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, Claudia Alexander, Trevor Barton, L.T Prins, Gilian Sze and Adam Wilcox. Images by Le Pigeon, Marie Jane, Celia Spenard Ko, Mathieu Fortin, Brian Amsterdam, Richmond Lam, David J. Romero, Claire Milbrath, Erin Baillie-Rutter and Claire Boucher. The Room 22 is Marie Jane, Athena S. Delimanolis, Guillaume Morissette, Devin Charitonidis, Celia Spenard Ko, Olivia Wood, Nicholas Lindsay, Alexis Marshall, Klaus Deiter Schulz, Clara Palardy, Anthony Huneault, Zacharie Jos Monpetit, Linny Gaten, Megan Schwartz.
This zine was created in tandem with WE SEND THE WAVE TO FIND THE WAVE, which took place on Saturday, September 10, 2011 at the Friendship Cove. The event was curated and organized by the The Room 22, a Montreal based art collective. Embarking together, we are young people thriving and declaring our intentions. Our naïveté is a table-turn, and our manifesto is a converse reaction to literary functions in this city. We are here to reinforce each other’s efforts and to reinvent ourselves month after month until shape and size become unimportant. Poetry is our bait-and-switch. This event is a sending off but also an ode to our first summer together as an outfit, a summer spent beating off an impulse to run astray. For some of us writing is a natural impulse and to others it is a way of repossessing thought and idea. The very special will have their day. Love, Devin Charitonidis & The Room 22 www.theroom22.com firstname.lastname@example.org
An innocent piano solo and soandso is born parents feed soandso apricot cream buy large tv and a garderie fear dirt-like-death but adore babarsoon, soandso wears babyblueyeshadow (there’s a time for babyblueyeshadow) and a quaint lolita kiss, so quaint in a bush by the bus stop there’s a time for babyblueyeshadowthat time passes and so do grandparents, aunts, uncles magnified glass ants also soandso’s part of that generation of fallen lovers making old mistakes again in basements, with more or less humid consentsoandso’s nails, which once carved out passions in skin, bleed in recollectioninfant nostalgia brought in by the hoodrat stork soandso begins (late) to question: ‘were wings not meant for flying?’ a newborn lifetime of toilet sitting reading in happy regret and rueful content soandso could never know but time gets old and is late dressing up except with nowhere to gosoandso like every three-legged one else likes to take a walk in the park for airsoandso begins (late) to apologize and with every apology loses dignity, loses sleep ------------‘there’s a time for babyblueyeshadow’ the mortician says digging deep in her kit ----------signed, stinking books in soandso’s sister’s attic.
FLATLANDERS DRINK cod blood. long on the top, short on the sides. a lock of black hair in a cardboard box. skirt taken from the back of the closet. the photo of your parents laughing in a chinese restaurant. rhapsody, still ocean under rain— the white egret you saw from the passengers seat in scarborough. dead dog and menstrual blood between your fingers. black eyes black lake black closet behind black door. the water they run upstairs. whiskey to make the beans sweet, and the star you put in your own eye
Moving: (my lover went away in a beige taxi cab) Up and down, up and down. Staircase after staircase to the top A sweat’s not so bad. But again, and again! up and down. Makes me nauseous, but Lending a hand’s better than consolidating At home, my music library. Instead… I’ll lift these boxes up over my head, Pass me your bookcase, On my back I’ll take up your bed. And up at the top, of the red staircase When my thoughts aren’t said. We’ll drink and drink Until the silence is dead, The silence dead, Washes away the feelings I dread. A few cigarettes here Some beer and some booze. Lost nights and empty days. Acquaintances schmoozed. Little stories in my head Of you by the sea, but the memories Flood me, of the times we used To be… So in love, so in lust quite young and glee. So old and so silly –violently; unhappy.
PENCHANT Who is to blame that he has never once been to a planetarium, that that doesn’t hurt him the way he writes it might, that he has never lost somebody close, never knelt, bowed, been knighted the use of “agony,” which forces the third person, honest, and if he even now, on a ship long in deep swell, is not uncomfortable, can read, then another hardship poem remains unfinished. People your age die all the time.
into the roses of our body of water leaf veins true blue lively opening the old wooden door for favorable people of inexplicable wonder when happiness is slow crawling change will prevent preoccupation lights of moons go by without us ever seeing the real thing
During the seige of Leningrad they ate their boots. They ate their grandmother’s boots and after admitting that they found her casual racism “kind of quaint”, they ate her too. During the seige of Leningrad they went dumpster diving for dead cats and garish wall hangings reminiscent of the hunting scenes of Turgenev. During the seige of Leningrad, they brought out their velvet guitar cases and played pan flutes for the unamused Luftwaffe. During the seige of Leningrad, they partially excused their fascist occupiers based on their “aesthetic sublimity”. They vaguely implied that Mussolini was a great benefactor of the arts. During the seige of Leningrad they earnestly discussed the relative qualities of Schubert and Brahms and then went home alone, fists buried in their pockets. During the seige of Leningrad they composed songs about archery, falconry, and lime disease. When pressed, though, they admitted that they had only been camping once, maybe twice, at a fishing lodge in upstate New Hampshire. During the seige of Leningrad they used herbes de provence on nearly everything. They put eastern spices on cheese casseroles and willfully abused the term “al dente”. They seemed to burn their scrambled eggs every morning and when the red baron suggested that they turn their burners down or perhaps cook the eggs sunny side up, they merely shrugged. During the seige of Leningrad they did not do their dishes. They let the kitty litter settle for three sometimes even four weeks and during the seige of Leningrad they watched half-eaten tomatoes slowly turn blue in the refrigerator. During the seige of Leningrad they built a statue of Eisenstein, even though in their innermost thoughts they felt puzzled by Potemkin. During the seige of Lenigrad they left Anna Karenina on the bus by accident and never got around to finishing the last two hundred pages or so. At gunpoint, during the seige of Leningrad they were commanded to articulate the distinguishing features of Italian and Russian futurism but cannily avoided the topic by digressing into an anecdote regarding the eccentric behavior of Barnet Newman. During the siege of Leningrad they borrowed their friends’ Wittgenstein reader and it somehow ended up badly soiled on the toilet seat. During the siege of Leningrad they told half truths regarding the life of Harry Houdini before performing elliptical card tricks and abortive slights of hand. During the siege of Leningrad they crashed their bicycles while trying to play the ukelele en route to the park. During the siege of Leningrad they consciously avoided seducing women that resembled their mothers. Instead they cast suggestive glances at those whom resembled their grandmother’s boots. During the siege of Leningrad they developed a mania for Palestrina, while eating chocolate ice cream cones in the rare books section. During the siege of Leningrad, they smoked cheap cigars in the Hermitage and ate bagels on the steps of the Kremlin. During the siege of Lenigrad they rollerbladed through the city, weeping amongst the million dead.
skyline rule Dusty moon hangs grandmother’s earring. Blindly she chewed on ivory to see if it was gold while I stroked her clouded eyebrows that night in North Troy when seasoned reasons changed. This the same time when the construction crane pulled me out of rubbleand maybe it was marrow not ivory or gold. Today, Colonel Capital, my birthday dress has turned to ash and your sugarcane discipline is very much obligedI wanted to tell you about the time that I walked my index and middle fingers along the mountain ridge, and then down and tumble down and right up to your edifice, my dear it’s not that I don’t want to participate, but no one here knows chérie or why she shudders or that precious means another thing.
David J. Romero
HAMILTON It is the torn half of a matchbook. It sits on a striking surface. It is both the remaining matches and the missing ones. I feel like I know you better, to have seen it closer from the highway distance. Smoke and ore and clay. The flicking stone. Your siderite beginnings. The exhaled lines of your leaving.
Celia Spenard Ko
that season of snow-flood, that house.in streetlamps, the predawn glow was all there wasupstairs warm branches of delicate life locked in unbended stare and altered ideals, yet revealed, tred tip toed around our messy bed OUR bed, that was our BED. we OWNED that bed. by god, it rained most days, what am i thinking? you never seen such rain. and we knew it. sure, it was always wet around our bed but never in it or on it or yawning gape-eyed and proud at morningside to find sheets any more soaked than we would anyway have them had and was that work? aren’t we always working? we never worked. we were such hard workers. “cheap labor” i know you’d say. but we did each other the odd favor when in greenlit noon blades of grass tables sit smile-sighing and twist-sitted fit, and fit, and fitted, oh how we fitted and what vain fits we threw, misfingered off-chords spit from lips like drunk trumpets sick and sad and sorry for having met and regretful from wishing we never had. in dreams do i meet the old you? do i meet her young. and does she meet the me i wanted, for you, to be? have i seen him? and is that old yard of possibilities in lonely prosperous retreat-season, when once left never found, once found never left, the unwalked yard? the rooftops of those days rattle for sanity, creaking, hat-shaped, hard, though etched by the lightest down-dribble curving with daily caress of rolling drip, arched from condensation pockets. like spies in dust-nooks, they ripple us out into a great wave of sensuous decay. it doesn’t rain much anymore. not really ever, not for a while now it hasn’t. in fact the summer was hot to death. i went swimming. i heard you did too. we left our bed. forgotten, though it cannot forget since then, we’ve found waves. in blue sheets we night-toss blind in currents unimagined. what a world! shed clothes, hats, bags, tumble glorious, naked, through down-suck funnels of fellow glorious tumblers, all deadly afraid to bring our heads up. We all fear the storm topside. muted, it hums, churning above our heads. i’ve lost sight of your color in the deafening blue of it all. why do i close my eyes and press that old button. there’s something.. and i wish there wasnt. it leaves me short of air, shooting upward, away from the world ive found. when i surface there’s no storm, though the same long rumble sounds deep across the mirrored sea of cloud, upward and into the far outer stratospheres, its last roar: beautiful, agonized, tenderly unrolling, expanding into evaporation, the water below still grey in its final warbling reflection.
everything looks different, nothing is familiar. this is what a second chance feels like. its all utterly sad and new. irreparably clean. here comes the shore. looking out to sea from the old land the bed too witnesses the growing calm. “let this sad house ever stand!” and somewhere distant swims perfection. the auburn strands of woman. may she find her shore.
Thank you to The Friendship Cove, Arbutus Records, all our contributors & supporters.
We send the Wave to find the Wave -An Errand so divine, The Messenger enamored too, Forgetting to return, We make the wise distinction still, Soever made in vain, The sagest time to dam the sea is when the sea is gone -Emily Dickinson
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