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