Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

From Vitrine collection, ''Hi dear, how are you?'', NY 2004 by NOVIN

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Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault


If I were
a horse
which I'm not
of course

I'd mount
to the sky
like that
Pegasus guy

The Diary of Wonders by Tomio Nitto
Exhibition catalogue
with writings by Holly Lee
captions by Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee
8×10 in, 20×25 cm, 
80 pages, softcover, perfect binding
Isbn: 9781989845172
Published by OCEAN POUNDS
CAD $40 (plus tax and shipping)

This publication is available for Orders at BLURB


by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

I have always loved to count.

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DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 1022-2021

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CONTENTS: Family Tree, written by Holly Lee / Family album by Lee Ka-sing

From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 108: Factory, January 27, 2013

Eighty Two Photographs
a book of recent work by Lee Ka-sing
8×10 in, 20×25 cm
180 pages, softcover, perfect binding
Isbn: 9781989845189
Published by OCEAN POUNDS
CAD $70 (plus tax and shipping)

This book is available for Orders at BLURB


Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – The majestic Registan Square was a marvel, at sundown the painted mosaic tiles reflected light, emitting shimmering light. Eventually the stragglers were reminded that visiting hours has ceased. We scurried out the side exit with devious plans to return a few hours later, for a visit under the stars.

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by Fiona Smyth

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Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 98

each tree drops
its leaves and
the leaves drop.

----Cid Corman, from Plight (New York: The Elizabeth Press,
n.d.), unpaged

by Cem Turgay

by Kai Chan

"Pink", 2021, 13 x 12,5 x 5 cm, papier maché, wood, acrylic paint

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Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

It Was Autumn

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Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

BOOK OF SAND: volume 1

“We are an echo that runs, skittering,
Through a train of rooms.”—Czeslsa Milosz


you rescued me from the lumber, sand and swamp and lead me on the run from the ghosts and my watery self.

and death approached us, the weight of our blue depth, and we dared
because mama challenged us with spoon and spanner and all manner of kitchen utensil
and we grew limb-soft and lost
and we missed the algebra theorem chewed upon at noon:
thus, we have not understood yet enough what was our effort,
racing reckless toward something ineluctable, something the ocean might call home
and we swam and sifted along the surface waving all our brave things, dove.

and that is  what the ocean called, pulling against the weedy, slick breath,
sailors lost under a cold pillow of airlessness and seaweed serpents strangling.

Brave that.


once we galloped against one another in the backseat of your father’s car,
humidity as kiss, falling stars as buttons uncurled separated and your breasts awoke
beneath the tremor of my unbuckled hope
and in the night we learned more of ourselves than all those drive-by starts charting mythology
and rocket launches
and we trapezed the fear and broke our lives toward the light,
mountain, macadam, deer leaping in the ditch and our syllables as awkward as our fingers.

every lit window dampened by our breath and how many of us
how many of our bodies caresses the moon with our moonshine desire and goodyear losses.
Ask the bootlegger and the apples trees listening upon the holler.

a god’s drunken smile burns and shelters like a sun,
the woman said on the porch in South Carolina, white as wicked bone,
as she recounted her pecan pie sitting on the window sill and all those boys
that once wrecked their bodies and heads for a beautiful photograph of a beautiful woman
and she sees right through them, and burned her love into them.
you too?
still rocking in her chair like a broken wall clock, she asked:
are strong enough to light through the red dark


cicadas, their hum and shells on the trees of you sister’s man’s backyard,
hung unglued like that boy’s shoes, used in the poetry he wrote before he leapt off the bridge,
his body taken far along the pebbled river banks before it got all swung-up in the netting
and the story telling of the fisherman in the low country,
death for their poetry, death for the names that get passed on,
the  down-country scrimshaw along the planks, boards and railing:
once that bridge carried more than a man’s body beneath but the promise of love,
the hum and heft of the shells on trees,
you heart dear south a beautiful typhoon:
a winging cicada.

Do lok tin si,
fallen angels spread wide like the black sea spreading its wing against the city night lights,
upturning like a bat batting left from a cave, the smallness of the players losing
their lives, the wrenches clacking in her suit pockets, the hearts of the girls they stole kisses from in the dawn
and the  ghosts waving to the hills’ darkness and the tables gambles.
…alas, they were, but not for long.

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(Breakfast area and small shop)

Located on the second floor of an art space, INDEXG Bed and Breakfast has 4 guest rooms, all with ensuite bathroom. Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists, art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different cities visiting and working in Toronto.

50 Gladstone Ave, Toronto

ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


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