Post North III: The Truth

8/7/2019 Post North III: The Truth

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GGGPPP LLLaaa iiinnn sssbbbuuu rrr yyy

The Psychopathology of (Northern) College Life

Y OU RUN ON AHEAD ? DO YOU DO SO AS A HERDSMAN ? OR AS AN EXCEPTION ? THIRD POSSIBILITY WOULD BE AS A DESERTER . F IRST QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE .

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE , TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS (M AXIMS AND ARROWS 37)

a place where allare neither fishnor fowl

the secretary just a bit too smart

to be satisfiedmanaginga mid-size office

the teacherwho doesn t really like kids

or whom kidsdont like

or who cant keep his mouth shutat meetings

work well w/others

all those MEdsw/academic pretensions

the MA w/connections&/or charisma

various permutations ofthe academicnot interested enough

in her subjectto continue work

beyond the dissertationthe frustrated professorsw/out proper lecture theatre

too much libidofor priesthood or wifesublimating desireendless preparation

jogging

the English instructor whostutters & blushes readingthe dirty bits of the bookshe assigns

the historianwho writes potboiler novelsreplete w/racial stereotypes

the wildlife biologistwho chases bearsfrom the staff parking lot

the chemistw/record of researchobsessed w/ liebenstraum

the physicistwho just cant understand how his students can beso stupid


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the Muslim mathematicianstarving through Ramadan

&, of course, the smugsuperior bastardw/a few poems

in magazinesnobody reads

Oil Wives

IN REVENGE AND IN LOVE W OMAN IS MORE BARBAROUS THAN MAN . FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE , BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL (139)

as recently as five years agothis group of community-minded womenunited by a certain social status

gathered at the Mackenzie Innevery 2 nd Thursday at noondevoting themselves to gossip& good works

there are still some of these quasi-genteel types aroundself-made but mellowed by age, having assumedposts on the board at Lakepoint

the younger wives just arent the same: marrying young & indiscriminately, they knowalmost nothing but that husband will be in campmuch of the year

no worries but for income, for the purchaseof the incredibly gaudy ring she proudly displays

to the salesman as she prices ever newer & largermore expensive pickup trucks, to hirepersonal trainers, rent time in tanning boothsall in preparation: her side of the deal

assuming the object-position in a stripper-fantasy

when he returns late from the Condill every nightfor two weeks after spring breakup

if she is young & particularly beautiful& he dare even suggest a limitto the extension of her credit

her eyes will begin to dart around the roomto assess the situation, lookingfor one more pliant, with an even bigger

income, who can fill her w/even more

good stuff


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jstn foster

vermilion mantle

she is regionalmethodical in placeconsiders the spatiala furtive matter

she is reaching outbelow groundthe open woods near tree-linepilfering from grassespopulus and other perennialsthe indian paintbrush

castilleja miniataappears freshly dippededging the drip-lineof an aspen stand

cloisteredindistinct flowerschiefly conspicuousby reason of large fiery-brightpetal-like bracts enfoldingher leaves alternatenarrowly-lance-likethree lobed and linearsmooth-marginedrevealing three parallel veinsan honest hue of green

a filch under soilroots fastenfrom neighbouring aspena lesser thief of juicesalready partially assimilated

a petty larcenyher tidy hands gripping just enough, no more than a taste

to take fully of othersunderstory, under soilas a parasite in natureshe would be knownmarked by a lossof foliage and green mattera loss


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AAA llleeexxx CCCrrr yyy ddd eeerrr mmm aaa nnn

copper kettle headache

streetwise copper kettle headachetingle pins and tingle needlesplay in the duskshades drawn to trap the lightsticky thoughtful hibernationweighs heavy on store bought sorrowliquid courage holds like religionimposing complex genuflection

frustration

frustration spearheads the painbecause it is so simplethe remedytauntingat much too close a distancecue the fall

a thick, whiteblanket of amnesiaswaddlingpolitely suffocatingsending chills through your idphotographic memory melts awaytime acidic, click

then everything burnsold and used

again

minutes arehot feetpoundinghard pavementwhile muggy, blood soakedair echoes across an unlit expansedripping

release looses the hand that keeps you groundednegative spacebrims with blind fury

pull on thatoldfurcoatdeath, warm like an embracesparks the mental mutinyseenow youve forgotten


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Graham Pearce

S I R E N

by organ and dollar

spent

in exile,

in northyour name on the prescription bottle

shows no constraint

+

why you swam alone

(why you imagined a shark)

is explained by the mutual pity

of having avoided the consequence of twinning

+

when you throw

yourself at the future

a phantom hand holds your wrist

rabbits are the ammunition

in the surprise golden tooth

you wear on your necklace+

the fictions taught me

even if it starts getting betteryoull be chased

Boat to Tahiti

Painted an idea of your bodyMade spaghettiLearned the line through repetition and looking online at aMayan pot, found a gun that might of belonged to __________ and for the first time in a year Im dreaming About you but yr too foreign in yr red shoes and yrwhite sheets, under the influence of ___________

I put a finger up yr shortsand turn on the TV

and they blew each otherup

Futures have dropped off considerably

Its lucky I look good in Eastern jewelryThat I am generous with the jewelryAnd that I can cook.


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MOUNTAINHEAD(for Ken Belford)

In a cultural avalanche

use a time machine.

You wont use a cell phone

in the mountains

you cant call out

even at a cellular level

nobody here understands en glich,

and

landguage is passive.

[China is in the Fraser

the fish too are learning

Mandarin.]

water rushes to the points of physical dislocation

the body spends a few more hours in hibernation

beneath a library of snow

You peel back a bandage from your inner left elbow

your skin is affected by the antiseptic and cotton

the lowercases, the residueleft from the tape

The bruise left by the Red Cross needle

tastes warm

and raised

You exhaust my sensory memory,

shapeshifter.

Gives cause.

The metamorphosis begins in a chrysalis

on both sides of the river

Crossing water changes the body

The hinge moment

slows timerubberizes capillaries

smoothes

ventricle walls

blood rushes to the bone breast

plate

The white blood cells collect

where the water is shoulder deep

makes one believe there is a centre. Oh

there are mistakes in the wiring of my spiritual brain

there are breaks in the translations

the lands are multi-tensed

my body is in my

psychology

dont put your feet down

the river comes up to my eyes.


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Alexander Renaud

esoterotic

This poem is a methd 1

for entertainment directing satyr playsin the purgatorybetween Westernized ukiyo-erevivaland Belgium.

This ghost theory is drugged

for deployment in Dirac'sseaWhere negativity sharks,between feedingon limbics and trite, tell me

`Your pedantics are tired

for hours they've walkedin ejectoplasm, socks soggywith auto-neuroticism.

1 Okay, its probably not that good

Your foot faults are wired

to the wide bandthat feeds drip data (dumb itch,that needs fixing). An e-boner for

for lyric cynicism crosses the white line.UhmmmMawtschpeuynt.

You can't be serious!

I snort. It's a toy,supplementary to sighs and summer's blush: addiction, mal-leable bric--brac in a whackeconomy. The money is waxedprosaics and the proletry heap:So wherefore a party when random thoughts can romanticize onnothingness? 1

For mine own self, it's true. Above all... shit? Wit? What?


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fine fantasies

an ingnue flails, dismissing reason

with a quick sketch that shows what might have been when may have been was but a breath away... in a bird-song's stillness held back.

~

le soleil se lve and a twitter charms the painter's ansthetized daydream. la fe overtlyflutters her gossamer film over his vision: the sky is pink and parenthetical, and he is longing one heart at a time. The spell woven, those wine-dark eyelids close, and widened lips hint to an eglantine dream at her expense.

~

~

knee deep in the shallow end,

he cuts her reed and plays with his flute they make ugly music

~

I frown a little at the hopelessnessin a waxing moon smile that comesfrom crossed legs, when tight jeans cleftthe ass's palate.Mona Lisa lips intimate. Lo, a nubilestory asks a theme of my eyes.A perplexed malevolence staresback at her.


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ephemeral ad ventures.fourths, daring, chiming, charming &swordless: the pressured air, smiling fancies off.

dance in mirror- ed chandeliers, Thoughtqueen at the phosphene ball, following tawny lees and crystal- line finger traces, whining and dying for release

[stop the drumming.raindrops fill the silence.between us imagination istangible.(to breathe disappointment sweeps the dusty heart).nervousbreakdowns and wish horses in flight whimsy be my saddle.]

under the constellations, thrumming threads loom over her, Phaes- poria; with a luminescent maskshe brings exquisite nothing- ness); miss, fill my temples

with sighs & melodi- o- us intent (ions [String me along) thick candle-smoke ribbons.we explore

the muses' workshops for sonorous flint & fuse.] and ignite a euphoric seizure buried somewhere in the lightness of being

TTTaaa nnn yyyaaa CCClllaaa rrr yyy

full access

i was unfaithfuli lived as i chosei lived only to haunt you

i died so i could have you-Stars

to soul, offeredon plate garnished w/ basil &unprocessed granules of salt, intended for gums of our

mouths

we eat like fucking birds in this place

full access, to youfor free

sits bones spread, shaved, peeled and ready-to-eat

if i had one

a Soul that is

ill only give whats left to the person whose heel will fitperfectly

into the pit of my arm

settle for nothing less, my child


12/20

condition/ing of friendship

elevated-

&/ or too- grounded, teeter-totter/ing

function/ingclassical condition/ing

high-power low-power playground invention

battle positions, noncommittal obligation to other endlow authority controls one dangling -role, responsibility

relinquished

its all fun and games until someoneloses [an eye]

or cant get down

hanging high, a fraction of the sport, neglecting the spaces [in] betweenfun fun fun when the other takes up ground position

grounded/less

the iron/ic equipmentbalance design failuredoomed for Pavlovian start

letter to my children

Girls,

Im sorry I broke your Dad. I didnt mean to.

Love, Mom

Barry McKinnon

Retinal Detachment

worry to fear. the line between meaning ...only eyes that half a world is dim, milky, sadIll do my best, the rest seems a rustling fate in the wallthe arrogance of immunity

impugned/ be humble human at last orrecognize it can be its beginning - the accumulated past

its only you.

threat of lossto become a strength?

in the hospital silence, waiting crazed scream/ of wordless condition

how lucky you are to getthis far - the measure & corporeal recognition: in the land of the blind the one eyed man is king


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in the transluscence palpable separation that the world is 3 inches offin my walk and reach though never, in my unrequited fate, sensed mypart

such it is with luckwhat my mother said looking for the hidden blessing

the hidden blessing

here the silence of the sick to say ... to know their powernot to complain

otherwise, it was May, me on my way, happy to be each day

shadows/detachment subdued in the palpable enormityto become all of me

- its diminishment(if this is about anything

this / distortedsense of being the blind will see

MMM aaa ttt eeeuuu ssszzz PPPaaa rrr ttt yyykkk aaa

hye

Hye!

on peyote and shopping for used booksi met a stuttering frenchman

poor punk peddler

who (2c)b-linedfor me

who wanted a momentfor alms

and who didn't showercause wednesday is the hump

he grew dejectedwhen i stripped my empty pockets onto the floorbut regleamed in the light of my pupilsbecause I remembered

that he wasn't hungry and broke just trapped in the city

the concrete bodyof money and masses

the blind windowsand street car teeth

the stomach of meat

too rich for young angels


14/20

the sinking pitthe concentric circles

charity existswithout predisposition

Pierre was searching for the train that ever departsand I handed him a blue pillto color his irisyellow lightning

security camebut couldn't reach him in time

Atlantis the Vacation Cities

Maui girls feign the minute romanceon my bar tab

credit card

dollar drinks less a real beerstill cash twenty dollars

to feel liquid

what sirens havent been caughtby long liners

are self sentencedto the island mentalityand escape

the continental divides the worldinto vacation cities

but no cure existsin her bed frame

_________________________________ the volcano

erupts

Josh Massey

Industrial Exorcism

flares from stack blaze vertical, knotted silver pipes

and cylinders and valves and blah and smoke and sulfur and blah

pigging, rigging, roadside warningamethyst crusher, feldspar smasher

am human feeder am rolling the roadblock, the flaming trash cycle

the trucks, the faces, the cough plumes the wet steel widgets the crank band the blah the aluminum walls, the debit, the head office the blah

the oiled hand, the plastic grip, the AHHHHH the megalitres the megawatts the swan pond

the BLAHHHHH, the BLAHHHHH the AHHHHH, the AHHHHHH

the hot chemical reek of contiguous brush the high voltage the AHHHHH, the AHHHHHHHHH

pipe to faces and rotor expressionless behind wipers cold-cut gullet process

scrunched food wrappings to oiled hip over ripe socks

cells scream AHHHHHH. The AHHHHHHH the mud, the clam the halibut-

eyed person the agent the flare the flame the river the agent the cheque the shotgun shell

the frass, the pigging, the rigging the needle the carotid the AHHHHH the BLAHHHH,the AHHHHHHHHH


15/20

worship the warship worship the warship worship the warshipworship the warship worship the warship worship the warship worship the warshipworship the warship worship the warship worship not the warship worship not the warship worship is wrong worship is cruel warship worship wave warship worship wave warship worshipwave warship worship wave sail warship worship wave sail warship worship wave sail islandwarship worship wave sail siren.

the audience at war withthe performers

the audience destroys the performance

a performer risesfrom the audience and starts firing

Poem with StarbuKs Coffee in Parking Lot

RVs stationed in the radiant WaL-mart plain passports and lottery tickets on the dashboardslike judgment day ledgers. mile 0: the freedom of this Alaska Highway will take them all to their retirement subarus hitched to the tails of 50 foot bigFoots now stalled in the glistening evening so hotgrampas with aviators & helmeted hair and steel-wool neck hair

discuss over metallic travel mugs the rise of fuel prices

the remortgaging of the house and their chil drens debt

tanned men with unironic mullets and blonde arm hair heave grocery bags of provisionsinto the truck cabin in fulfilled armfuls now this magpie-sung morning of shoppers rising over mochaccinos; and, in the distance: the polished pipes of thepatch glisten silvery like aluminum minarets in the ungulating vista of hyper crop canola fluorescent and portentous

their disappearing act: to be laid to restin a tote box padded with gel packs and cotton batting outback the warehouse with billowing bags for headstonesstrung from tangled fishing rodssecured in empty folgers containers packed with fertilizer a dirge of combustion engines and a pall bearerconstructed of rusted chains & gearsdroning futurist psalms & anointing the tombs with motor oil.

hoarse, whispering

kickin it out back the grocers on milk crates laughing and passing sherry with the natives

near the burial garden did you steal their stone by taking stock of which mean image to guide a strange traveler though the cedar chip tombs abalone bowers and the pox of dead gems

what's writ white is your repeated phantasm get outa here you no good nah fat chance eh

butt-end of mop in my gut proof of strength i'm not one of the grubs i'm my own butterfly


16/20

list of old debts as skulls in disavowed landfill and back rooms are for the harder digital stuff

deformed mattresses spring at night - muhaha joyce taps his cane through bonnie sad wood

of sam beckett's 'whoreoscope' and krapp's tapedinanities hissed from the grate in gotham handof mother i have strayed too far to ably repeatthe couplets you echoed in my unconscious ear

eternal athlete hanging

The guests always linger around it, the hills and the valleys cast in adreamy deeper blue and mauve, and finally no light but emerging star.

She skis through the trenches of snow, in the forest and sometimesthrough the bright openings, which become pools of shadow when thefire is stoked; planting her poles in front, then her body catching up asshe drives her hips forward and glides ahead, approaching adestination behind the mountain where a peace, rose garland grows,her scarf and wool hat in haphazard attitudes, the slither of her skis,forward, never tiring, the eternal athlete of the landscape, play ofshadow over grooves and daubs in the acrylic.

Sipping hot chocolate absorbing the border between art and life, howsomeone can escape through the waxen medium, so too the painter'sbrush spiraling to break trail. For the heart to follow to a point behindthe mountain.

Gathered beside the stone hearth, to marvel at her perseverance,ambient embers casting her in different attitudes throughout the daysand nights at the chaletthese winy hours of our aprs-ski, but how she is still off on her journeytoward the mountain which will never end.

TTTyyy llleee rrr CCCrrr iiiccckkk

Halloween at the Don Valley Brickworksa piece of fictional history

I. The Push

That bruised yellow bus was a hand basket rocketing from the crypt of city lights straight to someones undiscovered form of hell. We hugged the seats ahead with a level of excitement reserved for the abyss, and we stared at each other in order to side-eye our neighbours night-hungry deviants, disguised as things tamer than themselves, such as half-formed werewolves and the gentleman Hyde.

When the bus finally docked, it was oppressed with silencebefore storms and manic auteurs of the out-world scene, waiting for space to pace. The door opened and we fe ll out of the bus, left to spin in circles, sandwiched between violentlyrich mansions on one side and a valley of doll-trees on the other, wondering for a moment if we hadfinally gone too far.

But this was the Don Valley, and someone found the trail a breadcrumb pathof glow sticks, which wrote over our doubts with the notion that a house of loaded sugar cubes waited for us at the end. Half way down the slope, past receding trees, we spied a wild dog on its hindlegs, its fly unzipped, pissing against a tree and looking back at its pack while their cameras flashedhim in return.

One of us claimed to hear sounds in the next room, wondering how it was possible considering our locale. His body stayed close to us after that but his mind was at large,


17/20

until we bottomed out to a wide view of a bridge over uncharted waters, ending in a trio of lightbulbs guarding the brick ante-room, unsheathing any person-things that had silently joined us in the slick blacktrees. We scurried across that threshold, roaches out of the drainof the city, just out for a breath of fresh air. The trail inside continued as candles, worming forward through a dark

doorway,

the other side of which we found an enormous, crumbling grave of the industrial revolution. Here we saw unexpected amounts of others, huddled in teams and exploring,looking for incredible kicks, flashing their lights at our engorged pupils.

A quick sweep made it clear that the night was a four headed beast the writhing snake den of enormous techno-beats and blue smiling faces; the rock show, trying to coax the generator into submitting to the productionof riffs; a lamb, roasting on an inverted cross, stared up towards by the severed head ofa pig; and the vast deposits of promising, uninhabited darkness. When faced with a night so heinous, its important to keep a tight belt and a loose mind.

II. The Peak

A sugar cube each doctors orders and a bump or twoprescribed by a different doctor from across town,and administered from the space between creaking hairy knuckles.

Courageous at last, we went forth into the castle of dismantled memories,eyes rolling and neck-hair throbbing.This was the time to conquer the summertime void;straight to the tremendous, smoke painted ovens, each the length of tenbusses,to skip, climb, and fall over half-baked piles of bricks, nowhousing birds making nests of needles.A cell phone glow ahead illuminated slivers of an ambitious graffiti muralsigned 15 years ago,spanning the dead end tunnel from finish to finish and absorbing ourthoughts like microvilli in an intestine.

A short lived debate ensued about the absence of valour in graffiticreated under such absolute cover.

Above hung a system of walkways and metal staircases, ripe withpotentialfor tetanus slips and the parting of skin.We mounted these ramparts and stepped tenderly around thestratosphere of the Brickworks, looking down at the two islands of litpeople,circled by flash-lit outliers, floating in the waveless void,a void which we knew somewhere kept the lamb and the pig visuallyand spiritually submerged.

The vibration of the girders meant the generator had finally been tamed,finally began producing current to feedthe wall of amps, which would then feed the crowd,the circle of life complete.The band, backed by one bright light, and wearing crimsonmonastery robes,sent one unified riff through the Kings court, an electric bowling ballploughing through the calm.

The lights scattered among the uncharted depths heeded this siren call,drawn to those charismatic ministersof tinnitus.They gathered along known paths, forming writhing eels of lightwhich fed into the increasingly enormous jellyfish, until an octopus wasformed,flapping and billowing under a gathering cloud

of rising, murky air -industrys persistent ghost.

In rapture at this spectacle, we passively lingered on the ramparts,survival-gripping on the railing in front of us,as though afraid the disparate creature belowmay somehow become conscious of the potentialheft of its unityand level the vicinity.

The e-bow preachers seceded the chapel to Missile Command,a duo devised for controversy,


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equal parts Devo and Artaud -one used his synthesizer as a launch pad

for his works of artand fire,while those on the front lines thrust backwards againstan unyielding crowd; operation human shield.The second of the pair took up the microphone,tore off his shirt,carved a lazy S on his chest with a punk rock beer bottle,and delivered the terms of engagement.

Arresting as this spectacle was,wed been binging on pacifism in those days, and so sought out the other crowd, known themselves to indulge inpacifiers.

Engaging in random acts of violently alternative meaning,this crowd perceived the essence of sex on the beach to besex in the dirt.Nonetheless we appropriated the velocity of their near reproductivefrenzy into our own form of Tilt-A-Whirl dance.In the shadowed vacancy behind the self-lit crowd,our movements resembled figure skaterscross-bred with penguins;clumsy, and spun.

III. The Descent

By dawn, the battery of the crowd had lost most of its charge from theflight ofsuspected vampires that had learned to read the foreshadow of the sun inthe sub-text of the night.

The rest of us smeared our lids across the build-upof crud on our eyeballsgazing at each other with disbelief as familiars often do,having shed their nighttime visages.

As the last of the cunning musicians tenderly tore their aural bandages

from our tedium-burnt brains,we resisted the urge to assess the progression of the repairs.The minds conversion of stimuli into soul -fuel takes time

and besides,we had a tendency to burn it as we got it.Some had decided to continue to maintain their cranial hums -one last kick to ensure a triumphant return.Their relentless chatter was a welcome mute to theperversely wholesome silence of mansion-land,as some of us had lost our willto speak,having squandered our inheritanceof significationon a spiderwebbing procession of inner monologues,and jammed our memories full of powdery linesof self-indulgent poetry,much like these.

By the time we reached the bus, fresh 9-5 faces had beguntheir pilgrimage, unfortunatelyfor them.The sight of us briefly broke their tenuous agreementof self, which insists that they have at least some ideaof what goes on in the world when they arent watching.

The lack of texture on the bus trip home allowedentire chunks of time to slip through the battle-worn

grip of my mind.

By the time I spaced out of the bus and onto the sidewalk,the profoundly exaggerated passage of time had amputatedme from my 2-hours-ago-self.

If it werent for storytelling, the world would overflow with orphaned versions of myself,left behind to experience each moment in an indefinite void.

Somewhere in the near distance I heard a 50 foot talldeck of cards being shuffled endlessly and considered that


19/20

it may be best to walk the long way around the block.

Braving a potential stumble onto a site of manifest surrealism,I turned a corner into the park,

where the canopy of tree leaves was superseded by a canopy of birds,endlessly and maniacally weaving a billowing feather-covered cloud,which nearly eclipsed the sun,the complexity reminding me that despite all of my conjecture,I was still just a pirouetting penguin.

Shane Darroch

Temporal Isolation

Kerosene corrodes the facesof this tavern parliamentwhile I read the latest articleon the metaphysics oftesticular injuries

Ive forgotten your erect nipples my prescription has expired

must I do another Bangkok body shoton the Reeperbahn train

Trapped in temporal isolationthe neon lights burstthe last border is openedmy cigarettes turn to dust

Madness

I lament for madness

while looking through a tar covered window

at the white sand and roaring ocean

My glass of rum is empty

a sweaty hand reaches for my cigarettes

new smoke lingers for a moment

then merges with the toxic air

A figure in the bed stirs

I pour an other

the ceiling fan sputters then stops

and I lament for madness


20/20

I HAD NOTHING TO OFFER

ANYBODY EXCEPT MY OWN

CONFUSION

Jack Kerouac

Documents

Post North III: The Truth