In The Beginning, In The Wet Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

In the beginning, in the wet.
When it began, in the soft
imploding space.
Demanding attention and reacting
like a silver vulture dying in the desert.
We heard screaming.
Dissident voices mangled by the
unhealthy lifestyle choices they manifested.
We screamed in return, our voices
as dissident as theirs.
'Let us not conform! ' 'Let us not conform! '
In this parent-less world,
where laughing seems archaic.
We learn only that perspective
is not innate behaviour. Instead
it is learned from endless cups of coffee
and dangling cirgarettes.
Smoke twirling like iconic symbols
of blood and faith.
When rock and roll still held
the power to motivate,
we listened, danced and exclaimed.
We jumped to every conclusion
and it was ours to do so.
Fled and returned, returned and fled.
Both were our emblems and we wore
them as proud badges of arrival.
Cold cup of egg salad still sitting
in the fridge. Warm taste of lighter fluid
bravely tinting our lips.
In the beginning, in the wet.
When pencils were sharp and pens
were obsolete. When spelling mattered
and slang was ignored. We pickled like
over-ripe vinegar in a bottle
left behind after a move.
The ransom was demanded and so
we paid it. Rising with the choirs
we heard in Mass.
'Let us not conform! ' 'Let us not conform! '
Never let the dollars and cents be
the supplier of existence.
We live, you see.
We are not dead.