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.