Lev Mamuya

 



evaporative forces and their



inverses brawl with



good nature—sitting idly



watching my own



humidity, sloughed and bunched



back furtively like clumps of wool.



 



blessing self for loving



shears—when my ears were



clipped, the dryness of the air



ate closer towards my eyes.



 



my muteness divulged by the rain,



roaring down through



capillaries hung limp from



the woolen clouds. not all



visual constructions are waterproof.



the channels quicken narrow, still.

there is no approaching



infinity, nothing



taught



or finagled in



roots and the bodied. divining



link and



link invert and



whether letters push



   hollow air or beads



   of jowl. it could



be emerald—be,



could emerald!



or should not—should



have



been infuriated



since wu. for leibniz



   the people



applauded



and fucked



and the lake



was not



placid at all. axes



shift disbanding



salaciousness and there



   is device



that steals



from the magpies



—push



gdp,



   make usefulness



   smaller, no one



wants to see it, it



is indecent. it reeks



of boredom and



   fuck you, john, who



   was ever bored?



try and ask—

 



i am up to a rich



work without ghosts—



i absolutely cannot trust



my follicles’ growth-in



 



straight. i squint by



the mirror, i grind



my teeth, they clack wise at



me, let me know.



 



i am well versed in how



water goes, whenever



i may see a faucet. the sink



cracks light and says *it’s*



*the mirror.* the sink and



 



i, really, are far nobler—we know



only the thrill of making



marks on the wall. lines,



and the taking of them. the work of



growing in—the sink



 



laughs—focal lines dance



in the creases, the all-over, i



give it up. it warms me, and



tastes sweet. fever, sweet—



 



the light is harsh,



linear. i have been standing



here a long time. it is



looking at myself grown



down sharp, this light.



 



it cuts narrow to me,



bound to swell towards some



eruption. my space to grow



lines straight seems now



a crack of the light. just.



 



i believed i was arrogant. i cannot



follow. i lay my eyes down



the counter, flat.

you are still pericles—



wailing nations of id,



you will assure them,



 



‘just chemicals’



even,  that all that greens



inside your bulbs—it rancid,



it dastardly savor. narrowing



 



nations, and you got that



itch to dance crushing



underfoot infant



nodes of energy. they compelled to



 



death-wish undertow, they



hide themselves—in the ruins—



 



if you don’t do well with



diorama, this earth is not



for you.



 



this has always



been the same—



ajax showed you, continuity



 



is a cult of personality and you



will subscribe.



 



onion-headed or not.



 

The natural street-musician will follow you once

you have dropped a coin into the hat. Because

the cloying mountain of minds



presses in, because of frailty.

Because the airy mind is frail. The street-musician

says, "Examine your pride,

examine yourself—I am not the government."



You say, "To my mind, I have not gone enough 

to concerts, to enough bars to enough

of those corners necessary to shake

the follow and the following."



"The mind and the air

need each other," he counters,

"as governance slides from stone

to brick. Look outside—idylls and fanfares



have blended into a bath-warm middle—you

are being followed and, I suspect, learning

about how the mind of an entertainer

functions. That that hive

is no government of stone."

L: Four times a year, our printer deposits a mountain of



boxes in our front hall. We pull off the tape to get our hands



on the new issues, our glossy seasonal produce. Upstairs the



magazines are variously pored over, flipped through, tossed



on the ground, stacked on the tables, organized



chronologically one day and repurposed as coasters the



next. Every other cover bears a sticky purple ring of dried



wine like a bruise. Some of the boxes don’t get opened.



These migrate into a particular closet, and then, after a



decade, to a second closet across the hall, and then, at



twenty years of age, to the sad cement nook beneath the



basement stairs. Down there, dust and water form a paste



that glues the issues’ pages together. The ones that survive



stick around for a while: the rough paper of the early



Advocate’s pamphlets cohabitates in our bookshelves with



the smooth prismatic matte of the past decade. Our first



fifty volumes have retired to bound tomes. When we poke



through copies from the 90s, we imagine our predecessors



lounging around these very couches while we––the future



so-called collegiate literati––were napping in our baby



strollers. This fall, we’ve resurrected the glossy vibes of the



70s Advocate. Paper: slick. Spine: stapled. Content? Fresh.



L: A naturalization of the eerie, or exposing of the sinister?



A fall from grace, or a courageous leap? Was it said, or was



it embodied? Cyclical motion, or an arrest of momentum?



New England autumn points ambiguously to mortality and



vigor in the face of it, toward the moral and the sensorial,



forward and backwards. In this issue, the light and dark



consider their changing relationship. The retrospective



is constructed, and the new smiles back uncannily. And



featured contributors Sarah Nicholson and Jorge Olivera



Castillo publish work, for which we are extremely grateful.