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Format:Chapbook

Size: 5 ½ x 8 ½

Pages: 24

Every Exit Impossible to Imagine With Wings

by Robert Chrysler

Robert Chrysler (1967 - 2012) was an inspired subway-ranter from Toronto, Canada. He enjoyed challenging capitalist property relations, trying to figure out what the post-structuralists are going on about, and dreamt of someday living in a tree.

 

Every Exit Impossible To Imagine With Wings

 

The scent of her reached at varying degrees, pure speculation to the echo. Inner choices saucer like it was so special, in on the secret. She was read perfectly. A deprecation painted onto pale, slightly freckled skin…

 

Her passage and seventy times three minus a tornado and the loving grace of God. Lust straight for the air’s nomenclature, the kiss an elegy that made her bleed. Sigils of congress secretly as a silver face culled from frosted panes.

 

Time falls to the seasons, eyelash constrictions before playing the end of this song just one more time. Goodbye at the end of our fingertips, I swore to the source of forever you would open to me completely, reveal a separate gasp of dream to the night’s exclusive key, enigmas that climb along the religion of hours. You capture stars, although they stubbornly refuse to speak through patches of what is missed, your pallid sonata.

 

A jacket to your humble cheek, islands here and now and wandering around the bedroom that is recall and linked to the abyss when unfurled by your glance. Light curls the question collapsed between your legs, lonely vacuums still in love with the drop of my smiling drone into you.

 

A Beautiful Talent

Robert Chrysler, 1967 to 2012

 

I never met Robert Chrysler in person, but I engaged in an erratic correspondence with him for a few years. Out of the blue, he would adopt me as a confidant, then just a suddenly drop me, then start again later. He came across as lighthearted, playful, intelligent, charming and creative. Rob also had an abrasive side; I never experienced it, but I know of others who had a falling out with him.

 

Over time, I pieced together glimpses of his life. Rob lived a homeless life in Toronto, staying in shelters when he could. For a time he returned to his supportive family in London, Ontario, where he lived in a Salvation Army Shelter and found employment as a manual labourer shovelling concrete and drywall, but eventually he returned to Toronto.

 

He told me something of his early days in Toronto when he was connected to an anarchist group. A political activist, he participated in protests organized by the Coalition Against Poverty and Reclaim the Streets. I encouraged him to write down his extraordinary, and sometimes disturbing, experiences of street-life, offering to help gather them into a book, but he just laughed and said he wasn’t that kind of writer. 

 

His writing was dreamily surreal, often heartbreakingly beautiful. He liked the idea of a connected community of writers who shared similar artistic sensibilities providing mutual encouragement and support, even forming the anti-group Post-Borpism. He was part of Discharge, a blog collective, and served a spell as editor of the online Starfish Journal, eventually starting his own online literary magazine Oarystis, using computers in the Toronto Public Library.

 

After that we kept in touch mainly through comments on Facebook, having a final discussion about Comte de Lautréamont and T.S. Eliot in September, 2012. Whether his life was a tragedy, an anarchist statement or an artistic achievement, I cannot say, but he lived the life he chose. The world lost a beautiful talent when he died.

 - John C. Goodman