Chris Vaillancourt

This Nonsense I Began

I wonder what pleasure
I can expect from the dawn?
Free to stand and holler
With vengeance at the sun.
Today is a good day, I feel,
In that, the best is yet to come.
I pray I have success
To watch the fate
Of my ambitions come undone.
It is to be expected
That I will always be the same.
I think this is understood
Regardless of the rules
Established to control me.
I would rather stay in the yard
Than face the appointments
I am compelled to create.
Oh dear, it is almost over,
This nonsense I began.

The Woman Ticking Her Own Clock

She struggles with her path,
even though it is one
she has chosen.

There are words flung at her
that she does not
want to hear.

She has declined advice.

Her purpose is to be what
she wants to be.

The problem for her is
finding exactly what this is.

She opens a can of cat food
and feeds it to her dog.
She licks a stamp and
places it on the fridge.

Confused at simple things,
she struggles to defend
complicated matters.

She will not open her
humanity
to any
other
person.

She is afraid.

More of herself
then anyone else.

Dangling

Dangling feet into water..

..searching mind; looking for an answer
to a question I have not asked yet.

Entering space of discontent, rambling
thoughts that do not illustrate peace.

Dangling heart into soul…

..seeking a place to hide where
the clocks are not working.

Where I can reflect nothing and yet
assume everything.

I hear the dipping leaves crashing
like feathers onto the ground.
I see the pebbled danger
that comes from being isolated.

Yet I seek that isolation anyway.

I ask only that I can shut my eyes
and see only what shadows
I want to see.

Dangling love into hot lava…

Watching it burn away; aware
that it will not come back.

Not caring, but daring to
reach out and grab
at it again.

Why?
Why?
You demand.

Because I must.

I whisper secrets in the
ears of my lover.

Letting her know
events and opinions
I only share with her.

She smiles at my words.

I know they please her.

As I limply moan
with anticipation
at what is to come.

Why?
You demand.

Well, I’ve answered you.

Trains

The flash of urban
machine demonstrates
persistence.
Rubber slithering
on absorbing iron.
Interlocking harmonized echoes
scan in electromagnetic
trains.
Tracks dispersed across
the spectrum

of nothing.

Spaces.

That is this country.

We who’ve been in residence here
know the
detachment of our flag.

Walking shoes
of
walking men.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sonar devices clamped like cancer
to their ears.
Listening to private noises
in the middle of a cluster.
We were thinking alike.
Hide in trains and
acclaim
the vacuum
of
performing.

Changing of the Guard

A playing of hope begins within.
Carefully,
it strives with ears attentive to
change the atmosphere around me.
Drowsy mind must seek in wonder
to understand the changing
of the guard.
I touch the magic of renewal
as it possesses my frame of mind.

A trembling of breeze, so interesting,
plays across the landscape
of my out-stretched hands.
If I spend my time turned inwards,
I shall miss the anticipation of
the fluttering wind.
With child’s mind I question
not one adventure.
Instead, I accept the freckled nature
of the grieving
I have refused to do.

I used to pretend I could escape
the cluttered hallways of the mind.
I would formulate impossible
kingdoms where I would rule
from a throne of smoked glass.
And now, as I grow older, I
can see the futility of illusion
if in that illusion I ignore
a reality that is mine.

Though I question the darkness
that once rode through me
with such compelling force,
still I must identify
with the stirring of light that
seems to have clicked on
in my stained sense
of self. A flickering of hope begins
within. I must grasp it and let it
become my mantra as I
walk towards the future.

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.

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!

Reaching

If the mind does not
desire, what can
I create to replace it?

This looking and
seeking.
This pretending
and being.

The path fills
with torn open
paper bags.
Nothing
was found of
any substance
within them.

And so I patched
the snow
with plastic glue.
Repaired the holes
and covered the
skin.

We might
stand
together when we
speak words that
drive
us
apart.

Crows overhead
and snails below.

What do I reach for
when my hands are tied?

Aries Ram

I’m an Aries ram and Lord I use this
to resist you. Dear Christ I feel so afraid.
I’m scared of opening my heart to you,
for fear that
I’d be giving up myself.
I want to cling to the self-inflicted pain
and let it become my life.
But oh Christ I know this
is wrong of me.
Your touch brushes aside my symbols.
You try to thrust your peace upon me.
But oh Lord, I put up
brick walls to keep you away.
Please Jesus help me break them down.
Let this Aries ram put aside
his horns of doubt.
Let this hurting man
feel the love you promise for me.
I’m a deep dark hole
of unrepentant sin.
Carrying a cross that
does not hold your heart.
Oh sweet Jesus put yourself
into my burdens.
Let me open my eyes
to the glories
of your redemption.
Fresh from sin let me arrive
cleansed and ready to
show Your love.
As an Aries ram I jam
away from your salvation.
Yet I know I need to
submit my will to yours.
Crash away my doubts oh
Holy, blessed Lord.
Comfort me for I feel so alone.
Angry eyes follow me as
I walk though my sinful life.
Inside I feel the dark night
of the soul,
and my touch is
filled with demons not laid to rest.
Lord, stop this Aries ram
from losing his soul.

Boxes

Standing still, flecks of dust
clinging to my hair.
Working silent, images
of opened boxes
flicking through
the crevices.
I wonder how many
shovels of dirt
it will take
to bury
every box I opened?
Each box held
some fantasy or secret
which I held inside
but never
opened before.
Standing awake, knowing
the battle will begin
when the last box
is buried.
I’ll dig the holes myself.
I’ll forget
every image I held
and
pretend that I
am an open book
with empty pages.
That is the facade
I will play.
Like an old song
that is remembered
only by the
ears that happened
to have the radio
on long ago.
I will play the song again.
Hum its melody.
Later I will
put it in a box.
Bury it alongside
the boxes of my dreams.
The storm begins.
I am vulnerable
and
cannot protect myself
against the
clinging of the doubt.

Outside World and Freedom

Wind sighs in the fragile
beginning of day. Children
still asleep in the teddy bear
comfort of their dreams.
Somewhere a dog intones
its morning song. Voice
mournfully howling at
the indignity of its captivity.
Outside world harshly
coming to awareness, cars
rattling on the outside street.
Soon the children will wake.
Demand the business of
their lives as they prepare
to go to school. We’ll do
the routine together and I’ll
wait patiently for them to
flee the nest. When they are
gone I’ll draw the blinds
and lock the doors. Drop
all my clothing as if it were
all the pretenses I owned.
Freedom begins in being able
to attack the world with
my retreat.

Tiny Apple

A tiny apple in the tree.
Our straining eyes could just
about make it out in the branches.
I think we enjoyed the thought that something
was smaller than us. It hung deep red
with a sliver of sun shimmering off its surface.
Each of us felt the apple was ours alone.
Each of us pretended an exclusive affinity
with the tiny apple in the tree.
It was our special secret which we would cherish
as if it was the most significant memory of
our lives.
Our collective breath sighing in fruitful pleasure
at what surely would be a delicious bite.

This was the term that separated us.
Half of us wanted to gaze in admiration at
the apple forever.
The other half was planning on
how to eat it.

A Certain Surrender

In my understanding
of this hemisphere,
I sense a certain
discontentment.
Teardrops wanting
to fall but there is
no truth to them.
Indeed, they will be lies;
a disguise
meant only to deceive.

In this graveyard
it is silent and hollow.
Wounds wanting to heal
but the blood will not stop.
Yes, the innocence of youth
is dripping onto the floor.
The inner slum
of industrial filth
is seeping into my heart.
Trashing it; digesting its
virtue and
leaving a shell behind.

I become a zombie
and feel no
desire
for improvement.

Yes, it is colder now
and I will sleep.
When next I awake.
I’ll be different,
having emptied my
soul of all its charms.

In my acceptance of
myself,
I sense a certain surrender.

Carrie Viens

Urban Scenery

Alleyway side-winding
In a fire escape jungle
The blackened viscera of an urban playground
A histrionic expression of life
This neon electronic center
A primordial start
With belief in machinery
Night clubs
Drug dens
Erotic friends
Nothing’s free
In this ocean of asphalt
A society of random technology
Slithering in and out of sewer system
Deposited here in this city.

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