I had simply run out,
Stranded on some highway between
Maybe
A lumber town and
Steel town
Or else nowhere.
I had done a lot of loving
Fucking and
Especially losing,
But I needed a break to refuel.
Love is not an easy game,
But it was by far the best one,
Even if one had to train harder than any sport
And take proper rest.
Nobody plays by the rules when all is fair,
Or maybe the cheating bloodsuckers that
Keep pushing that phrase
Don’t want anyone else to make them look bad.
I watched the steam rise off my skin
like flames licking at my bathroom ceiling
and watched as my mug of chilled water
clouded over.
Hemingway,
I thought,
was a man broken over the back of time
over
and over again
but it was the break in his 20s
that killed him.
A man broken by a woman
is nothing new
even if that man faulted himself
instead of the invulnerable one,
but it is a lesson in love and
loss
that we should all hear.
The heart is not to be played with
tinkered with
or deceived,
because life will dig its powerful talons into
your skinny,
fragile
neck
for playing love like some game.
It could have killed me before
when I sat
desolate
puking in my shower
from the loss of an Artist,
or the, scared boy I was, having to leave
the Scientist that captured
my heart in the depths of a depression,
somehow,
more magic than science and I
didn’t eat, sleep or feel much else for months,
or when I rolled back and forth,
body heaving under the weight of the news
the Teacher was leaving,
my heart in her luggage,
or when you grabbed my convulsing arm,
“come here!”
the Nurse said so forcefully
and pulled me into the bathroom,
stripped off my clothes and made me sit in the
scolding
hot shower with you
like we did for so many years to talk.
Love was not lessened by having
been felt many times
if anything it became more severe,
at least you knew the stakes,
and only the ignorant or
incapable of love
would suggest it got easier or
hurt less.
Life had not quite broken me yet,
but triggers like angels danced in dreams
for many years past,
and certainly dance still,
to the same
macabre
song
of life, love and loss.
The postcard sits on my fridge,
that was our fridge,
Not as a sad reminder of
Better
Times
But as a reminder to miss you.
I don’t miss you anymore
And there’s something cold
And seemingly empty about that,
As if you had meant nothing.
Its from Switzerland’s Chateau De Chillon,
And you said you missed me
Although we had only hung out once
And you disguised your love by saying
‘Much love’
When you signed off,
But we both knew it was a quiet misdirection.
Happiness washes over me reading this
Postcard from a mystery woman in my past
Because that is not who you are now
That was another you
And another me.
I wouldn’t bet the farm that those will be
The happiest moments of our young lives
but anyone hedging bets would not
Handicap that bet too much,
it might be a favourite.
And the beautiful Irish had said
I reminded her of Hemingway because
I was handsome
Honest
And a hell of a writer.
Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else said,
Besides a handful of lovers,
Because I was handsome and honest,
Worthy of hatred for my vileness,
And I could write.
More importantly,
I was worthy of great love
the deepest sadness
And was hellbent on passing away talent.
Love makes monsters of us
And even the cutest little things
That pushed you towards it to begin with
become as irritating as people chewing
With their gaping mouths like hippos.
You hated the way I ate bananas,
Because you could hear me biting it
And I,
I hated so many little things that
They became one big thing
And that’s why we eventually sought others
Or maybe that’s a fiction.
There’s an interesting divide between
Fiction and the real
And I’m never quite sure which side
Memories fall on.
We certainly invent stories
That serve to fill the gaps of memories
But we never remember how much is real.
We all write searching for the one line
That will change everything.
The one line that clarifies centuries of thought
The line that makes the murky clear
and the line that ignites the embers of your heart.
Its usually buried in the mess that we call
Writing
All the muck we heap out just to get some ore
Tons of it,
just for one shiny diamond.
You mean something to me,
even if you never know it
And if not to me
Then to somebody else.
We all find love in the creases of pages.
Love does not happen in a
Set space or time,
Sometimes it happens in one
Small
Seemingly for fun alone
Moment
And sometimes it spans years or decades.
It holds me alike either way
And I find myself reflecting on
Everyone with whom I have spent an evening
More commonly these days
And much more fondly.
There was love
Even within other love
And maybe there always will be.
Surely, there always will be.
We watched Harper reelected,
Consummated years of built-up lust,
Snuck away to your jeep,
Frequently tents or spent time laughing in a tent shared with a friend,
Spent time as three in a shower for two ,
Exchanged pictures or videos,
There was no limit to the fun.
The fun ends they all say,
But maybe they never experienced the fun that I had,
Or they didn’t understand that this fun
Could be built and sustained by two and two alone,
Granted you had the right two.
Australia,
Newfoundland,
Quebec,
British Columbia,
Taiwan,
And of course Sudbury,
Thank you everyone and everywhere.
Life is much less painful and gruesome
When a bed is filled with two or three
than when it is one,
And there have been tens of twos.
You will break upon my shores,
Rocky escarpments and impossible climbs,
Only meant for the hardest of climbers.
I am intoxicating,
All-consuming
And you will love me.
I feed on the affection of others
Despite my high affection for myself,
I worry about starving.
I will not tear you apart or leave you hollow,
I will leave you full.
I live life at too fast or a speed too often
And I eat through fuel like a metropolis,
Eventually the fossilized plant matter is
All gone
All consumed
And then what happens?
I guess I leave or you do,
After living off fumes for too long,
Or maybe we learn to live on less.
There is a transition between
can not live without and
could not live with,
then and now.
The first time is before
the break
and the next time
is the aftermath of it all.
There are only ever
two massive shifts
and then the love dies,
which is to say the passion
goes away but it can still
play on your heart strings
and beat you up on lonely nights.
But,
It no longer owns you.
We run from ordinary
Like we run should run from safety
Dodging it like a fated bullet
Please God, don’t let Me be
Ordinary
Anything, buy ordinary!
The big Me in all of us struggles
To be something more than one among
A multitude of the faceless,
But that’s all many of us ever are.
We have the same problems
Same sex
same stories
And same lives,
Plus or minus a tale or two,
But its all the same.
But I know everything isn’t the same,
And I just took you on a ride that should have
Got the blood boiling and
Pissed you off,
Because some people are different.
I spend me insomniac nights talking to them
And trying to feel them in my bones
Because even if I never love them fully
They will have meant much to me.
Don’t think that every person is the same,
But don’t be a fool and think all the
Minute differences we have matter either,
Some differences matter and some don’t.
For my part,
There are a few differences I believe matter:
Empathy,
Honesty,
And ambition.
These traits separate at least 95 per cent
Of the people I met from others
And are the foundation of love and happiness.
I’ve been fooled into thinking some
Lovers had these traits,
And some did,
But most did not and were simply
Blowjob artists in the guise of One True Loves,
And they didn’t even get the memo that
One-trick ponies need to master their
One trick.
Life has depth to it,
Real depth,
And these people are shells of human beings,
At best,
And complete forgeries of human beings at worst.
They walk, talk, blow, work and fuck,
But they don’t love or feel like the 5 per cent.
Some people have been cast aside,
hanging on the clearance rack of love,
For far too long.
You pick them up,
Try them on,
And say you can’t believe the price,
But you wonder why they were there to begin with.
Some people are too picky,
And their price is just too high,
While some people chafe your nipples
Or irritate your skin if worn too long
But some are just unlucky.
Some are just not fashionable,
Or out-of-season,
Too warm of a sweater in a post-dating climate
Where attachment is gone and summer styles
Are all the rage.
Everyone wants to let their skin breathe,
Except a chosen few,
And mist are just serial shopaholics
Always looking for a new style.
We invent ourselves through new lovers
Just like we buy new fashions
But an asshole is still an asshole
Even if they dress like Mother Theresa.
Its not the accessory on your arm that makes you,
Its what comes out of your mouth
And what you allow inside you or find yourself in.
Andy Veilleux 