staring through the glare, she is there. and she shines.

The title line is a poetic fragment.

It is driving me crazy. The fragments of poetry flitting in and out of my awareness as my preconscious processes and propagates the phrase "she shines".

Who is "she"? What does it mean "shines"? Is she an abstraction, an amalgam, a prophecy or a singular woman from my past or present? Elements of the poems that are whispering themselves to me bear elements of any of several ex-lovers: Nancy's brilliance and grace, Jan's intellect and sense of humour, Ann's beauty and fragility, Brigit's charisma and cunning, Karla's vulnerability and talent. All goddesses, all. All shone (shined? did shine?) and shine on.

Perhaps I am just flashing on the whole. Or perhaps, perhaps I am extracting an archetypal menu for my next all-consuming passion.

Perhaps. Perhaps. But, regardless of what it means or how well I express it, she shines.

Whoever the hell "she" is.

Ozymandias of Orlando

There are climate scientists who say that one day Florida will be a sun-and-wind-blasted desert. Reflecting on all the theme parks down there now (including the newly announced Hogwarts theme park in honor of the Harry Potter books and films), made me wonder...what will future days see?

Here's a reflection on this, with apologies to Shelley:

Ozymandias of Orlando

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two thin and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose smile
And outsized eyes and look of pure delight
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on plastics burnt and curled,
The dog that loved them and the duck of dread.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Mickey, welcome to Disney World:
This is the happiest place of Earth!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, lifeless and dearth,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

It will be a shame when all that is left is all that is left.

capturing the instant of epiphany

A few days ago, I was driving down the road when a phrase leapt out of the ether, kicked me repeatedly in the brain pan, and made a desperate move to exit the vehicle through an open vent.

Not being so easily evaded, I grabbed a pen from my sleeve cuff (yes, I wear my pens in my sleeve cuff...it is convenient and I always know how many pens I have on me) and scribbled it down on one of those stray sheets of paper I keep on my passenger seat. If a young woman occupies that seat she always runs the risk of having poetry written on her thighs. Ask a muse sometime. I have written classic works on all manner of body parts.

So I captured the thought and continued on my way. The memory faded. Then earlier today I was cleaning the mess up and ran across a two word phrase written on the back of a stray piece of paper. I immediately remembered how it go there.

But now, it is loose inside me. The reflection of my thoughts reinforces them, even traps them...and now the two word phrase is loose...whispering, shouting, screaming, barking, laughing itself at me around every corner of my labyrinthine soul.

"She shines".

I wonder what it means, and what will come of it.

rumination on a solitary life

Just passed, four days ago, what would have been my 27th wedding anniversary. Passed what would have been the 9th for my second marriage a few months back.

Will I get a third shot? Yes, if I take that risk. I believe, fervently, in the institution, as I joke that since the average US marriage only lasts 5 years, my 17 year and six year marriages are actually successful.

I've shied away from a few entanglements over the last few years...a combination of scar tissue and a sense that this time it has to be on my terms, not me just falling for someone who managed to slip into my bed to barter their affections for rescue from a problem. My Mother has been wrong about many things, but not this: I tend to take on, not girlfriends, but projects.

Maybe I, as an artist, need the drama. Maybe I, as an "heroic" personality type, need the element of rescue to validate my worthiness. Maybe I just attract the damaged.

I leave it to my future biographers to judge. In my memoirs I blend the three.

Yes, the intensity of a twisted life gets my adrenaline and protective instincts surging, invoking my testosterone.

Yes, having always held grave and determined doubts about my own value as a human being, I need the sense of worthiness. To ask someone to love me means I must have done something worthy of their affection. Rescuing a damsel from her own demons and dangers makes me feel adequate.

And finally, as so many have come for me, instead of the other way around, perhaps I just tend to attract individuals who are damaged, who are looking for a kind and passionate man who will treat them like a goddess and love them for whom they are, scars and all.

All in all, there is an argument o be made that I am, psychologically, a mess. But it is the putting of that bundle of hyperspeed madness to good purpose, as fire gives its power to the blacksmith, that makes me who and what I am and makes me capable of extraordinary things.

Even if I will live out my days alone.

Summer blockbuster roulette

My sons and I, along with my ex, have attended the three big blockbusters to have opened so far this year, and were discussing the remaining films.

First off, to the three already opened, I think were well all satisfied with SPIDER-MAN 3, SHREK 3 and PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: AT WORLD'S END (actually POTC 3).

But I posed a question to them all: If you could only go see one of the remaining three tentpole releases for the summer, would it be FANTASTIC FOUR: THE RISE OF THE SILVER SURFER, TRANSFORMERS or HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX (actually, what is this, HP 5? 6? I lost count!)

My ex, being a devoted Pottermaniac, voted for ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, as did one one of my sons. My other son voted for TRANSFORMERS, which surprised me. I? Being a comic geek who even once was given a tryout as a writer at Marvel by none other than Stan "The Man" Lee, himself, I back FF.

It will be interesting to see how the summer films fare.

Sorry, slight digression from the poetry...I do have a life, you know.

A Memorial Day reflection by a pacifist

As a pacifist, I am from time to time called upon to explain myself. In a nation where the Bible and the flag have, in many eyes, blurred into a single monolithic "God and country" icon, often.

There is a difference between this world and the next. A clear and distinct difference. Certainly the actions we take in this world echo in the next. And those actions need be guided by principles.

Even as there are those who interpreted at one time the fact that Paul the Apostle, in his letter to the runaway slave Philemon encouraged him to return to his owners, that the Bible supported slavery, so are there are those who mistake, misinterpret, and even distort the guiding principles of our faith to more prgamatic ends.

"There were two reasons why I didn't want to go to war. My own experience told me it wasn't right, and the Bible was against it too...but Uncle Sam said he wanted me, and I had been brought up to believe in my country."

Those are the words of Sargeant Alvin york, the World War I Congressional Medal of Honor winner, who was pressured strongly to bring his squirrel hunting skills to bear as a sniper for the US Army in that conflict. He eventually did, and spent much of the rest of his life trying to explain the conflict within himself over his decision.

It is a tough decision to take anyother person's life. So tough that the modern military employs tested and true psychological conditioning methods as part of its training to try and take the morality and the realization of what is being done away from the conscience and consciousness of the recruit. I understand the practical reasons for this. I do not think a man or woman who enlists in the military is a killer or un-Christian, but I think they surrender a part of their soul, their humanity, in order to chose flag over cross.

I do believe that, if we are indeed labouring for the afterlife, and not the here and now world, that I could not reconcile the taking of another man's life, even one who had taken up arms against me or my country, without violating the will of my God. Given the choice between George S. Patton and Mohandas Gandhi, between Rambo and Jesus Christ, my path and obligation is clear.

I thank those who have given their lives out of love for their country, this Memorial Day, and respect their legacies and their sacrifices. But I do not, will not, and cannot blaspheme by placing country on the same level of priority or motivation as the will of God.

Our Children Lie at Arlington

grey stone for colours, washed by rain,
to cleanse away a questioned stain
of politician's mad refrain.
our children lie in Arlington.

slain by foe or friendly fire
when serving out Homeland's desire
that they may future truths inspire.
our children lie at Arlington.

martyrs to both right and might
in dawn's first light and darkest night
they did not question leader's fight.
our children lie at Arlington


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Sunday evening at an angle

Cranking up the iTunes, selecting a playlist that opens with ABC's brilliant peaen to Motown master Smokey Robinson, "When Smokey Sings". Trying to get the scent back. I've been too distracted these last several days.

Sliding into "The Hook" by Blues Traveller. I slapped together the list to create a wall of sound. Living in the family room and being surrounded by two hyperactive teenagers addicted to video games, as well as a puppy in the midst of housebreaking, it is tough to find time to do much of anything but react to my environment.

And people wonder why my creative output has achieved what I perceive as a nadir. I don't resent the situation, I am like some four-dimensional storage battery; if I go without outlet for a time, I just explode later, hotter and brighter than before. It is my nature. All my major suppressive phases have been followed by blooms of unprecedented colour and fire and flavour.

But I miss the voice, the light, the sense that I can close my eyes and like Isaac the painter on "Heroes", just surrender to the power, my eyes glazing over as I attune myself to my preconscious rhythms.

"Tangled Up in Blue" is echoing in my ears. Bob Dylan has to be the archetype of the modern poet-turned-musician. His works are poetic, in the classic sense, and having started really as a club poet...he retained the truth of his voice. When I was young I didn't "get" him. As I matured, I recognized what was there: Authenticity.

Hold it, poetry leak:

all the angels

damn you and your beauty
for the curving of my space
I wonder if you could ever see
the mirror's envy of your face

caught in angles argent
and showing fairest trace
of what births passions regent
in those who seek your grace

all the angels speak of you
in whispers bright and clear
all the angels speak of you
as every moment draws me near


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Sometimes this week I need to author a new graduation poem. It is about that time.

Just finished Matthew Sweet: "Girlfriend". Now Neil Young and "Rockin in the Free World".

Why not now?

Graduation Poem

brace yourself for our embrace
tomorrows yet to come
we're on our way to find our fates
we are not where we are from.
but we take with us an essence,
a scent of where we've laid,
to carry as a reminder
as your futures we invade


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Hey, here's a picture of Morgantown High School, where I attended. You know, I have never been invited to speak there. I have spoken in dozens of schools, coast to coast: High schools, colleges, middle schools, even elementary schools...but never at my alma mater. Sad and strange but...life is made up of all flavours of sweet and sour, salty and bitter.

Pink just serenaded me with "Just Like a Pill"...

finishing up this escape with Prince's "The Pope".

Jaz who?

Happy Belated Birthday to Jaz.

Yeah, I'm in hot water for forgetting...but it is a shallow pool, at worst, and I have tiptoed through worse straits.

silence is...unusual for me

I've been very quiet, I know. Sorry. I have been busy.

New job. New puppy. New projects. Oh, yeah, and the season finales for "Lost" and "Heroes".

Such is life.

I am still very disappointed that I will not get to be at the Frontiers in Writing conference for the Texas Panhandle Professional Writers' Association in two weeks. I promised them I'd try to make it next year.

I have reaffirmed my commitment to this year go for a World's Record via Guinness, for "Longest Solo Poetry Reading by a Single Author". They are evaluating my application. If they give it the "go", I will probably be going for the attempt in August under the auspices of the kind people at Barnes & Noble, in Morgantown, as I owe them for all the kindnesses extended.

There does not seem to be an established record for that throat-brutalizing effort. I anticipate it will take 10-12 hours to set a worthy benchmark. Most poets do not write enough in their life to read for that long. I have a book (The Compleat Panther Cycles) that by itself should be worth 9-10 hours of marathon reading.

We shall see how it goes.

Love

"Love is for poets."

Or so intones Christopher Lambert in "Highlander". Some would agree with him, I suspect. There is scarcely a thought in the universe that someone doesn't hold as a key sacred article to their existence.

I believe in love. Not just for poets. And before you condemn me as an anti-intellectual, an unmodern man, I am not ignorant of the biological, physiological and pharmacological/chemical bases for what we call love. Indeed, when I do war within myself, that is a favourite topic of my cynical side to throw at me.

Love makes us stronger, better, purer. It awakens our sense, gives us a will to endure, and ennobles us.

Surely more than just poets need these things and certainly in the world we live in, if everyone, from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high embrace love in all of its colours, shades, hues, designs, style and trappings, this world would be a better place.

Yes, for the poets, too. The fact that I have exiled the romantic side of me from my daily existence for so long does take its toll on me, creatively, physically, emotionally, spiritually. As a man who has built his adult life around find and worshipping the goddesses of his sphere, an agnostic existence is brutal, self-flagellation of a sort.

My friend, Thomas, says I am the most fearless man he ever met. But in my eyes, I am a coward. Hiding from that which defines me because of one wound long healed but not forgotten. How do you trust when the lips of truth are hushed by those who will tell you, in the moment, what gains them what they want, but at the expense of those they swear to love.

What of promises made, not in the moment, but on immortal oaths?

I cannot and will not answer for others, as I cannot and will not know they hearts and souls and the roles they are destined to.

I can but answer for my own heart. And I, for one, believe.

Jimmy Carter, Christian

Hey, did you hear? The Bush Administration has declared former President Jimmy Carter as "Irrelevant".

Yeah, I can see where a man who criticizes your administration is irrelevant. I mean, if the founder of one of the most respected charitable organizations in the world (Habitat for Humanity), the broker of the only sustained peace between Middle East rivals (The Camp David Accords, between Egypt and Israel) and Nobel Peace Prize winner criticized my conduct of a war that I started, I'd say he was irrelevant, too.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God." - Matthew 5:9 in the Holy Bible you so like to claim to follow, Mr. Bush.

Jimmy Carter was not a very effective President, but he is a man of God. A Peacemaker. There is some question as to whether a real son of God can be an effective President, as we ask our leaders to do horrible things to protect us. Some do these things reluctantly, knowing that there is a spiritual trade-off in doing them. Some seem to enjoy the violent, perverse hypocrisy of it.

I guess to some people, being earnest and wise in one's faith would be "irrelevant". Honestly seeking more than the mere label of the faith, but to understand and follow it: That's tough. And all the swaggering, photo-op BS in the White House will not indemnify Bush's reputation from the carrion feeders of history.

Peace making and truth speaking. They have never been more relevant. Or rare.

Poetic menage a trois

The podcast for May 20, 2007 is now up and available at Radio City of Legends.

This week's offering features readings of three works:

*the taste of a shy smile - Done "naked".

*Uriah - With percussion and some filtering.

*I want the fire - Accompanied by The Gods of Love.

All in all, loads of fun this week. Enjoi.

Catching up

I know, I know. I have been distracted. But I will try to make it up over the next several days.

First off, in case you hadn't heard, I will not be attending Frontiers in Writing (FiW), the Texas Panhandle Writers' Association convention in June. Some personal scheduling issues have come up I have to deal with. I wish them the best and hope to attend next year. And maybe they'll ask me back to help in the judging of their chapbook contest again? That would be nice.

I read with interest both the commentary by Ronald S. Martin and the vitriolic response to Ron Paul's Republican debate remarks regarding our complicity in the 9/11 attacks. I agree with both of them that pretending we have never done anything to annoy anyone in the Middle East is childish, ignorant and irresponsible. Rudy Giuliani's flag-waving and self-serving pre-scripted pounce on Paul's statement did nothing to help him in my eyes.

Of course, now that "Focus on the Family" founder James Dobson has decided to live down to his legacy and endorse individuals who violate most of Jesus' teachings regarding violence, tolerance and love, while applying his own subtle political logic to condemn Giuliani for his consitutionally-defensible stand on abortion rights while backing a serial adulterer like Newt Gingrich, Giuliani will probably need all the blinder-enhanced help he can get. Pulpit politicians are second only to oil interests at this time in owning the Republican Party. No wonder Michael Bloomnerg is looking to shake things up by investing $1 billion of his own money in a third-party run for the White House.

Al, get your running shoes on.

I had a long talk with my daughter yesterday concerning my publishing strategy and book sales (she's the assistant manager of a book store in California), as well as the eventual fate of my catalog upon my death (she and my boys share equal ownership of the whole black and bloody mess).

That's it for now. Looking to go see a movie later. See if you can guess which one.

The Falwell Joke

So many people did not know my Falwell joke referred to the other day and thought it must be something unspeakably vulgar or profane, I feel I must clear the air to avoid any whispered distortions.

This is a joke I authored several years ago and was meant to delineate the differences between the high-profile and generally right-wing, who teach the spiritual aspects of the actual teachings of Jesus.

Warning: This joke will be over most people's heads.

Jerry Falwell, Donald Wildmon, Hans Kung and Madalyn Murray O'Hair are in an inflatable life raft in the middle of the Atlantic, surrounded by hungry sharks. The boat is losing air and it is obvious that someone needs to go over the side or they will all perish.

Falwell and Wildmon discuss the matter and decide that O'Hair, being a Godless Atheist, must be the one. Kung intervenes and points out that if one of the Christians were to demonstrate the Christian virtues of selfless love, charity and sacrifice, perhaps Ms. O'Hair would reach an epiphany about God's love and come to her Lord.

Falwell and Wildmon agree and quickly toss Kung overboard.

That's the joke. Get it? No? That's okay.

Prince Harry's faded dreams of glory

www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/europe/05/16/iraq.harry/index.html

Seems that the British authorities have decided that one royal's life IS worth more than a common man's. Harry isn't going to be allowed to serve in Iraq because it might be dangerous for him.

Well, I mean, our President dodged the draft (as did most of his senior officials). I guess the illusion of equality under democracy has just taken another blow, this time in England. Here in the US, we have men who never went to war, wrapping themselves in a flag they could never have been bothered to defend, sending our sons and brothers (and nephews) to fight and die so that they can retire to massive profits in an oil industry that is poisoning the world and killing our children and grandchildren.

Beware. What profiteth a man...

the future of the podcasts

In future weeks I want to start getting guests back on the podcast "From Out of the City". I largely discontinued this practice after having several last-minute cancellations and the subsequent headaches and hassles trying to throw a quality show at the last minute.

I also am planning to do a "by request" reading podcast in the near future. I am asking that, if you have a favourite poem or poems of mine, leave a note here or drop me an email identifying it. I will be compiling the readings list from suggestions and requests.

Rev. Jerry Falwell has died

I see where Jerry Falwell has passed away. My condolences to his friends, family and admirers. It will be interesting to see what this does to those people who often mistook his political machinations for religious observance.

Will the loss of an undeniably popular voice of the "religious right" lead to a mid-source correction as second-tier pulpit politicians strive to succeed him? Only time will tell.

I do not think of him as a bad man, despite our differences on Christian fundamentals. I think he honestly and earnestly thought he was doing the right thing and was serving God as best he knew how (but the world is full of individuals and organizations that think they are doing right that I might quarrel with their methods or message).

Rest well, Reverend. I believe you will be remembered by those whose political and social views you influenced as a good and godly man. I did and will regard you as a man of God who meant well and served as he thought necessary. Which is more than I can say for most people.

And I'll stop telling my Jerry Falwell joke...

This and that on the Ides of May

I added my newsletter to the permanent links on the left, for those of you who want to be updated when things go down and get in on some of the special offers I've given to my subscribers over the years. It's maintained via Google Groups, and I have found it useful over the aeons.

I played "Wailing Wall" for my son Elric last night. I asked him if he recognized the band or the singer. He didn't. When I told him who it was he looked at me like I had grown another tail. Gratifying.

Yes, I am a "Heroes" junky. Yes, last night was a gratifying fix. Tense, but gratifying. Best moment? "Your last thought..." (or was it thoughts?) *BLAM!* Raise your hands, how many of you thought of the song "Montage" from "Team America: World Police" during Hiro's training sequence?

Yesterday my brother, David, had a birthday. Good on him. He has a great family and is a good guy.

I was thinking yesterday about my old friend Roz Warren, who was the head of Laugh Lines Press. I haven't heard from her in years. I wonder what she is up to? She always had strong views on Newt Gingrich. I bet she is following his flirtation with running for President with great antici-pation.

Poet on an OST?

Offered a chance to submit a piece (or two) for consideration for a film soundtrack (major studio film, casting around for fringe independent artists).

Pondering this. Not my usual cup of hemlock, but certainly intriguing. I have a few pieces that would certainly be competitive.

Maybe "Right Set of Lips"? No, "Strange but Beautiful".

Yeah.

What else? Maybe "Wailing Wall"? "the taste"? Or...even..."Wordslinger" or "Beasts of Legend"?

Down, boy.

Not quite as intriguing as hungry lips and eyes that speak of darkness and desire, but I am not untempted.

Gad, now I am thinking of lips and eyes. This whole monastic celibacy thing is getting old.

for all you Mothers...

It is up!

(sound of trumpets and heavenly choirs)

Okay, the Mother's Day installment of my internationally downloaded podcast, "From Out of the City" is now available at Radio City of Legends and will be available later today through Apple's iTunes Music Store (individual download or subscription, both are free...).

Enjoi!

Houston, we have a problem...

Just a quick note: It was my fervent intention to have the podcast up early this morning, but technical problems at archive.org have delayed us. As soon as is possible they will be fixing this...just hang tough and take your Mother to brunch for Mother's Day.

the new lyric

for you infidels who don't keep track of my new material on AD (Authors Den, for you heathens), here is the lyric to the new piece by myself and the incredibly awesome Gods of Love. I am, as I type this, listening to the final engineering on this song. Pretty freaking cool. Maybe I'll share it with you if you behave yourselves and offer me...hmmm...maybe something in a redhead, 5'10", exceptionally bright and funny and a huge admirer of poetry...

I want the fire


I want the fire. before I die.
I want to see it. in your eyes.
I want to feel it. on your thigh.
I want the fire. before I die.

I want to find a true release.
the truth within a given peace.
not folded cold. but a sacred crease.
I want to find a true release

I want the fire. before I die.
I want to see it. in your eyes.
I want to feel it. on your thigh.
I want the fire. before I die.

I want to know where stands your heart.
bound to me. or set apart.
be it Damocles. or Cupid's dart.
I want to know where stands your heart.

I want the fire. before I die.
I want to see it. in your eyes.
I want to feel it. on your thigh.
I want the fire. before I die.

I want to hear you say my name.
without regret. without shame.
confess your sins. end this game.
I want to hear you say my name

I want the fire. before I die.
I want to see it. in your eyes.
I want to taste it. between your thighs.
I want the fire. before I die.

before I die.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved. 

thought

I don't enjoy being called for things I've done wrong, but I understand and accept my punishment. I just hate it when I am falsely accused. Like I don't make enough mistakes on my own.

Isn't it a pity?

I'm slightly aggravated by the latest round of censorship debate. Now Sirius shock jocks "Opie and Anthony" are on the hook for a bit about a homeless man having rough sex with celebrities including Condeleeza Rice.

Offensive? Somewhat. But I sometimes wonder if society is taking the coward's way out and dealing with sideshow issues like radio shock jocks (like these guys and Don Imus) instead of taking on real meaty issues. Drugs. Rape. Terrorism. Domestic violence. War. Cultural, racial and religious intolerance. Teen pregnancy. AIDS. Darfur. The Global Climate Crisis (no matter what Geraldo-clone John Stossel says, the consensus of those who do more than style their hair before they go on the air is that it is real). Governmental corruption.

All, and more, more important than bad taste comedy or what words a desperate comedian will stoop to.

As I writer, I value words. I understand their power. They are tools and weapons of change, imbued with great power. Power that is often abused by the mighty and the weak. By the bold and the craven. By those who seek power and those who already have it.

But if you are more afraid of what is said than what is done, if a smartass comment makes you react with greater fear and righteous indignation than the death of our sons and fathers overseas and the genocide in the Sudan and the horrific spectre of climate gone against us, I feel sorry for you.

Indeed, to use the word that is most obscene in my vocabulary, I pity you.

Pity.

Now that's a dangerous word. Because it means I am taking you as an inferior when I pity you. And that offends me, to think I would think of someone as less than me. We are all equal in God's eyes, God who is perfect and omniscient. But God has the luxury of a heart of infinite love, something I lack. And when I see all the suffering and pain and tragedy we ignore in the name of these pathetic, silly trifles of forced play-morality, I get angry.

And that anger turns to pity.

And I pity myself, for having lost my faith, if even for a moment.

this was a cola nut...

I am now well into my sixth day without caffeine. This caps my old record of 4 days. Usually I give in when the headaches start on the second day.

Weird. I can only imagine what will happen if I accidentally get some (or get thirsty and down a big can of Jolt).

My energy level does not seem to be appreciably lower. I'm sleeping better.

Prepping for Mother's Day

Gearing up for this weekend's podcast...something, I trust, with a Mother's Day flavour, and I'll try to post it Saturday evening, so all you mothers can get to it on the day.

Air conditioning went out yesterday...and it was hot and humid last night. Reminded me of the days in Venice...except the heat and humidity wasn't weather-induced.

Time to get back into the stream, I suspect.

American Idol Underground...is it ready for the Amomancer?

I wonder how many people would try out for American Idol if they had to pay an entry fee? Would several of our best competitors from this and past season be left out of the mix?

I don't know. It seems reasonable to assume. At least some of the more incerdibly bad contestants might not have shown up. Then again, money is not purely the province of the sane and the talented.

But here I am, pondering. American Idol Underground has been launched and for a small fee they will put your song into the mix, guaranteeing a certain level of listeners and a shot at...er, not sure. Maybe I need to go back and read the details.

My biggest issue isn't whether or not I'd like to throw in (or throw up). My problem is which recording to use. So if anyone can tell me whether they think I'd do more damage with "DARFUR (Jesus Wept)", or "Strange but Beautiful", or "Right Set of Lips" or even the (gulp) "Wailing Wall", I would love to get some opinions. I would probably be strongest in the "spoken word" category...but I am a little hard to genre lock.

The Internet Archive: now a library

I have just been informed that The Internet Archive (www.archive.org) has been declared a public library by the State of California.

This means the kind souls who have been hosting my podcast files, dozens of hours of my audio and the free online edition of "The Compleat Panther Cycles" (link at left) is now eligible for certain classes of Federal funding.

Way to go guys.

Paris Hilton and Genocide

I laughed myself ironically mad the other day, hearing how the media are wringing their hands over the fact that young women idolize Paris Hilton. The media made Paris Hilton. If the evening "entertainment news" programs stopped pimping her, if "E!" stopped promoting her, she'd be over in 15 minutes. They are deciding we want to hear about her.

We don't.



On an unrelated but coincidental point, the SaveDarfur.org campaign to draw attention to the fact that Fidelity Investments is doing what it can to help support genocide in the name of profit by continuing to invest "for the good of their clients" in the Sudan has launched. Think 1939. Think Germany. Think of a better organization to trust with your money, lest it be tainted with the blood of innocents.

Insomnia

Almost 12:30 am, here on the East Coast. And I am wide awake. I needed. Needed. To be asleep two hours ago. Much to do tomorrow.

Sleep is not coming.

I have managed to work myself into a ball of stress. A rarity for me. All I can do is channel surf and try to relax.

No rest for the wicked? I laugh. Despite attempts by more than one person in this life to paint me as a villain, I am amongst the most harmless of God's creatures. Just a voice.

A voice on the wind.

And...tired.

New face of an old poet

You may note we changed the look and feel of the blog today.

No, Jaz, I did not do it for you to make up for mentioning the lovely Pink Jade yesterday.

I have been considering it (the redesign, not mentioning PJ) for some time, making it more link-friendly, but was afraid of how much work I'd be biting off converting the template at Blogger. Good news - it went smoothly.

So, enjoy the links to the left, including the direct link to get your free copy of The Compleat Panther Cycles (a $40.00 value).

If you have a poetry blog and want to be included, drop me a line...let me know, I love the company of my peers. They keep me insane in the nicest ways possible.

Cheesy web news

Wow. The web has reached a new level of excitement and vibrant energy. I mean, this is better than listening to Dick Cheney's arteries harden.

I give you, in all it's glory, Cheddar Vision.

Tha manufacturers of West County Farmhouse Cheddar Cheese now offer the world (the universe!) the opportunity to watch a cheese age.

No kidding. Take a look and see a live webcam view of a cheddar cheese block actually aging.

I am, in a word, dazzled.

Out of the blue...

Well, well, well. Guess who emailed me last night?

Alisha? No. Psyche? Unlikely. The Leopard? Ha! Brigit? Not out of the realm of expectations, but, no.

How about Pink jade?

Yes.

She just wanted to let me know that, despite her dropping off the radar a few years ago she is alive and well. I was glad to hear that. Too many people (hear that Goldenheart?) have chosen to walk away and into the mists, as if to preserve their mystique.

Good to know yet another muse thrives. Thanks for the kind words about my poetry, Milady Jade.

And thanks to everyone who is enjoying the new rock-god piece on my podcast. Yeah, it freaks me to listen to it, as well. I didn't know I had that voice in my kit bag.

The Poet Rocks Out

I've heard the song.

All I can say is lock you your daughters, your sisters, your wives, your mothers, your grandmothers, your nieces and all female relations between 18 and 85.

I think he's finally cracked the seal.

Radio City of Legends

Or cracked something. I am certainly startled, if not surprised. Izzy sounds in rare form on lead guitar, and I had no idea the poet was related to Robert Plant (his voice strangely conjures that heavy-metal resonance...I did not expect it...when I have heard him experiment with song he sounds more like David Bowie (I'm not kidding)).

Wailing Wall - The Poet Rocks Out

I considered having E.J. clue everyone in on this, then decided that the jury is still out on whether my greatest character flaw is cowardice or arrogance, I should dispel those rumours to the best of my ability.

In just a little while this week's podcast will go up. It is a good show, full of insight and poetry. It runs eighteen minutes and four seconds.

But at the 14:58 mark, or thereabouts, something odd happens. Instead of going to our closing musical outro...a rock drum starts...and you hear something that, since the dawn of creation has never been heard.

The Romantic Poet of the Internet rocks out.

No, I'm no rock god. My vocal talents are thing and my style is chameleonic, shifting for the musical style...never mastering a genre. But there is something compelling about me taking the testosterone up a few thousand RPMs and kicking out the jams with the Gods of Love.

So there is no debate to the lyrics...here they are, writ just for this song.

Wailing Wall

meet me at the wailing wall and hear the angels cry
time for crimes to to be repaid - time for us to die
the ice grows thin for all I've sinned and nothing left to lose
I've no excuse what I've loosed, for the vanities I choose

pains a stain I can't contain inside this fragile shell
I've met my fate without your hate despite the touch of hell
so where I go is for me to know and philosophers to debate
let me be gone before the dawn now that the hour's late

give me one last moment of bliss locked in your kiss
your sweet embrace and angel's grace are two things that I'll miss
I made my bed said what I said in search of answers rare
but doubt I would've found my path if you had not been there


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Giving aid to the enemy

Call me crazy, but the National Rifle Association's call to the White House to back down on supporting a bill that would allow the Attorney General to ban the sales of weapons to suspected terrorists is incredibly insane. Story

We are willing to put our men and women on the front lines in Iraq to fight and die long after there is any reasonable rationale for their presence, but we want terrorists who may have already infiltrated our shores to have free access to weapons?

Charlton Heston, have you lost your mind?

God is still not an American

I've been getting some rude comments and even a bit of hate mail over my old essay "God is Not and American" at Authors Den.

Come on, people. Do your research. Don't flag wave or misquote founding fathers to make a point that is counter-intuitive, historically indefensible and just plain wrong. I understand that a lot of people have sold out Christian principles in the name of political expediency, but if you want to be that way, just move along and wallow in your own hypocrisy. You won't convert me to your viewpoint by threats or name-calling. Incidentally, neither is particularly Christian.

That's as ludicrous as claiming the King James edition of the Holy Bible is the one true Bible. Jesus didn't speak English. No one in the Bible ever spoke a word of English. And, as a minority language, it seems a little jingoistic to say that only the English-speaking minority have access to the truth.

in the strangest corners of memory

how new is this? I composed it live, right now, in this post create window. If there is a power outage in the next few seconds, it will be lost, forever. This is the nature of the truth.

I'm back.

in the strangest corners of memory

I will find you in the strangest corners of memory.
The way you took your drink and the pattern
of cool drops of sweat that formed on the glass
as we spoke of nothing as foreplay to
an inevitable union, moments in the future.

The texture of the skin on your back when...
when you were warm and full of life and me.
The way your hair fell in my face when I was
too busy with other things to notice, but remembered
later, and smiled a slow and gentle memory.

The scent of jasmine filtered through the oils
of your skin as you lay beside and beneath me
asking for nothing more than everything I had
and was and would ever be and I gave it all
in joy and hope and dreams and passion undismayed.

The texture of your kisses and the questions you asked
with hands and arms and lips and legs and sounds
that were not words but spoke infinite eloquences
that stole my heart and soul and memory of promises
I had made before I saw your eyes and lost the pain of life.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

again?

May 3rd.

My mother's birthday.

The anniversary of my crash, often referred to as "God's alarm clock". So many peculiar things have happened to me on this date that I cannot begin to relate. And while not superstitious, I do believe my preconscious has a tendency towards steering me a bit off course on this date.

I must be vigilant.

one last, great arc

I'll be selecting and posting another POD book to my POD book blog podbooks.blogspot.com tomorrow.

I am tired, but there is a stirring in the shadows, the dream golem is moving in the cool darkness, whispering memories. I saw many things in my dreams last night. Some real. Some imagined. Some an amalgam of the twain. It was nostalgic and invigorating and terrifying.

Do I have one more arc in me?

Do you think I will hesitate to see?

an apology of sorts

I am acutely aware that I have not been posting as much as I used to. It is, I sincerely believe, a temporary thing and will suffer a mid-course correction soon.

Having released my muse, Jaz, and being persistently tied up in this while job-and-finances cycle, it is sapping my natural verbosity. It happens. Stress, of the wrong flavour, is a killer. Having placed myself in a virtual inspiration vacuum, I am a bit world-weary and slumping.

My apologies to those of you who are used to a more energetic avatar.