cease?


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

poetic fragment

to a distant dream (fragment)

do you think I'm uncertain
in my passion that reaches
out to you over the miles?

I cannot be clearer
than to say I hold you dearer
than anyone. anyone.

dreams are not spun
but begin in the silence.
the violence of memory, fading so slow.

but I would be grateful
if you'd let me lend a moment
a hope, and a hand, and a prayer.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

in your darkness I rest

in your darkness I rest

I would rather love
that which I cannot touch
than touch what I cannot love

false emotions do not honor me
or my heart, but stain me
pain me. strain me
against the tethered, weathered soul
that cries out for your embrace
and the solace of your acceptance
of my sacrifice of flesh and dreams
to penetrate more than merely your body
but into that dark place of sorrow
where I may shed a little heat and light
and dwell more gladly there
than in a gentler clime of illusion

I would rather love
that which I cannot touch
than touch what I cannot love


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

E.J. has the news

Maybe he has committed to just sticking to the poetry for the time being, that doesn't commit me.

alert! alert! alert!

The Romantic Poet of the Internet (although if he makes it to 4 years I may insist we change his sobriquet to "The Poet formerly known as the Romantic Poet of the Internet"), William F. DeVault, has been again tapped to be the judge for the first round of the poetry chapbook contest for the Texas Panhandle Writers' Association annual convent, Frontiers in Writing, to take place next June (2008) in Amarillo.

He says he will actually show up this time. We shall see.

And yes, the irony that no West Virginia organization has ever had him appear at or work with or judge for a poetry contest is still not lost on me. Sheesh, he was in Mississippi just long enough to clean house (less than a year) and managed to host numerous state events and judge poetry contests.

Damn you E.J. You got to make post #2000 to my blog! - W

shed my skin

Something new, about the creative process:

shed my skin

I will shed my skin
again
and in that moment I will be naked
beyond mere clotheslessness
vulnerable
beyond merely being unguarded
I will feel things
you cannot imagine
and trade that moment of exposure
to elements that burn and cut and scrape
for the realization that I am still alive.
Life is not found in the greys of days unremarkable.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

thirty two feet per second (per second)

(This poem appears as the lyrics to the piece "32fps2" on "Amomancer: nightblooming)

thirty two feet per second (per second)

splintered glass,
pass the plate and hate the widow
for her two cents' worth.
earth birthing bright premonition
of the precognizant memory made mock
in the hands of the clock
stalking us
with the talking blues
of hues of red, bled
from leprous thoughts
caught on taut trotlines,
hooks digging in to secure
the pure insecurity
of our assurances and reassurances
that stances dance
in the light of a night,
white with wonder and thunder
and under it all
a call to hope.

hopping on one foot,
then another,
mother to madness and dreams
left to steam
until cool enough to touch
in such a manner meant to vent
our vexed and sexed pretext,
wrapped in a tapestry
of tepid transparencies
to justify our jousted juices,
jet to whet then wet
then set us on the path
of least persistence.
insisting on assisting us
with the rationale of love.

and I would gladly pay twice the price of Odin
for the wisdom to know the truth.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I spoke to Nightblooming last night. She admitted she has trouble listening to my CDs. I told her most people who know me have trouble with that. She wanted to know why. There is no easy answer (I say as someone in the back row yells "Because you suck", which might have affected me when I was 15...) but usually it indicates the person is uncomfortable seeing that far inside of someone they know. Most people are more comfortable with the poet as an abstraction, not flesh and blood (how many lovers have fled my bed when they couldn't reconcile the god and the man?).

Of course, it may just be that I suck.

'Missing You' cycle

People whine all the time that I ramble on and on about this and that without much poetry going on here in my official blog. So, guess I'll beat E.J. to 6/7ths of the new cycle I wrote, entitled "Missing You", the first poem of which appeared in his "Amomancer" blog this morning.

Missing You

I.

thousands of miles impede my touch
impede my words and thus is such
a trial revealed and fates unsealed
until discovered split is healed.

that I might find my way to arms
that promise solace in their charms
to break this haze and spend my days
in full surrender where Venus plays.

II.

I place my hand to the horizon and measure the course
of the sun as it rises and sets. rises and sets.
an inconstant friend, this orb of fire.
inconstant measured next to my desire
to stand with you and see what time and trial begets.
you are far from me but your soft light is a fixed source.

III.

are your lips as soft as I dreamt them last night
when you came to me and whispered rough hungers
and thirsts like the deserts of trackless sand
that stand and shift and mock the hand of life
that would banish the burnt and barren forevers
if unleashed by the word and will of a goddess,
willing to sacrifice only her pride for resurrection
as something more alive than an equatorial forest.

IIII.

leave unlatched the door and I will not enter.
for I must be let in.
I do not assume or presume to the moment's leave
that I remain welcome
in all hours and for all intents unless you
bid me come and stay.

V.

how weeps my heart in dark and crack'd wound
that begs but one hand to heal it
to seal it
to make whole the splintered shell I sell
in cobbled smile and patchwork laugh
concealing little but my shame
that hands made to touch you
eyes made to see you
lips meant to kiss you
voice meant to call your name in trysted joy
are denied their part and purpose
for now.

VI.

a part of me
apparently
is absent for a while
I'll keep my bet
and linger yet
to catch your earnest smile

VII.

to part. to split in two. breaking like bones.
tearing like raw sinew as the meat is torn
and even the stones are worn.
I do not want to be away from you.
I do not want to not be with you.
I do not wish to sleep without you.
or stay awake, to passion's purpose,
unless it is you there, open to my hunger
and feasting to your own expression and joy.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

In fact, for the time being, I am going to cease placing anything other than poetry in this blog.

a fiery and fierce season

I am writing like a dervish, in almost a mad, mystical trace. The strangeness is that it is flowing out of me like I am not the source, but a conduit. I have these sessions from time to time, it is very humbling and inspiring.

I know what triggered it, but even I have my privacies and confidences.

My first instinct when I ache is not to ease the pain, but to express it, then to discover where it comes from. I think people who treat symptoms instead of root causes are much of what is wrong with the world.

Curiosity and resolution are essential to life of any real value or purpose.

Alice's Restaurant Redux

I was over and YouTube, going to see if there were any more comments on SevenLap's marvelous video based on my piece "Darfur: Jesus Wept" when I stumbled upon something. To quote "2010", "something wonderful".

Another video artist has made a video from the song, so if you want to see this one, check it here:



Why am I calling this "Alice's Restaurant Redux"?

If you are familiar with that brilliant talking folk-blues piece by the great Arlo Guthrie, he describes a scenario about avoiding the draft (it was an anti-war, anti-draft protest song, after all):

"And friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a study in black and white of my fingerprints. And the only reason I'm singing you this song now is cause you may know somebody in a similar situation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a situation like that there's only one thing you can do and that's walk into the shrink wherever you are ,just walk in say "Shrink, You can get anything you want, at Alice's restaurant.". And walk out. You know, if one person, just one person does it they may think he's really sick and they won't take him. And if two people, two people do it, in harmony, they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them. And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people walking in singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and walking out. They may think it's an organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day,I said fifty people a day walking in singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and walking out. And friends they may thinks it's a movement."
- Arlo Guthrie, "Alice's Restaurant"

We're up to three now...

I am a rock...

One of my favourite songs of all time, "I am a Rock" by Paul Simon (and that other fella) is running through my head.

For some reason, today has been an unusually lonely day.  Not painfully, just markedly.

"...and a rock feels no pain.  And an island never cries."

on to the cult and the nakedness!!

Good sign:  Three or four of the tracks from the new CD are lodged in my head.   I have been very pleased with what I have been hearing from a few people who have listened to previews of it.

The tracks that seem to be following me around today are the more gentle, transcendent pieces like "the taste" and "the warm wine"...but I am very glad I made some last minute course corrections as to what tracks would be on the CD.

Now I just have to buckle down, make sure Dan and I are on track for the official launch of "Psalms of the Monster River Cult" and my next CD "Naked, Again" should be far less traumatic a birthing than "Amomancer:  nightblooming" was.

Wait until you see who I dedicate the next CD to.  Hint:  No one whose picture has appeared on the cover of a book or CD of mine.

Elysium

It has already been said.  The "nearest room" may be almost 3000 miles away, but it is real.

I hate waiting.   It turns me inside out. 

CD Release Party

The new podcast is getting download requests...not bad for a 54 minute and two seconds monolith. Listening to the whole thing is a commitment commensurate with eating a triple at Wendy's. Of course, this one won't clog your arteries.

Nightblooming, am of two minds about today. Whatever happens, hope it is for the best.

All orders for the new CD placed today, I will specially notate the CDs you receive as "first day release". Makes them worth a little more.

I may have picked up a writing partner to help me with all those nasty, nasty novels I keep starting and stopping about Chapter 3.

yes, I know

You are unworthy, all of you, but that is just what proves my magnanimity, my willingness to give the charity of my works to the world. You can thank me later with offerings of gold and fragrant oils and a human sacrifice.

Yeah, new podcast is now up, go to
Radio City of Legends
to hear this 54 minute complete release of the new CD "Amomancer: nightblooming" complete with commentary.

Or pick it up later this evening at Apple's iTunes Music Store. Warning: It is a large file.

Thanks to everyone who made it possible. Okay, I've made my statement...I'm listening.

the long-ass podcast

Tomorrow evening I plan to launch the longest podcast I've done in probably a year or so.  Why, you ask?  Because the background for the podcast will be the entirety of my new CD "Amomancer:  nightblooming", set for release on Monday, September 24 (and yes, I did that release date on purpose for the exact reasons a certain woman suspects).

It will fade in and out of volume as I talk about the overall project and the individual pieces.  Just think of it as playing in the background throughout the entire show, which will run almost an hour.

a tip of the beret to Michael Reid and Allen Shamblin

It has been said (by me) that every human being has a certain amount of chitin (the stuff insect shells are made of) that they can use as they see fit to protect themselves.

Many spread it thin as an armour. Most things don't get in, but they lose the ability to feel.

The artists and the empaths pack it into a hard kernel deep within themselves, guarding only the last essential corner of their soul. Concentrated like that, it is indestructible, but you will feel the world and all its joys and pains.

Most people choose the former path. I can't. That would be so wrong for me, for my art. I am my art. Psyche missed that truth by hours. Others have known, others haven't wanted to know.

Earlier today, the Michael Reid/Allen Shamblin song "I Can't Make You Love Me" popped into my head, as performed by Bonnie Raitt. An amazing song that has been covered by artists of all genres, it touches me on an experience level that there are times I wish I could block out, but then I would be partially dead, my soul exposed to the corrosion and erosion.

I know why it bubbled to the surface. Every creative act on my part is an expression of hope, of desire, of yearning, seeking to sway the heart of one person or an audience or the world. Finally turning off the microphone and ending the engineering and mixing for "Amomancer: nightblooming" is such an act. It is not my nunc dimittis, that is (I trust) decades away, but it is no less a profession of outstretched affection than Julia Roberts' "Just a girl" speech to Hugh Grant in "Notting Hill".

But, in the end, I have loved in futility often enough to be able to take comfort in what to so many is a sorrowful song...

"here in the dark, in these final hours,
I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power.
But you won't. No, you won't..."

It is good to be me. I am at peace.

back to work

Now just to finish collecting the liner notes, the blurbs, finish layout on the rear cover (although I cannot imagine it measuring up to the front....) and the CD will be complete.  Then to a long awaited and much deserved rest...of about ten minutes.

Hey, I have other projects.  I am a week late getting final edits to Dan McTaggart on our latest project, I have another CD coming out next month, and I have a life and a day job.

Sigh.  I need a hug.

Okay, too much time wasted on self-awareness...back to work!

E.J. proposes a scenario

E.J. asked me a question earlier today.  Evocative.

He asked if there was anyone in my past who, if they showed up at my door today and said "Come with me" I would drop everything and follow.  I asked if he meant professionally or personally (as in a former lover or near lover, seeking to have me for their own).  He indicated the latter.

I am a creature of commitment and my current muse pretty muse dominates my heart, but in the absence of a signed, sealed and delivered relationship, I have to admit there are a few that would tempt me mightily.  Exactly who it would me might surprise you.  It did me, as I had never pondered the issue before.

But it will stay my secret.  Why tempt the fates?

fragment, inspired

Just a fragment that came to me....

Put down the day and step away
and come with me where the angels play
Step into the sky and feel the wind, warm,
that gently caresses your beautiful form
and carries a presence you cannot define
that I sent in the moment, a summons of mine.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

endangered species: poems about panthers

Now that E.J. is back, some of the pressure is off of me to perform in the bedroom...er...on the blogs.  

I have asked that, for the next year (presuming he sticks around another 300 or so postings) he abstain from using any poem out of The Panther Cycles in the blog, I got really panthered out during the last few weeks of his run up to his vacation.

To my muses, including the current heiress to a throne she probably won't want or need, I apologize if I have been absent, emotionally or intellectually, as I finish the new CD, prep the podcasts, edit a book and work to make sure the US government spends its money wisely on whomever I am writing proposals for at this time.  I am proud to say that, in my years as a proposal developer, manager and writer, I have been involved in over one billion dollars in procurements at the state and Federal level.  

Not bad for a poet.  I'd settle for a lot less.

E.J. gets noticed

Gheez, guys, it is enough to give me a complex.

I announce that E.J. is back and suddenly there is a stampede of hits on his blog.

Yes, it is my poetry, and it is nice to get the attention, but sheesh.

'Sokay, really. Sniff. I'll be over here, in the corner, sucking my thumb.

The Return of the Prodigal Sidekick

Okay, E.J. is back...and I gave him leave to post a brand new piece.

On the Sands

Enjoi, and good to have you back, man.

do not feed or annoy the poet

It just hit me, after several late nights working to complete the album (to anyone who has noticed, I apologize for my crankiness of the last few days.  When I am exhausted I get cranky or horny or both...and not being currently in a relationship means it is the crankiness that gets indulged) I finally realized I already have a poem in my works that will fit perfectly the music for "Manticore"...

yes, I am the great grey god of poetry!!!

(doing a victory dance)

poetry as a social drug

I guess people expect me to be the same immutable object, 24/7. No changing mood, no sense of confusion, no despair. Those who meet me in real life have a different take on me than those who meet me first through my books and poetry

I think...I think that the man I am in my poetry is the real me. The day to day is just a facade I wear to keep people away from the tender parts. Someone once commented that the person I am in my blog does not seem to be the same man I am in normal conversation.

True enough and fair enough. I am an honest, earnest man, but I know if you are too earnest in the day to day you will be picked clean before your bones hit the ground. Other people shift their personalities via drugs or alcohol. I do mine with the stroke of a pen.

It is late and I am weary. The antipathy of this world has worn me to the nubs and I must recharge. A night at a time keeps me alive, if but barely. But there has been no serious revitalization in a few years. I am, inside, a walking corpse, with but memories of life. I battle not depression, but a hollowing out as I feed more and more on the memories of love rather than the presence of it, like a man chewing leather to make his stomach ache stop with the illusion of meat.

No wonder the lyrics to "Manticore" have eluded me, the music is joy and celebration, and I am grown sullen.

the Island of the Sweet Siren

A new muse rises from the sea. Mere mortals, bow your heads and weep.

The Island of the Sweet Siren

beyond the horizon she lays, south of the Pillars that stand,
challenge to mortal man and the spirit of discovery.
a lost continent. an island of dreams and magics,
where Odysseus would have laid down
had he but torn the ropes that bound him
fast to the mast of forethought.
and in her web of zephyr'd kiss I am caught,
in soft and hungry reverie that shackles grim
the passions I had sold for memory. leaves brown
fall and nurture the greens of spring, the tragic
invites the open hearts of lovers bent on recovery
of the purity of pleasure, south of the Pillars that stand.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

immunity

I am thunderstruck.  I have met the impossible: A woman unswayed by my poetry.  

I am powerless and held in her thrall.

a vague sense of discomfort

I have never been a fan of presumptuousness (indeed, I have often been accused of treading too carefully for other people's tastes, particularly women).  But I am getting a sense that somehow the muse at the center of the new CD is somehow resentful that I am dedicating it to her.  Just a vibe, and maybe I am wrong, but I am usually pretty good at detecting the grinding of teeth.

I remember how this felt with...well, you all know of whom I speak  I would tread with great sensitivity so as not to overstay my welcome, to not overstate my affections...she would ask for, or accept some token of respect and affection, receive it openly and gratefully, then a few days/weeks later act as if I had created a problem for her.

In her case it was usually because she was playing a multilayered game of shades and shadows.  Public actions compromise deceit.

I am not saying that is the case here, but the sense that I have made someone uncomfortable in doing something they should celebrate and embrace is troubling on so many levels.

I am tired of so many things.  So many things that are part and parcel in dealing with humans in these ingracious times.  But, a soft tread and a cautious heart makes the path bearable.

the wire

"To be on the wire is life, everything else is just waiting", quoth Joe Gideon, Bob Fosse's alter-ego, in the film "All That Jazz".  The angel of death, played by Jessica Lange, responds "That's very theatrical, Joe."

Theatrical or not, it carries a powerful coda, one that has stood for me for decades.  I don;t want to just wait for the worms, filling space and sucking up resources just to forestall the inevitable, but to be alive...to be on that wire.

But how do I define that wire?

Creating, loving and acting upon my instincts in those areas and in trying to fix things I perceive as broken in the world.  Obviously I cannot fix everything wrong with the world, I can't create all things that are created (even within myself, I would burn brightly then explode) and I must seek to focus my passion on one individual.  Just as a tightrope walker learns that walking to the left or the right is not a sensible alternative, so must I seek the effective path to express and explore my passions.

But I know where the wire is, I know how to walk it and I have walked it more than once...and if you think time or tempest will keep me from it in the present or the future, you are so sadly mistaken.

a day job

A friend, a beautiful and talented friend, but a friend, asked me today how I managed to blog so much and asked if I had a "day job".

I am, and have always been, something of a workaholic. It is difficult for me to move forward at anything short of full throttle. So yes, I blog. I write poetry. I record. I podcast. I publish my own books and CDs as well as assist other writers in the design and editing of their books. I am working on two novels at the same time. I cook. I clean. I am hoping to restart my mummified social life. I walk the dog, help my sons with their homework and hold a full-time salaried job as a business development manager (a glorified title for a proposal manager) for a small defense contractor.

Yes, the irony. But I'd probably jump at the chance to work for a non-defense contractor, but work I must. I can't imagine slowing down. I put in 60 hour weeks and take home work, and am grossly under respected and under compensated for the impact I have, but a job is a job is a job and my creditors appreciate the trickle. A co-worker once commented that he figured my wife was kept awake at night listening to the sound of the gears in my head turning. When I had a wife.

I'll sleep when I'm dead. Until then, just try to keep up with me.

Huerta rising

I have promoted the podcast, recorded last weekend, of my presentation of several poems by my marvelously dark and erotic proeteg, the poetess Huerta.

If you want to hear it, either scoot to Apple's iTunes Music Store or hit
Radio City of Legends.

She is well worth the visit...scarlet and ebon roses at her feet.

Saturday morning and all is...normal...

Yawn. Tired. Wired but tired. Sat down last night with the tracks from the CD and...as you might expect, made some changes. One track is out, another is in and we'r recutting the vocals to "Manticore". Why? The music to that piece is pure joy, like leaping off a cliff and finding you can fly. The lyrics were not well enough played, so I said we'd re-record today.

You know there is a legend that I had my tattoo of a jungle cat edited into a manticore after my divorce?

What does it mean when a woman asks you to bring flowers? Sheesh, I could write a book about my history of over-analyzing people.

revised, revised, revised schedule

Here's the latest and greatest schedule on releases for the rest of the year:

September 24, 2007, Amomancer: nightblooming (CD)

October 16, 2007, Psalms of the Monster River Cult (book, with Daniel S. McTaggart)

October 22, 2007, Naked Again (CD)

Subject to my mortality, whim and sanity, of course.

I may be touring in December, I am considering droipping the notion of a vacation and just doing a multi-city reading tour on the East Coast. Not much in it for me, a vacation. I'll downshift when there's reason to.

just a ramblin' guy

Ever notice how, after every really long and intense recording or engineering session, I seem to plonk down in front of my computer and pontificate for a page or two?

I think emotional exhaustion breaks down my barriers, just as in a drinking person the alcohol lets parts of them out they normally keep in reserve. This is an interesting notion as this may mean my much-discussed workaholic lifestyle is an attempt to get "high" and make myself more open and social.

Sublimation on a second level, could be.

Let's ask Odin

"and I would gladly pay twice the price of Odin for the wisdom to know the truth."

Those words echo at the end of my poem "thirty two feet per second per second", which is also the lyrical base for the composition "32fps2" on my new CD "Amomancer: nightblooming".

The poem was written at a time of great pain, an expression of doubt, of lost love and of the uncertainty of knowing the hearts and minds of others. To most people a broken heart is huge...to me it is both part of the deal for being who and what I am, and a test of survival will.

In Norse mythology Odin, the All-father of the Gods, traded an eye for wisdom. In this poem I offer up that I would "gladly pay twice the price", gladly be blinded, if I had the power to know the true hearts of those I deal with. I am no ingenue, but I want to believe in people so much that often I allow myself to believe better of them than there is, assigning virtues they do not possess and hoping against hope that the flashing red lights and klaxon horns are merely a test of or a malfunction in my warning system.

I've never attempted suicide, never even considered it. Oh, I have joked about it and said I have thought of it, but that is invariably a feeble attempt to communicate with people who do not understand what I am constructed of and for. The raw materials are the same as anyone else, but somewhere along the way, I started playing with my thought processes, started experimenting with my consciousness.

The results are mixed. There are things I am brilliant at. Things I suck, royally, at. I feel things more than most do, I write well, I have insight. But I lack the capacity to chart the grey paths, to walk quietly through this life and accept the cannibalistic mediocrity of modern Western civilization.

And through it all, through all the fire and dung and acid and brimstone, I still believe in God, in the sanctity of sentient life and in love. I treat even those who treat me badly with respect. I sacrifice of myself when it is called for, I accept the apologies of those who have offended me, no matter how cruel or malign their intentions were when they gave offense or how deep they struck. I still give scorpions rides across the river.

I chose this path, the poetic field of blood and carnage and passions and poisons. I would have it no other way. I fell into some of it. Some I experimented to find, exploring corners of my heart and soul that I might find a path unique unto itself and both right and righteous for me. That I have failed many times is an honest truth, well admitted. But I have gotten back up every damn time and walked, sometimes on what seem to be bloody stumps of hope and memory towards an uncertain future.

I am a poet.

Some say THE poet. That is more than a hobby or a career. That is a state of being. I would take that over money or power or fame or the company of others.

But over love?

No. And that is where my damnation lives and lies and dies. That is what, in the end, I would trade both eyes for, the ability to find true love. I have built my golems of broken people and tried to fit archetypes designed to win the heart of angels I have seen hovering in curiosity above the pit in which I dwell. But, in the end, what I seek is more than a good weekend of constant lovemaking, more than my pity on a damaged spirit, more than an appreciation of parallel interests.

I seek the transcendent. Have I found such a person, yet? Perhaps. If so, they just haven't stepped up. It is a rather large thing I ask them to accept, nothing short of a stepping into legend. A few have tried, some have tried to escape, but once you are in, you are part of the story even if guilt or perfidy pulls you out. It is a commitment, an acceptance that the story will be told.

In my memoirs I have said I fulfill the quote I once gave in an interview that "An honest man cannot be the hero of his own memoir". I need to find someone willing to be human in exchange for love and passion and artistry and immortality.

To quote comedienne Stephanie Hodge "Is that so much to ask for?"

Let's ask Odin.

Track breakdown on the CD

As we crank up the PR machine on the new CDs (and I want everyone to say something nice about the cover, posted a few entries below...if enough of you say nice things maybe we can get the model to submit to an interview) I thought I'd say a few words about the tracks, to sort of set the frame.

Enchante.
This is a strange one, very much a song rather than a poem with musical accompaniment. Written to the lady, I knew when we first recorded it that it would stand out.

the taste.
When I mentioned this piece the first time to a muse, she laughed and said it was probably something obscene (judging from the title). Actually, it is based on my poem "the taste of remembrance" which is decidedly not erotic, but about memories of someone you love becoming synonymous with the very concept of memory.

Centaur.
I recorded this piece several months ago and then it just plain never made it onto the previous CDs, which is a shame, because it has a very nice flow to it. It crossbreeds several of my favourite themes to become a plea for a constant love and an admission of a need for companionship.

Slitoris.
Okay, I can be a sick and deranged soul when the spirit is upon me. This very arch work dovetails nicely with "Cut Me" and has to deal, as does that piece, with a darker element in my sexuality.

Cut Me
See "slitoris" above. The music behind this piece plays out like something from an old gothic horror movie.

Rivers of Resurrection
A melange of several works, very ethereal, very magical.

sleep
There's a comfort and a menace to this work, I still find it a little creepy. See if you agree when you hear it.

I want the fire
You can hear on this one where my voice wasn't sure if I needed to just read it, or sing. I compromised and the resultant timbre of my voice seems to be communicating a puzzled urgency, a certain resolve in the face of a lost path.

Bright and Deadly
My, we are dark on this CD, aren't we. Monster guitar and some no-nonsense vocals seek a truce.

Mantichore
Originally this was an instrumental (unique to my CDs)...but during a listening session, the words came and the words cannot be refused.

Wailing Wall
I don't know what happened here to make this what it is. It's like when the microphone came on the Robert Plant within me made a run for it.

Horizon
I like this. Very gentle, very fluid.

Skyscraper Ambition
Okay, let me explain this one. There's this woman. She's very tall...

32fps2
This may very well end up being the last piece on the CD, because of the way it ends, both structurally and thematically.

Golden Apples
Se "Skyscraper Ambition", above.

Burning in this chosen sphere
In the beginning was the word, and the word was hot. Or, as the lady herself says, "strong". There is a masculinity to the sexuality in this piece that seemed like a great balance of lust and dreams.

So that's my meander on the tracks...I hope you enjoy "Amomancer: nightblooming" when it comes out on the 24th.

Some people have asked me the hidden meaning in the name...well, there's this flower that blooms at night and I would lay awake in Venice Beach and inhale the beauty. Flash forward a few years and there's this woman that blooms at night...

the romantique and the muse

The muse known as "nightblooming" or perhaps "nightbloom" had not read my blog in a few days before granting assent for the final concept and cover of the new CD...a few hours after she granted it she flashed me an email (not flashed me IN an email, which would have been nicer, as she has an incredible body) and quoted my own words to me

"Still playing tug-of-war with a muse regarding the podcast and the CD...eventually I'll just give up in disgust"

and just asked "Really?"

And I had a moment there where I could have said the absolutely best thing politically, or I could truthspeak. I had to tell the truth, the last person I want or even can to lie to is a muse (even one from Salinas). So I explained that I have never been legend for my patience, and that her taking her time to consider if she wanted the whole CD to revolve around her and feature her photo on the cover was pushing off the schedule such that I would have to eventually decide whether or not to make the package and concept just more generic.

I am not sure she believed me. All she has seen from me is patience and restraint, she hasn't seen me when the dragon is upon me (the funny thing is, knowing her tastes, she might actually like the dragon a bit more than the gentleman-saint-philosopher-poet who listens to her when even the very essence of her issues cuts deep, as that is what one does). I don't believe in being selfish and the very notion of rejecting someone just because they don't think/feel/act in this moment as you wish they would is perverse to me.

Long time observers, don't worry. Smart money is she'll eventually wear me down and join the ranks of the legends of the past, even if she remains a friend who from time to time calls upon me for advice or just to catch up. I have never fallen out of love: I have just learned, in time, my own sanity requires the book be closed and placed upon the shelf in its proper place.

To quote the final line of my very tortured "threnody for times now past", which was the poem I wrote to break with Psyche:

"the seed still lives. but the shoots are now trimmed to encourage proper growth."

One day, perhaps, those words will not mark the boundaries of my heart. Until then, I must never be so afraid of falling that I am afraid to leap from the highest towers of hope and passion and earnest affection.

the tracklist for Amomancer

Some of these pieces you have encountered before, some not, but here they are, in no particular order, the 16 tracks that will make up

Amomancer:
nightblooming:

Enchante
the taste
Centaur
Slitoris
Cut Me
Rivers of Ressurection
sleep
I want the fire
Bright and Deadly
Mantichore
Wailing Wall
Horizon
Skyscraper Ambition
32fps2
Golden Apples
Burning in this chosen sphere

It is excessively kick-ass and I want to thank everyone for their contribution. If I die on September 25th, I will have done all any mortal could have dreamt. And dared.

And to the question of who or what is "nightblooming"? She is a lady. And to her beauty and spirit I dedicate this effort.

and the CD title is...

Amomancer:
nightblooming
Thanks to the amazing Lucy Gringotts for the cover photo of the muse herself, and to the muse for her inspiration and patience.
Remember, 09/24/2007. Time to find out what blooms at night in my garden.

the origin of a song

a new poem arrived this morning...I have fired it off to the guys to see what we want to do with it, musically. My first instinct is something hard-edged and aggressive, but something painfully, tauntingly slow might make a nice counterpoint to the blatant, brutal lyrics.

I want to thank, totally, the lady who inspired it (but I will spare her the scrutiny of using her name here).

The title of the poem is "Burning in this chosen sphere" and it is about out of control passion made manifest.

I won't publish it before the CD comes out on the 24th.

Oops! Did I let that slip?

Henry, you knew it long before I

Spent some serious time in the studio last night, working towards a new cut for the new CD, entitled "Golden Apples". It is very interesting in the evolution of the sound and the words merging. There's a part about a minute in when you will hear the lushest, most complex layered sounds my output has demonstrated.

Still don't have a title for the CD...muse problems. Heh. What else is new?

And now in the 4th day waiting for approval for the podcast from last weekend...at this rate I'll be posting next weekend's podcast before last weekend's gets up (this coming weekend's podcast has a special theme also linked to a muse, but this one is not waiting on a woman's whim).

"I could have conquered Europe - all of it - but I had women in my life." - Henry II, "The Lion in Winter"

patience of a saint?

Wow, brutal 36 hours...I was quite ill yesterday, then my ex got brained by an air conditioning unit on her airplane (I am not making this up) necessitating tests to make sure it was nothing more than a mild concussion.

Still playing tug-of-war with a muse regarding the podcast and the CD...eventually I'll just give up in disgust, this must be one of those neurotic love events that Karen Horney wrote about, where I am being challenged to prove my patience and affection.

Sigh.

Chapter One

Someting clicked and this just arrived. It's a short chapter, the first chapter in a novel I am working on, yet unnamed.
====================

The colours were never more obvious than when they were gone. The memory was vivid. Too vivid. Like the aftertaste of something that was sweeter than the original taste.

Dan opened his eyes and spent a long, slow moment studying the pattern of the ceiling, those little dabs and ridges of plaster or whatever that Dan had never figured out how they made. Probably something elegantly simple, like the way a blender works.

Then he inhaled. He inhaled and for the moment was lost in a memory, as the eddies of night blooming jasmine that had slipped in through the window from the street outside now filled his nostrils, his lungs, his heart. With a great heaviness.

She wasn’t there. The scent told him that. The coolness of the bed. The angle of the mattress. The ache in his being.

She hadn’t been there for days. Maybe weeks. It was late and he was tired and he had lost track of the calendar’s relentless march. If this was the 17th, she had been gone a week. But was it the 17th? If it was after midnight and yesterday was the 17th, she had been gone 8 days. Was it the 18th?

Eight long bastard days with long bastard nights when the coolness of the bed and the scent of the night blooming jasmine had mutilated Dan’s soul.

He closed his eyes and wept.
====================

despair

I am home today with a minor case of "I feel so crappy I think I'll just sleep until my voice comes back and I stop hurting".

But as I ascended the stairs to get a drink, I was meandering in my head and I heard clearly the line:

"I am sick, old, fat, broke, unloved and reviled, but at least I've got.."

Hmmmm...let me think. Count your blessings.

Uh oh...taking too long. The Benadryl has slowed down the mental processes to sub-light speed, this is bad.

Funny this should happen on Ann's birthday, this crisis of ego. I have two marriages in the lost column, one of my children is ambivalent towards me, one of the others is only this side of openly hostile. I have a child and spousal support weight that would crush Donald Trump and the last six months have played hob with my waistline.

Hey, I still have my hair. Okay, good start. Even if it is mostly silver-white.

I have nine books published. Never thought I'd get that far, even if some of them I published myself (I am a control freak...the downside to that is, when something goes wrong I have no one to blame but myself).

I still have my wisdom teeth. Boy, we are reaching, aren't we?

I have options. Not all the ones I had when I was twenty-five and more alive, but in many ways, better options, options with some life wisdom earned of bad choices to play from. Okay, we're getting somewhere.

The illness will pass in a day or two. The weight is coming down. Can't stop aging without just dying. Cash flow is improved, even if 65% goes to my support duties I signed up for when I leapt into the arms of a panther that didn't stick around to catch me. Ouch. Let's move on.

Love happens. Yes, I may have a bad habit of becoming attracted to emotionally or legally unavailable women, but that's always been that way. I love it when you give up, finally, as I have done before, then a few days/weeks/months/years later they confess they wanted you to keep trying.

I am not an invalid. I have no fatal or chronic medical conditions. Although recently untested, I have every indication my lovemaking abilities are unimpaired by age. My car runs. I have a small, loyal cadre of friends and admirers, and I have the sense that I am doing the right thing, overall, doing right by those around me. And God likes me, even as S/he chuckles sometimes at my follies.

All right now. That's better.

Despair is a fleeting thing. And I love beating it into the ground.

Ha!

September 10th

Happy Birthday, Ann. I hope you are happy, healthy and safe.

Peace.

Huerta

Well, if I ever want to listen to my head implode, I now know what to do.

I just got through recording this week's podcast. It's good. But it isn't up yet. I am waiting for approval.

Approval? You ask...

Yes, this week's show isn't me reading (or singing) my poetry. It's me reading some poetry by my protege Huerta. Dark, intense, erotic, brittle words (none written to me, dammit). But a mentor must play his role properly and in accordance with his place, so I sat in front of the microphone, pouring out her soul and scars left by her passion for and betrayal by other men.

Man, that's brutal-rough. I've got this much to say: If her poetry moves the people who hear and read it 1/10th as much as it moves me...she's set for life and immortality.

Me, I feel like an insect, impaled on a pin in an ether jar.

the Blogthings personality test

I took "The World's Shortest Personality Test" at Blogthings.com, and here's what it said about me:

Your Personality Profile

You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong.

The World's Shortest Personality Test

Spot on, IMHO (ha!). By the way, Jazz, did I ever mention that the Panther was Italian? Yes, we have all had our Italian moments. You know what Rod Stewart said in the song...

awakened...not yet

Awakened from this life, I dream. It is the title of a poem of mine from a few years back. The title was with me today as I went about my responsibilities.

I can interpret it two ways: When I die, I will live a dream...or...when I dream I am awakened from this life.

But, I really don,t want to be awakened from this life...it is exciting, and challenging and there is yet much to do,

Time to dream harder dreams and bend and shape the world to more my liking and the general welfare.

Saturday and the sun is rising soon

I am pleased to announce that one of the upcoming installments of my podcast From Out of the City will feature my friend and protege Huerta. Just in an odd manner.

More shy than most, the lady has asked me to actually do the readings of several of her works. Don't know if this ancient gringo dude can do justice to a young, dark spitfire from south of the border, but I love a challenge.

I am going to a family reunion today, first time my boys wil have crossed paths with many from my side of the family in years (one of the unfortunate side-effects of divorce), then to deliver in-person birthday greetings (a day late) to my maternal grandmother, who turned 96 yesterday.

I also hope to link up with Dan McTaggart and a certain lovely who has been stamping her stylishly-shod feet for my attention. Nothing quite like foot stomping and tight jeans to get my notice. No, I am not stepping out on a muse, just helping a friend who happens to be female...and young, and fit, and have this rather saucy Belgian accent.

Then back to reality and my podcast and the next stage edits on the books and CDs. What else? Oh yeah: WVU Mountaineers, please be so kind as to kick the crap out of the Thundering Turds of Marshall today. A fifty-point spread would be acceptable.

echoes

There are days I feel like Hartigan.

Obscure reference? I don't think so, at least not in my circles.
And I am even the same age as the actor who played him.

the complex

I had a friend. Mark that, HAVE a friend, who had been pulling away of late. So I asked her what was up and she told me they had been on a bit of downward spiral.

I've seen downward spirals. Downward spirals of self-immolative madness that end in total derailment of one's life, even jail or death. Having been married at one time to a woman in active addiction I know a lot of people who have been to dark corners. I spent a fortune on counselors, treatments and even the occasional lawyer for a DUI (yes, the irony is not lost on me). Many of my best friends in LA are recovering addicts, mostly as she had trouble hanging with people who didn't understand the process and the program.

One of my best friends from high school died a few years back of AIDS. He was an alcoholic and had been on a bit of self-destructive spiral when he became infected. He started letting his friends back into his life only as the end approached. I watched him die and tried to sort out whe and where I might've been a better friend to him, perhaps even keeping him from this end.

I have a reflex to jump in and save peopl when they start to fall. The Superman suit in the back of my closet gets used a bit too often, in most people's opinions. But what do you do when someone you care about is spiraling down? Walk away? (Pop psycjologists and dangerous amateurs will tell you yes, to avoid making them (and you) co-dependent, but this negates human nature and, yes, Christian doctrine ("Yes, Jesus, you know that if you sacrifice yourself for the sins of all mankind they will just keep being assholes, you're just letting them off the hook for their conduct," I am sure some well-meaning person who had learned some buzzwords for $24.95 at Borders Books said to him...))

So, back into the suit? Yeah, I know, she's a friend and beautiful and dark and we all know where that usually ends up (as James Taylor sang "Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground"). My ex (the addict) once told me I didn't love her enough because I helped other people, she confused my charitable impulse with my passion for her, and I learned in that moment that she didn't want me, the man, the poet, but me, the champion, all for herself. Nice, but twisted.

The heroic impulse is a pain in the ass, it is an addiction. Like most addictions, it cascades and grows. Once you save one person, you have to save another, then small groups, finally armies and nations. It doesn't stop. Good comes out of, for sure, but it takes a mighty toll on the guy in the suit. I am at the point in my life where I have options, to wear the suit or not, to walk away and trust to my legacy to do some good, or to get involved (often a thankless role, anyway). But how do you walk away from someone in real pain, when something you might do or say (even by passively listening) might help them?

And she is beautiful.

Where'd I leave that effing cape?

September 24. And being compared on FaceBook.

Okay, after intense and deranged consultation with my chief advisors and contributors, I can tell you that one or both of the new CDs will drop on...

September 24.

I won't say which (if not both) at this time, but I will, in the podcast released that day, give you an inside look to several tracks with an eye towards making you unable to resist buying the bloody thing.

An amusing secondary note. I am on FaceBook, and one of the applications I have allowed myself to get lured into by lovely ladies is called "Compare Me", where you rate people and then they can see where they stand in the circle of acquaintances they thought were their friends.

At this point in time, within the votes cast by my circle of friends on FaceBook, here's the categories where I rate 1st, 2nd or 3rd:

1st
better listener (wha?)
prettier eyes (Nancy would be so proud)
rather have dinner with (you haven't seen me eat)
more naturally talented (eh. it also takes some work...)
rather kiss (I hope most of these votes come from women)
harder worker (I think psychotically workaholic would be more accurate)
crazier (than some of these friends? you have got to be kidding!)
rather live with (same bed or separate rooms?)

2nd
more tech-savvy (okay, I can find the "on" switch)
rather date (first date? second date? long relationship?)

3rd
cooler (yeah, ya got me there. but only third place?)
rather hang out with for a day (I'm better at night)
more outgoing (this lends itself to so many vulgar jokes it would be too easy)

So there you have it. If on FaceBook, join my circle of friends...and let me know what you think.

scheduling the podcast

Wrote a great deal yesterday, having found some untapped wellsprings of inspiration. Some decent stuff.

Also, working on a schedule...stop looking at me like that, yes, a schedule for the podcasts this fall...actually programming in advance.

I want to get more guests back into the studio...I got so frustrated last year with having to babysit egos and opportunities that I got away from that.

So, keep your eyes and ears open.

considering next week's podcast

I am considering having a program where I don;t read my works, but some of the authors whose works I have read but are too shy to read on the program might contribute by allowing me permission to read their works...

whaddaya say, kids?

facing the truth about Iraq

I have long stood by my definition that evil is just error compounded with arrogance, an unwillingness to admit to our failures and mistakes.

Now, I have to use the word in earnest match to the news of the day.

After vowing to allow the truth to guide his hand in determining the risk at which he places our sons and daughter, brothers, sisters and fathers in the name of...well, whatever the excuse is this week to trade American blood for cajone points, President Bush has said he will not allow "fear or failure" to guide his decision to take our friends and families out of harm's way.

This makes him, in truth, a liar and a coward. And makes of him evil, in my definition.

Whether people rushed to invade a sovreign nation out of good intelligence or bad, arrogance or ignorance, the truth is that now we have a mess and thousands of our sons and daughters have paid with their blood. To not honor a principle higher than "plausible deniability", to not honor the last dwindling shreds of moral integrity, President Bush needs to keep his faith with the American people.

I admit my mistakes, that doesn't make me infallible, it just keeps me from evil.

Enchante is up!

The new podcast is up...fourteen minutes and 25 seconds in length, discussing the latest video of "Darfur (Jesus Wept)' and presenting the new piece from William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love, entitled 'Enchante' (and yes, it is for the lady Jazz).

Radio City of Legends

Enjoy!

evolution of a poet

Just wrapped a recording session for the new CD...as the final screams of the guitar faded in my ears I couldn't help but quote the legendary Jerry LaCroix of Edgar Winter's White Trash:

"If you feel like letting it out then, hot damn, let it out!"

It felt good.

Jesus Wept

Man, that was exciting. I was heading over to YouTube to grab the link to one of my videos, when I found that someone had done a re-envisioning of my video for "Darfur (Jesus Wept)". It is much better, and I am wholly flattered that someone took the time and trouble to build it (but this is the first I had heard of it!)

Check it out yourself, if you like:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSsmppqEgNw

To answer a question addressed in the comments left to this video, the use of the term "Jesus Wept" is not just to lay a Judeo-Christian undertone to the situation, it is also significant from a literary standpoint, as the shortest verse of the Bible, and one that shows that even the divine, in whatever form you embrace, is moved by suffering.

But if a nation like the US, so big on beating its breast and calling itself Christian, does not react, how deep runs the hypocrisy?

updating the Amomancer

I received several emails yesterday from readers and listeners asking about the upcoming CDs...and while I will not and cannot tell everything, I can tell you where "Amomancer" currently stands.

I am awaiting approval on theme and cover (if you know me, you know what this means: I only wait on "muses"). Barring a major shift or my resigned petulance, expect there to be a subtitle to the CD's title. The first draft of the cover is quite nice, too.

The contents: I am still evaluating tracks, but here is the majority of the list of those under consideration:

Enchante
the taste
slitoris
Centaur
Cut Me
Mantichore
Rivers of Resurrection
sleep
sixfold eloquences
wailing wall
bright and deadly
horizon
I want the fire
skyscraper ambition
32fps2

Most are single-poem works. Notable exceptions: "sixfold eloquences", which has, not surprisingly, 6 poems, and "Manticore", which is an instrumental!

Most of the pieces under consideration have a darker turn towards, well, darkness. There is undeniable eroticism in a few selections, and the recent twist into a blackened passion is evident in many places.

My buggest challenge? The muse. And, some engineering challenges on "sixfold eloquences", which is a bit dry for my tastes in the current cut.

above room temperature

settle for your mediocrities.
this metal may be too hard to work
at the temperatures you can survive
and the club foot god would drive
you away with the heat and fury
of something more immortal
than the pale herb infusion you sip
in fear that you may trip and slip
into something larger than your doubts.
shouts and gouts of passions that burn and churn
and earn you a life above room temperature.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

"It's a long road."
"Well, and it is paved with blood and fire and sharp shards of lost souls."
"Well, that goes without saying."