Santa Ana Winds

Written when he was living in Venice, despairing of his exile and his lost love, this piece seems strangely apropos to the recent news out of Southern California.

Santa Ana Winds

Like a wave of fire descending in judgement.
Burning me to the quick.
Thick with self-denial,
the trial of the Romantique.
Seeking truth
in the shallows of the rain forest,
poorest of the depths.
Having slept with the demons,
awakened to the silence
and foresworn the violence
in the best Buddheo-Christian traditions
made proof of the truth of a lie accepted with a smile,
while
all the while
knowing that in a medicated haze,
all praise is lies.

Pray for the wind.

Pray it will not be defiled by
this child of my blackened heart,
that my final torment will not be as epic
as the tragedy of false hopes,
fed the bread bought at Borders.
Filling chalices
with the urine of mad marketers
made rich on pain gained at the cost of the children.
And I
will ride the winds,
even if the only vector left is
down.
Down to the foot of the cliffs of the legends.

Pray for the wind.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.