Humans fashion tools
the same
as they fashion signs
words
that can till
pummel/build
or kill.
The symbolic march of
similar semiotics
row in row and in
almost-infinite waves of humans
behind a
symbol of
hope
despair
or indifference.
All arbitrary,
yet shot through with given
meanings,
intentional
or as unintentional as the piece of shit stuck to your
dog's ass.
The smell still exists,
intended
or unintended.
The nodding head that warm
over-sweetened
coffee
slapped into temporary stiffness
enough to force the gaze onto millions of tiny
sun-bright
lights held in a rectangular plastic box that throws
radiation into my face
and cause my fingers to smack the keys of plastic
loudly and with meaning
and create something not random or determined,
but novel
in the way any human action is new or different
and nothing can happen twice
the same,
or twice at all.
the uses of language smack their head on
low-hanging ceilings often
always reaching limits and never
breaking
through.
What good is language if it always fails me when it is needed most?
One creative soul of magma,
growing one year a minute,
stuck in an old iron refridgerator with a door welded shut,
power full tilt,
trapped five miles under the surface of our world and buried in an abandoned
uranium mine.
A soul cooling and pressing the edges of its existence
against unmovable barriers
that are ironically always moving on a micro level,
with the ability of pure language
and the inability to speak.
nothing moves
sets
or stops for minutes
as the
first shrill tingles run
from my eyes
carving across my scalp and
warmly clawing deep into my spine.
There was no hatred centuries deep
or stares that slashed like a butcher's cleaver,
only laughter,
snotting,
and tears.
An end is a beginning,
which is an end
unceremoniously followed by a beginning
until the pattern is old,
but really only an end.
No end to love
but a prelude in life leading to more
disappointment
or perhaps
something better.
Hope is for the naive fairy-tale guzzlers,
those with depraved common sense,
and anyone who can't tell
asshole-vampire/bondage-fiction/romance
from reality.
He was the proud type,
but not the proud/arrogant;
there's a subtle difference in that,
a matter of inches,
like the difference between being kicked in the thigh
or the shaft of your dick,
it's an important distinction.
He had skin like leather
that frustrated and repelled the mosquitoes,
or so I am told,
from Hearst to Manitoulin,
and they only take the bad blood anyways.
The power in a name is the
power of humanity
-language-
and part of a true, tribal culture
stronger than any
Disney/Top-40/Americanized, mechanized bullshit,
that is now art and meaning.
There is no meaning,
and he meant something,
a peasent king among the forresters and
tens of offspring,
and yet he would never
stand on
anyone's
shoulders or throat.
Pure greatness need not make apologies
war
or twist words,
because it mercilessly hammers
at the dull skeletons of the competition
or those unworthy,
and somehow stupid enough,
to stand in the way.
Maybe the great are pushed by
something
beyond free will.
Fixing something is only useful
if no one
is going to break it.
I wouldn't bet the farm
my last dollar
or your ass on people being
pacifists
or even remotely
charming and sociable.
That's the secret of the animal/human
distinction.
Lands always ends,
whether you jump off the cliff
or crawl back into the dirty waters;
it's a question of
hatred
building up enough to turn your guts
into plastic
explosives
and the courage to
light
the
fuse.
Pieces of heart
or property
are all bought the same
just with different currency.
Whether its money
or sex and love
we buy property to show how big our dicks are
and its a stupid
chauvinist and
the biggest pissing contest.
Disgraceful,
petty and
worthless.
It's not just for men
because
everybody is trying to occupy space
and own that space
even if its fake, contrived and
absurd.
You can't own land or people
buyt we all try to through deeds or
rings
or just a healthy dose of sex,
and there has never been a bigger waste of time
and effort.
We should all be measured by the
feelings we stain into memories
long seperated from the real.
The ghosts
the dead
the separated and the lost
leave fingerprints on your eyes
and some never fade away.
The dead have it easy
and there is some
sweet
sorrow about that.
Andy Veilleux 