Vol. 2 $3

Cenobite

The moment of conception comes with the responsibility that great hearts have called their destiny,

Great minds have lost the feeling to pity,

Whilst the selfish hearts have horded it maliciously.

We can only move on in dignity by hon-oring creativity,

By stepping out of our cells of self com-munication to confess transcendently.

Our only regrets are the doubts and loneli-ness created from the others quietly.

Each Effusion of the storybook mind casts us to cloister to corners in lubricity.

The Savage and the Loon sail into eternity,

The mercenaries of the Real traversing reality.

Please consult all confusion and misconception to a dictionary or to your cohorts perception with the Socratic Method.

Expectations

Each minute,

Reminder,

Of what has passed.

Has built a filter from the guilt,

Of that person you used to know.

Regrets sabotage best when you lay to rest.

The days digest when paranoia may protest at its best.

Some choose the detergents to delay the insurgence.

A prolonged pertinence to a face worn in disturbance.

A plan made in greed is not a dream but a scheme,

So marinate in your bed of hate,

In the fate that you dedicate,

Tilted in your perditions,

Prolific scream.

Rust to Rust

Her mannequin body so sickly pale it looks as though it is made of egg shell.

Its like she has a wire crossed and blocked by a truth that prevents her stillness.

Seemingly un amused pulling away from a kiss with a long and vacant look in her eyes.

Staring in the opposite direction from where I now sit she crosses her legs and lights a cigarette.

She knows she has the power to save the world; it could be your lucky day in hell.

Yet we both know this life is a free for all with nothing left in this earth to inherit.

The baron truth of her maternal embrace, her twisted words that entice the weak.

I just wanted to be a child in love and all I can smell is a rat.

Succubus

Scuba diving for information in the under-tow of my imagination,

A webbed void of luminescent confusion and eternal damnation.

Wading with the wash creating the irrita-tion from my vibrations,

Dream visions haunt my mind’s eye lid fantasies of your favorite travesties.

Since you protect you secrets so jealously,

I am no longer afraid if you think less of me.

Guignon

Lifting the veil of honesty,

The vulnerable sinecure.

Voluptuous verbs that sting at the surface.

Tactical torment of fungal synapses inter-woven.

Blood visions of lustful gropes,

The do diligence of debauchery to the hopes in your fidelity.

Trust, Lust and societies fuss,

The glamour in her eyes while you tell your stories.

Ennui

The taciturn of disconcert that was once understood yet is now just words.

Meaningless until defined to the mind that accumulated it.

The subconscious bowels of digestion that strain a retention.

Traveling at no other cost than a stom-achache on the course of entropy.

To bathe in the bizarre clutching to vitality at the expense of debauchery,

Multitude is in the grace of solitude if you know how to enjoy a crowd.

Capulet’s Thumb

Destiny is subjective,

As it is steered by human nature.

Fungal fortitude, fast food and girls who are rude.

Pick the amusement for your kicks and your scars,

The malic of fetishes festering and sprout-ing boils on the skin.

A forest floor of fungal caps flaking spores into the air as you scratch.

A Capulet’s bitten thumb severs the grind-ing teeth serrate.

Fate can be clutched within entropy.

Destiny is your degradation while earning your stories.

“To the many dimensions of daily perceptions,One never knows who they woke up as until challenged”

- Loon

Elenchus

Salarrué Dalton

13 June 2014

I told you about the dream I had, about being in the prison cell with Socrates when he drank the poison, and about the scruples he had to write poetry before he died. It was on that telephone call we had, if you remember. I don’t think you fully understood what I was telling you.

I too have had scruples, like Socrates, to write poetry but more so to write to you, to tell you finally about the method of finding truth.

a lot to digest, to take in, to under-stand fully (I do not understand one sentence) but the ‘truth’ is so slippery, like a dream, or like a novel (or poem) and I can’t simply tell you; I can’t speak when I speak with you.

So now, sitting at my small desk alone in my college apartment that are up some stone steps, looking through the window and into the street in this neigh-borhood some call the village, I begin to write to you what I have always wanted to say, what I wanted to say on the telephone but could not because communication is troubling over this distance that separates us; the line is too long, there is a pause, a delay (even if only for a moment) before you hear what I tell you. But this whole scene seems silly to me, because nothing comes out here on this page, as much as I try to force it, and I have so many things to tell you.

destroy this letter, and all letters that come from me always and already before you can read them, so that you can’t incriminate me, because what I say without context (and hence without meaning) will sound like a confession to a crime, or a number of crimes, and I rather you not hear my apology. I rather you forget, and remember to forget what I say.

14 June 2014

don’t get too wrapped up in dreams, it has been very recent that I began to have them again. Since I left that graveyard shift I have had trouble sleeping. I watch movies into the early hours.

My favorite movie right now is Man with a Movie Camera by Dziga Vertov. It’s an early film, and what I like about it is that it has no plot or main characters. It is made up of everyday life (from the Soviet Union, no less) and the machinery that holds up the illusion of that one every day; steam from a train, the people and car-riages crossing with streetcars, a worker in a factory, a woman waking up and getting dressed, the close up shots of wrinkled faces, or faces with beautiful skin, all the faces that pass on a sidewalk.

too many people here, in this city (and most likely other cities), imagine their life as a movie. It causes problems; inconsistencies. We cannot all be the main subject. We only can if there is no subject at all. No grand narrative either historical or other-wise,

calculated set pieces that don’t need exposition, or much exposition. (Still, the ‘I’ (eye) exposes all around it into its own exposition). The archi-tecture, lights, the sea of people that dominate the background. There are moments (events) when you can look behind the scenes and see that there is nothing (an abyss, a void). The buildings on Spadina are cardboard. Behind the walls are an empty (un-finished) space. Peel the edge and witness

Still I feel connected to you, over the kilometers that separate us. I fall into the trap and envision (hallucinate, dream or nightmare) our final scene together. But I won’t be dramatic here, I know we will never have that final scene, and without a narrative it would just be a freak occurrence (an accident) one we should avoid at all costs.

and I know it was Socrates from the Phadeo because I have it right here in my hand, in this copy of The Trial and Death of Socrates I picked up four years ago when I first entered the University. (It is a beautiful edition, this one I have, with a hardcover and illustrations inside. It’s blue and has a brown ribbon for a book mark. I don’t know if those ribbons have a name, but it probably does and it probably sounds nice to the ear, like umbrella, or gossamer, or pyrrhic).

I was Cebes in the dream, which was an aspect I liked; outside of the dream I am just me, nobody (I know very few somebody’s), writing a letter like a nostalgic (nostalgia for a time I never felt but only saw on the movie screen).

16 June 2014

Differently, we; J and I (do you remember J? or have ever met him? you would remem-ber if you did), walk through the wide streets, here in this city

d

o

w

Walking n (across, u) Spadina

p

Walking into (through, around) the university and the hidden Uniersity

nothing but hooligans but we truly do spit onto the street words that reverberate through the day. Little (min-iscule, almost invisible) gems of wisdom from two jokers (wild cards, undecidables) without a dollar looking to doll out truth if nothing else works out that day at least we got to the bottom of things.

The bottom, of things, looking in from the top (into a beer bottle, maybe) expecting truth? It is bottomless. Socrates sold me a lie.

but I say it and he agrees that we should dress like Cortazar, li(o)ve like Parra (the antipoet), and die like Borges (old, blind, and in Geneva).

18 June 2014

What difference is there between yourself and a ghost?

I see you, (or hallucinate you), when I walk around the city. Down the hallway at the university; inside a cafe at the market; I saw someone painting a door from far away that had their hair like yours, but it was a decoy, my hearts trick and illusion.

Do you follow what I am saying (writing)?

a oppositional logic of life and death; binary oppositions. Present/absent, here/there, past/future. You inhabit the space in-between, the /, neither, nor...an undecidable.

Either you are within grasp (to touch, to feel, here) or you are gone (away, I cannot hear you, there) but you are both, no? A spectre; I can see you vividly in my head, I can speak to you every day if I wished, but you are not here, you are transpar-ent, a ghost on the movie screen replaying always and forever.

You disrupt the opposites; you slip across both sides but fit within neither. More than what an opposition allows, what makes me question the very principle of opposition.

Boy/girl, lover/foe, speaking/writing.

20 June 2014

Left: Either kept behind, or gone away

Bolt: Either to secure firmly, or leave immediately

Dust: Either to lightly add fine particles, or remove them

Finished: Either completed, or destroyed

Sanction: Either to approve, or to boycott

Apology: Either admitting a fault, or forming a defense

Custom: Either usual, or special

Handicap: Either advantage, or disadvantage

Weather: Either to withstand, or wear away

Root: Either to establish, or to remove entirely

23 June 2014

I no longer keep a schedule, and have become curious about the people that do (Baudrillard). the they, if we were to be crude, or to borrow Heidegger’s term (although he was a Nazi, for a short time at least, or forever. However long that might be.); it is very unorthodox, to just sit and watch.

I have no time to waste (except yours) because there is no set time to do anything.

“It’s time to go. I must be there at this time, sharp, for a good time to be had by all. We are running out of time. Time will pull us apart, my dear.” and so on.

What time is it over there? There where you are. I forget the difference, the exchange value, across the distance; whatever it is that is traded in time (I send you my time on a postcard).

26 June 2014

When we spoke last, on the telephone, I barely said anything. Speaking with you is too immediate with no gap between what I think and what I say. Transparency through speaking, with all the pauses and ums and ahs and unsureness in answering simple questions.

how is it that I call you my love across a labyrinth (a history) of the postal service (couriers, postal codes, stamps) and in total absence from you.

Careful with these letters, do not let them fall in other hands, a third party, who would not understand the context (meaning). Addressed to you-these words-in a cryptogram (cypher, puzzle, quite literally squiggly lines you must unravel) speaking to you, in absence. You, there, reading what I think here and now, like a ghost (neither here nor there) my words travel across imaginary lines, postal workers hands, the desk of a censor.

But is it you? You, that I use to know, by the shape and look of your face, who’s face I can no longer picture clearly without it being distorted like in a dream, like the face of Socrates drinking the poison. Or you, who I think about safely in my room, who I think about (with a great anxiety) reading this, maybe in parts or all at once with disinterest.

I wish to re-inscribe the coordinates that make up this love and calculate if it is in fact true.

I hope you have been destroying these letters like I asked.

July 15 2014

Heaven (paradise, Canaan, eternal home) would be married to you in Nor-way.

July 22 2014

Hell (the abyss, Abaddon, limbo) would be married to you.

July 25 2014

Heidegger writes “Language is the house of being. In its home human beings dwell.” Architectonic thinking is logocentric. Logos the undivided point, the origin, logic, reason, the word, God; “a ground”. Architecture is “grounded” in our thinking of ourselves. Our thoughts are principles (laws, rules) through the lens of architecture.

“An opinion” must have a “foundation” and “supports” to hold the argument like a “con-tainer”. Architecture can’t escape external, outside or ‘alien’ forces (political, economic, legal, institutional…)…”buildings should be useful, beautiful, inhabitable!”…Neomod-ern glass, clean, simple, sharp, edges that tower above always and already; calculated condominiums, a financial center and political capital, (uniform, serious, business, professional, hegemonic)…

But, I play in my head (play games by myself?) with ideas about useless, non-functional, ugly buildings. Buildings that look like they are exploding, or implod-ing, or have no walls but only frames, or have many walls folded over each other to resemble the sketch she drew of superstring theory. A building with half of it under-ground. A skyscraper built with the sole purpose to house the homeless. What would happen? Madness, pandemonium, but only because it is that anti-logos, the negation, opposite, antonym, of everything normal that the they have deemed authentic (truth).

July 29 2014

Over here I am a loser, over there I would lose you. These streets are so big I don’t know where I am going anymore. In the university I no longer knew what I was study-ing. And the Trotskyists demanding I read Lenin when I much rather read Deleuze

too much irony in hearing a critique of aca-demia from a group who is preparing for a lifetime of being academics. Entrenching themselves for a drawn out campaign only less bloody and needlessly dramatic. But they do go through the motions gracefully; articulate and intimidating in their rhetor-ic, brutal in their arguments and unforgiving in their sharpshooting of any explanation that is contrary to the “truth”, and it is here I lose my tongue.

Symbols and literature (flyers, pamphlets, magazines, these love letters) do not move people towards revolution.

August 3 2014

We have identified a game, or more likely, a number of games that play on top of each other in layers. These games have rules that are not explicitly stated but have dire consequences if they are broken. Ultimately though, there is just one big game. The Trotskyists are right in identifying the winners and losers of this game. Though that isn’t enough to stop it from controlling our lives, for even the Trotskyists are players, inhabited by a strange force that directs their purpose, policed by other members of the herd, or rather the general public, no different from the successful businessmen or yuppies with the name tag that read “individual”.

What truth is there behind this game? None, besides the truth that is ham-mered into the rules. But this is a truth none the less, and this truth controls our lives.

insane are locked away because they have no respect for the rules or acknowledge them as reality. Banished, to the gulag, for disobeying the “Truth” that hangs above us, the Patriarchal spirit that disciplines us; the self-regulation that drives us into the gauntlet at the edge of the precipice…

eventually everything falls into the they and I’m left naked without the words to explain myself. All I can do is retreat back to my room among my friends; Argueta, Benedetti, Chekov,

Look, we really don’t think we are doing anything subversive besides tossing dime bags to college kids, but every day we walk and philosophize (for lack of a better word) while not doing anything that’s expected of us (working, keeping a schedule, talking about sports) and by doing so we break the rules that holds them together.

What sort of truth lies under the concrete? On what foundations is all this built? I ask these questions to J but he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

I have lost my mind, or at least I see it float away like a balloon (still in grasp). Otherwise I am fine, although a bit hungry. I hope you are well.

August 5 2014

I am sleepy at all hours, exhausted when I get out of the shower-some days I do not shower-I am tired.

I thought about going to see you. Yes, over the great distance, like a letter to its pre-posted destination. Hit the road, like Kerouac (don’t you remember me sitting in the back of class reading Kerouac?) but what a ridiculous idea reserved for yuppies, or “travelers” (adventurers, backpackers); there are very few vagabonds left in exist-ence.

And if I made it there, what would I say? “I love you”? No, that is stupid (juvenile, silly). You would not believe it, I hope. Who is it I love? You? you there, who I used to know (I still know you, at least know about you), the you I speak to right now in my head, or you, reading this right now (or burning this, like I asked) or is it the you right before you read this, before I complicate things.

I would lie and say I am happy (peaceful, intoxicated, blissed) to be by your side, finally, always already in love (in devotion, in respect, in attachment) with you during the end times (the present apocalypse); if a meteorite fell on me right now, (not now, but when I am there, away from here, by your side) I would die happy and fall into the ocean knowing it’s all over, finally.

Do you know what I mean? When I talk about the end times, or vagabonds. No, how could you know, you were long disappeared before all of this happened.

but I am tired of walking all day with nowhere to go, no one to listen except the disfranchised that lend an ear in return for a favor. I envision (hallucinate) not existing. Disappearing. Indefinitely. But with the catch that all of it is erased. Everything up until I disappear.

true that I miss you, con-stantly, immediately,

you never answer in the way I envision. J tells me about a feeling he has about being watched. Not by just one person, as I sometimes feel, but by a whole audience, as if he is in a film.

August 9 2014

The village has alleys that cross like arteries, flanked by garage doors, some marked up, enough space for a semi, convenient to walk through. It connects the bus stop and my room.

did not hear him sneaking up behind, all I felt was the gun under my rib cage.

What was peculiar was that I witnessed the event from outside, standing on a balcony and seeing myself, my being, completely detached from the event but distin-guishing what I am and what was happening down there.

I am not stupid enough to write out a crime to you, but justice is subjective in most cases.

August 16 2014

I read Derrida and wonder if it makes sense or I only think it makes sense. That is it for me now. I am a reader of Derrida and the rest is excess. Do you follow me?

I am sitting on the subway heading home. I had something to tell you but I forget it now. I just left my only real friends in this city. It is late but for you the night is begin-ning. I wonder what you do on a Friday night, what your routine is, what route you take, or whatever it is you do to keep going.

What do you think of me? Me, writing to you on a subway filled with drunks and people going home from work, sitting and wondering what you think of me. I move back to Orleans tomorrow. There are some roads you would not recognize anymore. Trim rd. now has turns that used to not exist. Do you remember Trim?

What is it you remember about me?

August 27 2014

I misplaced your address days after you gave it to me. I don’t want to ask for it again because then I would have to send you something.

I forget what I wanted to tell you and now I don’t think I had anything to tell you in the first place.

It’s silly sending you letters when I can just call you. Let’s not pretend it means any-thing. My head buzzes and I try to map it out by writing things down, but look, I have nothing to say.

I don’t want to work. All I really want to do is watch movies all day.

OTTAWA

Cover Script: @sandwinch

Collating: @reachguy

Salarrué Dalton: @thesavageloon

Loon: @digdeeep

GATINEAU

Inside Covers: @jazzpunkx

TORONTO

@3thanallen

CHICAGO

@mykelanowicki