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“The man with no face has no disgrace.”
--Nash The Slash
“For the more a man limits himself, the nearer he is on the other hand to what is limitless; it is precisely those who are apparently aloof from the world who build for themselves a remarkable and thoroughly individual world in miniature, using their own special equipment, termite-like.”
― Stefan Zweig, Chess Story
The Public
By LaTonya Agosti
a seven-person
collaborative project
life
surrealism
nineteenth century
new works
a hundred
camouflage radars
previously tilted
now cover
the department
the theme
building a zoo
surprising
a million good things
the elevator
a thousand-month
penal invasion
artists
we are only
one summer camp away
Hebrew
a clear description
of the path
thirteen
spiritual events
Radiance
the young dermatologist
accompanying
the main character
knows this
one generation
going through upheaval
and another
is underway
Right then, gentle readers of this ephemeral leaflet, this Fowl Feathered Review, a publication whose very existence seems to hinge precariously upon the fleeting whims of chance and the digestive fortitude of its readership. This present issue, let it be known, arrives not in the customary crisp, if somewhat pulpy, form, but rather as a viscous draught, a peculiar preparation of Polyethylene Glycol 3350, to be precise. A libation, shall we say, that coats the palate with the very essence of ennui and leaves a spectral aftertaste of hopes gently deflated. But fear not, for this melancholy aperitif serves a higher purpose, a necessary prelude to the forthcoming spectacle.
Ah, yes, the colonoscopy. That intimate exploration, that subterranean voyage into the self. It shall be orchestrated, this delicate procedure, by a certain Demolition Dave. A moniker redolent of both destruction and, perhaps, a dubious charm. This Dave, you understand, is not your typical, white-coated proctologist. Nay, he is a maestro of sorts, a one-man band of considerable, if perhaps questionable, ambition. His oeuvre leans heavily toward the sonorities of brass, a veritable Wagnerian assault on the lower intestine. His theatre of operations? A shadowy cul-de-sac, a slightly humid oubliette nestled behind a defunct emporium for the grooming of sundry domestic creatures in the suburban sprawl of Mississauga’s Port Credit. His methodology, a curious fusion of the clinical and the cacophonous, he has christened “The Gut Bucket Blues.” One is led to believe that enduring this auditory barrage, this symphonic accompaniment to one's discomfort, yields certain pecuniary advantages. Specifically, a discount upon the tonsorial arts. And not just any shearing of the locks, mind you, but rather, it is whispered, a respectable coiffure, often of the “bob” variety. A curious incentive, indeed.
One pauses, naturally, to consider the weight of such an undertaking, especially when viewed through the prism of one’s own peculiar genesis. For our esteemed reader, it has come to our attention, emerged, as it were, from the dusty annals of forgotten enterprises, that your very being owes its genesis to a family of “Sheila” mail-order brides. The Sheila clan, yes. A name that resonates with a certain… notoriety. Individuals whom this very hand, this humble purveyor of poultry-themed literary criticism, once extricated from circumstances of a distinctly singular nature. And then there was Fred Finkelman the Fearless. Does this name conjure any spectral echoes from the recesses of memory? He, of course, presided over that chain of discounted stationary purveyors, a veritable empire built upon the ephemeral foundation of physical paper, back in those antediluvian epochs before the digital deluge rendered such cellulose-based artifacts mere curiosities for museum displays. Fred’s demise, alas, was not the stuff of heroic ballads or dramatic confrontations. His earthly sojourn did not, shall we say, conclude in a manner that could be definitively termed “concluded.” The final tableau depicted him in a state of abject lamentation within a sequestered chamber, a veritable ocean of shredded, unforgivingly coarse photocopy paper swirling around him.
The instrument of his undoing? The humble paper cut, multiplied ad infinitum. For even the Fearless, it seems, possessed his vulnerabilities.
Consider, then, this past unpleasantness, this confluence of mail-order matrimony and paper-induced despair, as a debt subtly amortized, a karmic balance gently restored through the peculiar exigencies of fate. It is, to be sure, a great deal to absorb before embarking upon such internal explorations. Paper cuts. Matriarchs of the mail. Colonoscopies in alleyways.
But take heart, dear reader, for Bippy, my narwhal, stands ready. The ceremonial boop awaits. Merely incline forward ever so slightly. Feel that gentle, almost ethereal tap upon the proboscis? There. Equilibrium restored. All is, in its own peculiar way, now even.
Yours in the ever-present pursuit of the perfectly rendered poultry review, and with a certain fondness for the purveyors of pan-Asian culinary delights,
Virgil Kay,
Editor,
Rooster,
and Connoisseur of China Wok. (The Sweet and Sour Pork? Ah, that is a tale for another time, a veritable epic of gastronomic proportions.)
PEG shall be delivered by Mule.
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