Thirty Two Feet Per Second Per Second

And, realizing that the poet does not do drugs makes this all the more interesting.

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.