The city below makes the sound of a
drainage pipe sticking into cool air,
overflowing with flood waters.
The pieces of the puzzle move –
every jaded, free animal and
the numerous happy bits of matter that
cannot, or will not, think –
in a strange, perfect design
built by no one.
We assemble reality in our head
like Ikea furniture,
and we make stories to give it meaning
where there is none.
Can I be the grand architect?
It is no one’s right to give,
and nothing’s right to take.
The first touch was a sweet gesture,
a night approaching as shift set in,
and there I was to pick you up and
drop
you off.
We met before,
but this was classic ‘me,’
and I was the gentleman,
the scholar,
and the saint.
I did it to help,
but there we were just
a few weeks later
with you bent over the desk
in your spare room
with your roommates fast asleep.
The saint is the sinner
and the hero plays the villain too,
but neither of us will regret the memory,
or the company in the
badlands.
Age dances on your face
in the form of forgotten laughs
and remembered tears.
Your body still burns
the flames of youth,
sparked by desire unspeakable and
the dark unknowable, nestled deep in you.
The smoke sneaks out of you –
the smell of beautiful burning birch –
as the fire dances
forever
deep within your ghost-blue eyes.
The bed on milk crates
in the fake-windowed room,
with the rough ending of love.
Memories pierce and
pull
and turn the easy seas of
Saturdays
into the shy touch of first lovers.
Raw life.
Pink, pure fury.
The dull razor drags over scabbed flesh, bathing in crimson by parting the tender, new flesh.
Somewhere, sometime; a scream pierces the dull forever.
The path is hard to hold,
but impossible to stop hop off.
The tears hit harder than bullets,
with the love pouring down gutters
and never hitting home, where it belongs.
Time brushes through my thick, graying hair,
a constant mystery – ducking and dodging definition –
and always running through our fingers just when we thought we had it.
Your kiss on my collarbone,
your hand on my naked chest,
and the way gravity pushes you into me,
is everything it means to love and be known.
The love we need
is not the love we see,
but the love we don’t eat.
Trouble – the capital T kind – loomed large, hinting at impending drama, outrage or madness. The mind’s eye was clouded by sun-kissed, all-too-revealed skin and one too many cold ciders on ice. Or was it vodka sodas? The impossible became possible, but wouldn’t flirt with being plausible. The night the music died came in like a lamb, bloodied up and quickly eaten by lovers in lions clothing. The collapse of sanity and vanity made me look in the mirror and see a manatee, or maybe a manakin. Was I a tiny bird or a Mannequin? It didn’t matter then, and doesnt matter now. All I wanted was to increase the speed of my fingers, and decrease the speed of these thoughts banging on the inside of my skull. Thoughts punched the inside of the whiteness – take that white privilege – and looked for orifices to push their way out of, no lube required. The madness poured – or seethed – out of my hardware (read:brain) and software (read:mind) through some imaginary spaces between my eyes and this screen. I was a sinking ship and then I found the cure – although I’m not sure if it’s an anchor to capsize me or a liferaft so I can rebuild on that tiny little island. Rebirth, the pheonix, or infitine sadness, the bluebird. -two destines in one man.
If you work enough, you’ll never have to live with yourself – or with anybody else, for that matter. It is my simple solution to a complicated, existential problem that is best summarized by three questions: what IS worth it? What do I deserve? Is there loving, loyal and lasting love?
The first question is typically – and almost boringly – philosophical. I say that with all respect for philosophy (the one lasting love of my life). The question has become a tired one at this stage in my life. 31 years of living has seen at least a decade of serious contemplation over this question. It’s a cop out question. It’s a trojan horse stuffed with every important question, basically. Nonetheless, I will summarize it in short order. I’m not sure what is worth focusing my energy on. I don’t know that I won’t have a big epiphany later in life, which will force me to reconsider how I spent so much of my time. I feel like focusing more on the pursuit of knowledge, writing, philosophy and conversations with those I care about are three can’t-go-wrong activities until I figure the rest out.
The second question is morally weighty and somewhat ambiguous. I am a big proponent of individual responsibility (hello Sartre, I miss you!). Basically, if you do bad (or good) acts, you need to own up to them and take responsibility. Modesty is good, so I believe in taking more credit for the bad things than the good ones. Yes, that’s called being hard on yourself. I have done some terrible things to people I have really cared about. I feel a certain guilt for them, but it is no longer crippling remorse. Progress! I have found a mix of meditation, writing and having good, honest conversations with people, when I make a mistake that hurts them, is a great way to face my moral failures head on. I have managed to make amends with the mistakes I made in the past. I have strove to live a more genuine, good and helpful life since I went off the deep end morally and mentally last year. So far, so good (pun intended)!
The third question is messy, borderline disastrous and downright divisive. People of a conservative, romantic or stoic disposition will lean towards the ‘yes’ side of the argument. Radical, cynical or free-spirited lovers will side with ‘no,’ or ‘probably not.’ I’m boringly undecided. I have felt my share of love – that blessed, soul-rocking and life-changing passion. I have also seen my share of loss, betrayal and that hollow vacancy where love once was. I’ve given, and I’ve gotten, to be honest. The question of love plagues me more as I move forward in my career. The intermittent stops – or layovers (pun intended) – in different cities will slow down drastically soon. And then what? Stay single, lonely and awesome? Find love and either live a passionate, playful life with someone, or settle in and raise a family? I’m not sure what I want. There are days where I crave security and miss having a ‘home.’ There are also days where I crave beautiful new souls to connect with and explore life with.
Life happens, even as we try to dodge it by doing anything else. It’s all life. The issue is whether I will continue to blur through it like an amateur on Photoshop blending their blemishes, or if I’ll admit my own blemishes and life the authentic life I carve.
The uncageable bird no longer flies free,
chains of ‘real life’ crossing across her
broad tail-feathers and beautiful wings.
The world heard her roar,
or enough people to make it a shared
beautiful
and otherworldly case of loving and losing,
but never thinking about the losing for long.
I still don’t know what love means –
the thoughts dance on my sweating, red face –
and I’m not sure I ever will.
Time flies –
a bird freed and straight and endless –
whether you’re having fun
or not.
Andy Veilleux 