ditch,

Julian Jason Haladyn is a Canadian artist and writer. His poems have appeared in, among others, ´a·pos·tro·phe, Elimae, Identity Theory, Istanbul Literature Review, Laika Poetry Review, Nthposition, and Otoliths, as well as the collection Nuit Blanche: Poetry for Late Nights (Toronto: Royal Sarcophagus Society Press, 2007). His first poetry book, titled 17/13, will be published this September by Blue Medium. In addition, he has published collaborative critical articles and reviews with Miriam Jordan in Parachute, Broken Pencil, C Magazine, On Site Review, and a chapter in Stanley Kubrick: Essays on His Films and Legacy (McFarland and Company 2007). As a practicing artist his solo and collaborative artwork has been included in exhibitions internationally.

Oban

Sounds of bagpipes drown out the alarm clock

closed systems of sound and water

the light is held back from fading out of time

reflections illuminating every surface of the room

bodies covered with scented oils

a subtle smell almost unnoticeable

white sheets visible momentarily

the television intermittently illuminating the room

naked in the motionless air

under the sound of water and scent of oils

a hint of exile is recognizable

the door both opening and closing the room

bodies that reflect and drown out visual movement

systems illuminating time

Incongruous Publications

Absent formalities and a bottle of wine

simulated meeting filed away on library shelves

legs held by curvaceous ankles

soft signs as the punctuation is put into place

the book is ready to be printed

Sounds of a Coloured Box

The library groans impatiently

almost an hour late and counting

books that are notes on scraps of paper

collected and organized by mechanical processes

torn from address books and technical manuals

contained in a box that makes a sound when opened

it cannot be accurately described

Font Hall

Passing through we always stop to relieve ourselves

            long trips in the car

            long lists of various types

I held the font in my hand

dirty metal bits with one end shaped like a letter

bodoni stacked in a series of wooden slots

            7 copies of the lowercase z

            7 kilometers walking each way

ink-blackened hands smudged

over typeset pages

pressing on the raised metal

            traces that are ready to print

            traces of bodies that travel