Chris Vaillancourt

Trees Swaying and Swishing Like Plastic Glasses

Living tissue undulating like burning flags from a winter sky.
Trees swaying and swishing like plastic glasses melting
in a summer sky.

You and I are drinking lemonade out of chilled glasses;
drops of moisture angling insistently down our arms.

We are as magic as we care to be, as fragile as
the twisting sandstorms that plague
the ever-present desert scene
of the twilight glows of other signs.

I wonder aloud if all our images will fall
away as we grow and confront the
silver rings we have caused to
blend with our filth.

You comment on the typical day,
the never changing atmosphere
from which you feel you need
to dwell.

What is left for us?

We have already begun to feel
with different cell phones
rushed like glue upon our ears.

We know the same stories, so we find
ourselves sharing in the delusions
we once believed.

The flicking of the light switch only
gives us the option of on or off.

So with this awareness we perceive
only the dimness of the hourly world
we have come to accept as important.

Nothing is really important, I realize.
Everything is shambled methods used
to help in my survival.

Have I used you?
Have you used me?

My suspicion would be that all
the one way only signs
are never enough to stop
the dying of our pleasure.

Chris Vaillancourt © 2011

Smog

Scrawling words on paper I feel nothing
can bother me. Winter lingers on and the

frozen streets signify the open bustling
of the city.Acts of charity are words spoken

by people who profess concern. This caring
is best understood in terms of cheques

written. Money replaces the soul. What I
give means what I believe. Money passing

hands is a sign of commitment to the poor
souls wandering our streets. The cars rush

along filled with solitary individuals who cruse
the other solitary individuals in other cars. Horns

beeping, people sleeping in their minds as they
drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes. It

is illegal to smoke in public. We buy them and hide
them pretending we are quitting. Scandals emerge

all around us but we can't be bother. Very busy
writing cheques to organization whose names

we forget. Petals of leaves that we have gathered
and kept pressed in books. I bought a Bible

and kept it brand new in a closet, proud of its
crisp pages and fine cover. Won't read it because

it is for show and not belief. Novels have more
impact but not as much as movies. Protest the

violence of Christ but accept the violence of
war. It is wrong to show a penis on television

but not wrong to show a man blown to pieces.
That is art or at least a start to something with

significance. Lying on a couch eating chips and
feeling exposed. Cover my sins with a bottle

of beer. The great myth of security that is
sustained by the greater myth of reality. What

is real is the loneliness of everybody else. This
is the way we have been trained to love. Increase

the rates of passion but decrease the fog of
illusions. I am amazed that we are able to even

talk at all. Friday arrives, the end of the week, and
I am ready for the weekend. Nothing will get

through to me. I have things to do, places to be,
and people to ignore. Happy life in the smog!

Chris Vaillancourt © 2011