Barren (Eric Lafalaise, 2010)

Blessid is the tree

That bears fruit

For it does not know

The sorrow of the barren

La guitare (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

Écoutez,

J’entends sa voix,

Je sens ses doigts sur les miens

Elle est électrique

Et je joue à mon grand contentement.

Female nude (Eric Lafalaise, 2010)

I’m a ball of emotions

Skinless and bare

I feel, but to immense woe,

That which is within me.

It irradiates outwards

Like a wave of steam

In a condensing entropy

Laughing away my attempts at cool.

And I look away.

Haïti pleure (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

Pa gade’m konsa

La pli pa lave chagrin

Pa gade’m konsa

Labou fè pye pi lou

Pa gade’m konsa

Si ou pa konn respire, pa al aprann mache

Pa gade’m konsa

Bon dye gin yon zye pou malere

Les mains du destin (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

Immatérielle

Hagarde

Fugace

Somptueuse

Élégance

Volante

Écarquillés

Invisible?

Souriante

Volupté

Énergumène

Lèvres

Béant

Glissant

Pourriture

Touche

Déchirure

Forme

Volonté

Rêver

Fin

Le cocotier (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

La nuit survient sans crier gare.

Une brise, souple et fine, chatouille mon corps,

Balançant la mer dans tous les sens.

J’entends les zandolits filant dans la nature,

Les sauterelles, chantant à leur grande désinvolture,

Les vagues et leurs derniers soupirs sur la côte.

L’air marin colle à ma peau.

Ma gorge crie de sécheresse, mais la fatigue supplante vite cette envie.

Ma tête s’élève vers le ciel surchargé d’étoiles.

Elles frissonnent, m’appelant au vide infini.

Je peux presque les toucher, ma main étirée au loin,

Me hausser parmi les constellations

Chevaucher la baleine, nager au sein de l’Éridan

Apprendre à être un héros, un personnage mythique

Issu d’une grande lignée de rois marins ou de Bantu farouches

Digne de légendaires épopées et de chansons lyriques.

Mon épée, ma lance, à la main, je m’acharnerais contre tout ennemi

Menaçant la sécurité et l’avenir de ma famille, de ma patrie, Terrassant de coups d’une force surhumaine

Les attaques incessantes de l’armée adverse,

Léguant à mes enfants et les leurs un avenir prospère

Et la fierté d’une Nation.

Mon rêve s’estompe ; mes yeux tombent sur terre

Je regrette immédiatement mon élévation céleste, si haletante

Et je maudis l’implacable réalité de la réalité.

Ma gorge, toujours sèche, implorant délivrance,

J’escalade un des cocotiers, armé d’une machette rouillée

Délivrant l’un des fruits des bras de son géniteur.

Agrippant la coquille de mes deux mains,

Je m’empresse de l’ouvrir et de boire,

Me remémorant mon ascension, son jus désaltérant devenant Ambroisie chaude

J’espère, contre toute vraisemblance,  

Que la Providence saura exaucer mes chimères.

La déesse du vent (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

O terre sainte, O noble demeure
Comme je t'envie
Ces hommes, ces femmes, ces enfants au cœur
Digne et nanti

Déplacés aux cinq coins du monde
Dénigrés, moqués,
Chantant et dansant, à la main une fronde 
De désirs altiers

O nation historique, O riche patrie
Implacablement assaillie
La Providence ne saurait pour plus longtemps
Arracher les ailes des malfinis

Tel un essaim, ils retourneront à leur reine
Optimiste, déterminés,
Chantant et dansant, leur volonté la graine
Du tronc Destinée

Et lorsque tu prendras ta place au Panthéon
Lorsque tu vivras à la hauteur de ton nom
J'irai, sans plus hésiter,
Me prosterner a tes pieds,
O mère, O source adorée

Balais (Éric Lafalaise, 2010)

Ma grand-mère était gracieuse. Chaque matin de mes vacances, elle me réveillait en caressant mon visage.

Sa peau, rauque et ridée, grattait brièvement mon épiderme et j'ouvrais lentement les yeux, les sons de cloches de la grande église et le brouhaha des marchands se dirigeant vers le marché au loin.

Il est vrai que je détestais alors la province, si loin de ma vie protégée à Port-au-Prince, sans mes affaires, mes amis et mon confort. Je ne le réalisais pas à l'époque mais le village simplifiait une simple existence.

Ma grand-mère me traînait, mon repas terminé, vers la cour extérieure et je la regardais tisser, d'une main ferme et contrôlée, des pailles autour d'un long bâton en bois. De temps à autre, elle se retournait vers moi pour me sourire et j'oubliais ma lointaine vie citadine.

A sa mort, après l’enterrement, entrant dans la cour vêtu de mes meilleurs habits, humides et collants de sueur et de poussière, j'apercevais un agglutinement de balais amarrés d'une mince corde en paille, les dernières créations de ma grand-mère et je réalisais á cet instant qu'elle n'était plus ici. Je ne la reverrai plus; elle ne me réveillera pas le matin en caressant mon visage de ses mains douces et chaudes; je ne la regarderais plus tisser ces balais, avec art, avec aise, émerveillé par sa dextérité.

Le voisin passa récupérer les balais et lorsqu'ils disparurent de ma vue, seuls vestiges de ma grand-mère, je ne pouvais plus retenir les larmes.

Michael (Éric Lafalaise, 2005)

It feels as though I’m all alone now. My mom stares at the dashboard, flicking her red pen like a rap beat. My father, the driver, only talks when it’s essential. He keeps to himself, nodding and grunting whenever we ask something. Even from my stupid sister I would like to hear a phrase, a word, but she plays the mute. I can’t stand the silence. I’m not alone but it’s as if.

My parents are getting divorced. I know what divorce is. Amy’s parents got it a year ago. She said it’s when you have two homes instead of one. She said you have four parents instead of two. She said you get twice the presents at Christmas. But she never mentioned the silence.

Last week, I lost a tooth. It fell while I was sleeping. My mom came into the room to wipe the blood from my lips and change my pillowcase. My dad took the tooth, washed it and hid it under my clean pillow. He said there would be a present for me when I got home. The whole day at school, I kept hoping that it would be the end of the divorce. When I got home, it only was a ten dollar bill.

Grandma waits for us in front of her house. She’s old and smells funny. But I always have fun there with her. Grandma grabs me and Kate and lifts us up while she twirls around. I laugh and beg her to stop. She knows I don’t mean it. That night, we eat altogether. The silence lifts. Dad makes boring jokes that we laugh at. Mom and Grandma talk so fast it’s almost like a foreign language. I laugh and tease my sister, pretending that this, the family will last forever but I know that this is probably the last time we’re all together.

And as I think about it, Kate flips her spoon and throws mashed potatoes on my face…

In the end, it never does (Eric Lafalaise, 2007)

I have this feeling.

My feeling.

This feeling that everything’s not right with the world.

My world.

Every day, I wake up more tired than the day before. My arms hurt. My head throbs. I throw my legs out with the last bit of energy this diseased body has left only to discover that they too are abandoning me. Their shakes signal the end.

My end.

What’s wrong? The answer eludes me. Am I even asking the right question? My uncertain hands pick up the rebel-coloured phone. Who should I call? My family? My friends? They think I’m faking. That I’m faking it! That’s the easy answer, isn’t it? He’s intelligent, he’s able, he’s responsible, he’s like a rock! I do it, why can’t he?

To fake being unhappy. To fake being sad. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do elicit pity. But at the same time, I know they’re wrong. The answer eludes me but at the same time I know what’s wrong. I know what’s going on. It’s this world -- my world. It’s this life -- my life.

I hate my life.

I’m awake for twenty minutes when I sense water aggressively pouring through the pipes. I’m in the shower. And I think of violence. Of feminism and its violent and unapologetic social change, leaving men scrambling to adapt to this new world where they’re left holding their own dicks. Of the civil rights movement and its unintended conception of a hidden agenda, a hidden violence or double standard, boiling within all different races, from resentful whites to demanding blacks. Of me. Angry. Pissed. Resentful. Dark. Brooding. Unhappy. Sad. Angry. I said that already, didn’t I? But this one is important. Anger. And cyclical. It ends. It comes back. I have to eat. Why do we love when we anger so much? I don’t love anymore. To me love is taboo. My love organ (is it the heart?) has cauterized, hardened by years of abuse. Whom did I love? Now that’s a good fucking question. Have I ever loved? That’s an even better one. Do I love my family? Do I love my friends? Do I… love my family? Where are my shoes?

Time flies and silently vociferates its marching orders. I hurry out of the house, head filled to brim of doubt. I hurt. I ache. But I feel nothing. Everything is internal, unreal. Only I know about it. And I suffer. Death should end this pain. Always about violence, isn’t it? Bodies crash into each other. A hand swerves through thighs, a tongue abandons its nest. Penetration destroys. Pain through pleasure. But I feel nothing. My soul is numb. My spirit is tired. Maybe this is life. Or just mine.

I think I’m sick. Or maybe it’s not me. Maybe there’s something wrong. I hope. I feel. Nothing. No one. I am alone. A hand gesture. A stranger. I drop onto my ergonomic chair, cradled by the continuous sound of the office AC. In a few seconds, my headset will be on and I will cease to be me. People yell. And bitch. And I have to help them. Little children. I want to murder them. I want the rapture to swallow all of us whole. Purge us. Clean us. Deliver us. Deliver me. Or these menial tasks will have the best of me.

My name is Eric but everyone calls me nice. Like it’s a disease. “He’s nice”, they say, pigeonholing me into this safe box. I hate being nice. What has it ever gotten me? Nice doesn’t win you the girl. Nice guys finish dead last, right? Only violence reigns. Persistence. Determination. Force. Penetration. Lust. Desire. Ripping clothes off like an animal. Violence reigns. Not the other cheek but the eye for an eye.

Don’t pay attention; I’m rambling again. Do what you normally do. Live. Live your life. Without doubt. Without challenge. Trusting. Smiling. I hate you. I envy you. I don’t know anymore. It’s all a blur. And it’s all the same. Hate/Envy, Love/Death. My world is falling apart. But don’t mind me. My life is my own and of no consequence to you. You fake interest like I fake living.

My little box beeps; I almost don’t notice. A man frantically talks of promises and understandings. In a cloud, I answer him but it’s not me. The Work Me has assumed control. I no longer exist. I am an extension, a representation of an unthreatening entity. But in the end, it will not matter. In the end, it never does.