Matches and paper tigers

the odds were not to sink of swim

because that ain't man-shit,

it's paddle or drown into the history of other failures

so moody

these blues

or maybe vibrant reds that inspire

and push the boundaries in a meta-physical fake uncaring

and loving way

as if boundaries existed and one knew how to push them further.

hint, you don't know,

they don't exist,

and I meant that,

THEY DON'T EXIST,

not where it counts – in your head,

that's where the magics happens and the slight of hand

revealing poems constructed in a minute

consuuming life energy

red bull on your soul

leave you tired, depleted, pretending to be broken

you just need a day off – lucid- well the lottery won't give it

the machine needs you.

What machine?

You communist fucker,

christianity as a scape-goat,

like bashing it makes you relevant and makes history nicer

and between the lines

but it isn't.

History is not between the lines here

or anywhere else,

and it made no sense to attack ghosts as if it meant

you had a right hook worth anything

you don't

you paper tiger

I hope you go play with matches.

bar down potential

and why potential?

Here's a wasted line.

Out of all words it being the most damning

as opposed to it being the most damning of all words

passive aggressive, as if it matters, to meaning transference,

or did it matter for transferring meaning?

Do you follow?

potential is overrated

uncalculable significant guess work and magic in one easy to consume

gift

sometimes not given

or delivered.

No Christmas coming.

There's no stronger way to put the world on one's shoulders as

heavy

titanic

a crushing load that can sink quickly

despite the optimism of hope flowing from

– is it freedom from or freedom to –

and as if that matters,

we're talking potential.

 

One is free to walk down the aisles or sections

of any city-paved street

provincial or federal park sanctioned

reserve land

or packet of earth otherwise laid claim to

completely free 

in the freest of free ways

and to hell with the price of freedom in a bigger picture.

 

freedom condemns you to try to live up to the potential set out for you

and it's your fault whether you stumble succeed or hit the ball the

fuck

out of the park.

well,

bar down

and to hell with you.

the taste of blood

Blood grows on you,

figuratively,

it’s literal growth being so obviously internal.

It’s more the taste of it,

something external

but from the mouth the tongue the sensation the mind the craving

one tightly knit dance of destruction

One could leave it to the sharks

not as methodical as (wo)man

but honest

at least honest

a shark feeds and you know it feeds humans lie about it.

We swim with gills soaked in blood pretending it just happened to be in the water

Open letter to The Muse

This email was sent out Sunday morning [April 1, 2012] to members of The Muse and the Canadian University Press.

My fellow Musers,

It was with great anger and sadness that I received a phone call from Jessie last night [Saturday, March 31] informing me I would not be given a position with our newspaper next year. While my qualms about the ridiculous nature of our hiring policy have been publicly known all year, I would have never guessed that such a blatant example of their failings would be presented this year. I was unfortunate enough to be interviewed by our current Editor-in-Chief and Business Manager, who seem to be unable to put the events of NASH – which I did nothing wrong at, and represented us proudly at – behind them. For these reasons, I was passed over for not only the Editor-in-Chief job, but for ANY job at the paper next year.
You have all worked with me this year, and you know the passion I have for journalism. You also all know that I am willing to help at any time, and that I am friendly in the news room and outside of it. My commitment to The Muse is unwavering, and I made that clear in both the EIC interview, and the interview for other positions. This hiring process has not selected the best individuals for the job, but the people who got along best with the EIC and Business Manager, and answered their beck and call. This became painfully obvious to me over the past week with this round of hiring.
The reason I was given for not being hired for the EIC job was that JMB took more of a leadership role with the referendum. The referendum had nothing to do with journalism, and was a PR event best left to our Business Manager, but I still helped a little with it. Journalism is not about getting students to vote for us. Journalism is about bringing the information to students, and writing stories geared towards. Journalism is about digging for information students need to know, but are not being given by the institutions that should be transparent. The battle of Paul with both MUNSU and MUN PR are evidence of that. Unfortunately, Paul also had to battle with the “leadership” of the paper on occasion, which is counter-productive. Our pro-MUNSU feature earlier in the year, and having Michael Walsh as part of “The Muse” in his column reek of too close of a relationship with student government. We got far too buddy-buddy with them during our referendum as well, which is something that shocked me.
This paper doesn’t need cheerleaders, it needs grunt who are willing to knock on doors and put their feet to the pavement for stories. I do both of those things, and I love doing them. This email isn’t a missile aimed at the hiring committee. It is however, a statement of how botched the hiring was, and how we did not get the best employees for the job due to politics.
Explain how someone with a year inside a professional newsroom, a year as an assistant editor, two years as Editor-In-Chief, who also freelances for Canadian Press did not get ANY job within our newsroom. Searching for answers? He is my brother.
Also think about how someone who has worked with magazines, newspapers, news wires, online news sources, television, blogs, and every form of publishable media across Canada for three+ years did not get a job – not even his incumbent job as Sports Editor, which was given to his understudy of a few months – in our newsroom. That person was me. My experience did not matter, because the decision was made before I put on my tie and dress clothes, and trudged my way into MUN campus.
If there is one thing journalists should never do, it is stand by quietly and merely be observers. We write about injustice, we seek out injustice. In this case, injustice is in our backyard. That being said, I have fought injustice wherever I could in my life and this is no different. I wanted to make my fight public, because I know some of you will support me, although others may not feel comfortable doing so for political reasons. I am not chastising anyone for choosing a side, and I do not want anyone replying to this thread. I would hope that those supporting me will contact me personally, and I will keep your support private.
I also wanted to make this public, because this fight will probably be a long one. I will be reviewing the constitution (which I am here asking for a digital copy of), discussing the matter with the Board of Directors, and also seeking answers at MUN HR.
I want The Muse to be the best that it can be, and this hiring process has botched that. I will be doing anything in my power to make sure The Muse can improve its reputation next year, and I know most of you feel the same.
Sincerely,
Andy Veilleux
Sports Editor of The Muse

no megaphone

Passion can not to described to those void of it.

You have it

or you don't.

 

There's no grey area,

no second guessing.

 

There is also no sense of justice,

and when you believe there is,

kill that thought.

 

The politicians are best left politicing,

while the journalists are left in gutters.

 

Truth found,

no megaphone.

Oh friend, I hardly knew ye

A genius without ambition,

led down the path of the poor,

to throw his life down,

before the abyss' door.

 

An unexpressable pain hangs 'round,

the image of your corpse underground,

in wars fought for land, cash and crown.

 

 

Where are the eyes that looked so mild?

What punishment befell us when you smiled,

no longer innocent?

 

To whose drum do you march?

Which guns force the start?

when will the

guns and drums,

and drums and guns,

pace your steps and drain your heart?

 

Where are the legs with which you run?

On which shoulder is the setting sun?

 

And what will be left of you

when the barrel gives you cue,

and your eyes project naught but death.

 

Where are the legs with which you run,

when first you went to carry a gun,

indeed your dancing days are done,

Oh friend, I hardly knew ye.

same train station at any rate

The whisky hammering is

a soft, slow touch

molding you as putty to

the recesses of your mind.

 

It rubs you,

coerces you,

like felt in a world

filled with cactus feelings,

people with razors for teeth,

it's never-ending,

the scorn of an existential hell.

 

I'll give you one hundred years

free of charge

and it won't matter anyways.

 

Soak my brain in one hundred

years worth of whisky

in a night and it won't matter

anyways

because we're all waiting for the same train,

some depart earlier than others

but it's the same destination.

 

I love you,

I hope you burn.

Trying to save you tonight

Salvation forgotten,
Meaningless in the abyss
Of existence we are thrown into.

As if it mattered anyways,
When the world was structured
On top of a man bleeding on wood,
Absurdity and a pinch of the obscure
For good measure.

There was never a more convenient time to measure,
But how many martyrs did we use?
Jesus man,
I’ve forgotten now,
I thought you had counted.

Well,
Let’s say one for good measure.

And pick him,
So easy writing prophecies when
Things have already happened
And we will fill the remainder with dreams.

Nobody reads the footnotes.

Running

A limit of steps;
Life as a marathon,
Maybe a sprint.

So many steps from innocence,
Or naivety,
Call it what you will
And I call it like it is.

Probably not so close to the
Finish
Line,
But the end is to be announced.

For now we are running free,
Limited only by a mortal frame
-Set to expire-
Which is the whole point of life.

Most people don’t see the finish line,
And are afraid to search,
Fearing this will be their last run.

And,
It will be.

Ghost of now

Ethereal connection,

untouchable by the others,

and fuck the others.

 

Anyone would,

and us no less,

but we know fun,

passion,

yet sadness.

 

Sweet curves,

built to make grown men cry,

hold the weight of the world's

expectations of women to be thin.

 

Curved body,

a temple,

makes you want to get down

on both knees

and pray

or beg.

 

You are a ghost,

potential unrealized by others

But I look through and see you,

I see you

I see you through the drugs

love

sex

living

and you can come in from

the cold

that nips at heels so well travelled.

 

You've felt it,

haven't you?

 

The scars are there,

the healing is on the way,

drown it with fun

and people

who don't understand you

but I

I see you

I see you.

 

I see you,

ghost of now,

Standing out in a crowd,

only to vanish when the lights 

come

out and the bar stools are put up.

 

You were never there for anybody

despite who you leave with

and you're always 

coming

home to me.