[Alternate Route]

#1, Winter 2021

®© Alternate Route, 2021 

ISSN 2767-0333

Winter 2021 (Date of issue: January 31st)

Editor: Michael Starr

Contributors: CJ Delous (CJ), Michael Starr (VB), Brando (B), BrokenMaya (BM), RedBear (RB), DrunkLotus (DL)

This periodical proudly produced without institutional funding.

For contributions, please see our Patreon at <https://www.patreon.com/alternate_route> or twitter at @AlternateRoute and send a request to contribute with 1-3 samples to AlternateRoute.zine@gmail.com.

Free-of-charge. Patronage is gladly accepted at our Patreon listed above.

Published in California.

Likenesses and similarities to any person, peoples, place, or institution past or present are purely coincidental and do not suggest identity or reference.

Table of Contents

Writing

CJ Delous

Body & Mind  

Desire & Idea  

Nothing is Sacred  

Beyond Indempotence  

Writing  

Haunted

Michael Starr  

Family (P)ills  

Shut Off  

Forgiving Leopold  

Communications

B  

UNTITLED  

HER  

BrokenMaya

Cross My Heart  

Maiden of the Midden  

Waiting  

Die, My Love  

RedBear

Like Song  

She Blushes  

Venus At Bellingham Bay  

Thinking  

Art

CJ Delous

Nothing Makes Any Sense  

Pretend  

Wildflower  

RedBear

Cherry Blossom  

Silver Branches  

Cherry Blossom 2  

Tulip Magnolia  

Spring Blossoms  

DrunkLotus

Mermaid  

She Fell Apart  

Naga  

Paisley Funk  

Om Mani Padme Hum Lotus  

Tortoise  

Magical Teapot  

Body & Mind 

by CJ Delous 

Although the body & mind 

can be conceptualised 

as distinct 

they are inextricably linked. 

The body gives expression 

to the mind’s longing, 

just as flowers express colour 

as a means to birth others. 

The body, 

& therefore the mind, 

will always find a way to take 

the path of least resistance, 

& belongs entirely to causation; 

to the eternal unfolding of consequence 

in which chance & predetermination 

somehow co-exist. 

The mind must decide how to live with this: 

knowing that our autonomy is that 

of autumn leaves… 

So we lie to ourselves 

because no one else 

can carry the burden for us. 

This is not wisdom. 

It is observation 

as sutures to a wounded conscience. 

It is conscience 

as consequence of impotent revenge, 

& impotence 

as unconscious attempt to make amends. 

So, don’t let these words fool you: 

I know nothing about Truth. 

I know only what occurs within me 

as I play my small role in eternity. 

Desire & Idea 

by CJ Delous 

Forever out of reach 

it exists as if, 

         born blind 

they presented you with 

an audio description 

of a visual medium; 

permanent distance, something 

         missing, 

no way 

of knowing 

how to affect the movement. 

The desire exists 

but the idea resists, 

a furious rebellion 

against simplicity, 

         insisting on 

misunderstanding, infested 

potential 

& perpetual ambiguity, 

like the painful birth of conjoined twins, 

who grow to want nothing more than 

to love & be loved, 

             beautiful & ugly, 

                         just like us. 

Nothing is Sacred

by CJ Delous 

Nothing is sacred unless we make it

so why not run with me naked

through these trees that aren't

what they seem;

to be

             or not to be 

is not a question we need to answer,

not here, not when we're together,

where benevolent light

guides us through the forest

     & into the clearing... 

If only you could see

just how

beautiful you are right now with

the wind twisting its fingers

through your hair

& the air

     enfolding us 

               turning golden... 

Nothing is sacred,

but we give the void its colours

       regardless*: 

no meaning

beyond this nascent second

unfurling;

       a flower 

in the sunlight

reaching up

           in supplication 

         to the sky. 

*Albert Camus

Beyond Indempotence

by CJ Delous 

Nothing else comes from yourself

when applied under

             a binary operator 

         or when 

interpolated between

History & the

hysterical performativity

demanded of us

         by those who would 

subject us to

             isolation 

             so intense 

that subjectivity blends

with the screen;

your/our/my

fingertips intimate with

         plastic 

             & glass; 

touching that

which can never touch back...

when enough of us

         are stuck 

like a bird with clipped wings,

         escape mutates 

from ease into extreme

banality.

         We need 

to break from this endless

             imposition 

of regulation upon our bodies,

the remorseless,

repetitive

demands

always controlling & quantifying

the value of our lives

         to satisfy 

the demands of profit.

I need you & you need me: we

     need each other. 

Solidarity is the only solution.

Fuck the impotence of idempotence

imposed upon us from above:

Multiply together & we'll become

         infinite. 

Writing

by CJ Delous 

You want to put the barrel of the gun in their mouth,

to stop the noise drowning the music out;

in thrall to the curvatures described by birds in flight

& feelings inscribed in nameless street lights.

You want a language defiant of time:

                                 indelible lines, 

chords of memory

                                 transcendental & sublime, 

the contingencies of life unified;

into one

     single 

             song. 

You want what you cannot have:

an abstract/visceral expression of all that

unknowable,

                                 ephemeral 

sound enclosed within bones

where the brain sits

& compels you to this

                                 futile release: 

the fading gaze of a caged beast,

never the same as its first raw moment

of existence.

Haunted 

by CJ Delous 

Bite off your tongue,

             spit out the blood 

& say something more than

             any word ever could. 

Seal the wound with white-hot metal

& stuff with wire wool, stifle

a scream & feel a weak

edge where laughter descends

into the cruel or desperate;

             ignore 

the words that form & try to force

open your mouth.

Let no sound out.

& in silence

find the patience to discover

an unspoken secret;

the obscene foundation

of everything keeping us safe

             from what awaits within. 

Waits like a swallowed stone

to kill or be expelled

from these bodies haunted

             by language: 

a ritual sacrifice;

             necessary 

price to be paid, ridiculous

offering made

to satiate the infinite

             & the horror it brings... 

Now open your mouth,

             & let it all out: 

without a tongue

             all sounds are one. 

Family (P)ills

by Michael Starr 

My

mother stigmatizes 

my drinking 

That came out wrong;

what I meant to say was:

She

psychically harasses 

me in to 

submission

When?

I

put my toes on the 5e books laying on top of the computer

I take my pills

She is 

a supplement believer 

Her psychosomatic effect is strong

That came out wrong;

what I meant to say was:

When I'm at my last thread of sanity, the family likes to whisper just at the threshold of my hearing about how I like destroying myself.

Shut Off

by Michael Starr 

Shut out of cold wind I am rife with seconds of it

In smut, slithering on my ass and groping me the voices do seem to be quieter

When written. But often this conundrum does not pose moral or identity threats

To innocent people. So what of it?--am I? indecisive; the moral quandary threatens

The heartbeat for those who won't and don't stop to examine the contrarian

Evidence all up in that grill. No memory of forgetting, I sit exactly as I am directed

And still the needles seem to find me. Fading off in the distance, clubbing culture

Catches me by the ass and I am distraught/destroyed once over again.

Culture. What can I say, Mr. Ass, but that you are the demise of my sanity in a couth

Accoutrement of velvet and lace. Spelling lessons for the little one when it's older?

Handing out pamphlets to the stewardesses? Gaslighting squirrels at the park?

Older than the trees, incisively pressing open the bark and shuddering as

One is swallowed whole by The Nature Of Supposition in wanting to be

That at the exact moment the door is opened, the plane shuts off and comes to

The ground.

Forgiving Leopold

by Michael Starr 

In my trust Leopold once told me:

May you forge the lost

And sunder the stones set upon your path

Toe to toe, to make you crawl, weak, along the cracks of disguise and jest

I told him:

Feel the maple tree under your arms, feel the light and sullen sun

Of growth, the discovery of the unknown.

Seedlings--forgetting--say that once we had lovers, all of us

And in denouncement I sing like the crane I am. 

All of us, together, in disavowal of something greater than lust;

Begone for fellows that shan't be nurtured at your deskside;

Where, altogether, things go well and yet, now, I am steaming.

That the thoughts may once again collapse

Under my umbrella lies the thought that one could open it in the house and get away with it. Just get away with it.

So true, too, to staying in form and out of the alleyways;

No one forgot our love, but I do remember the side streets of remittance later on found

Do not appear so lonely, after all.

But one wheat chaff doesn't make safe due sun...

And send off what was once yours, to make money, to laugh, to remember that I, too, am Human, and that any inanimate objects standing in our way will be mined

Until, beneath the moon we go crazy and forget all that they have learned.

Leo,

the bad person that you are

You electrocuted me

You informatics-electro-nixed me

I am haywire in forgiveness.

No one loves like I do

The little rectangular ones,

"How much are they?"

I asked.

The man responded,

"Oh, about a dime a dozen!"

No surprises there!

"Here's one

For you and your girl!

Now go home, son;

There's a storm brewing..."

Why didn't you just say, "Please do not follow me?"

You didn't know you were going to hurt me:

Little thumb, little numb

Tear-stricken brouhaha and cross-stitch finger holding on to a needle and

Lost at the crossroads.

Again.

Neurotic, I strike a match

In disguise, the smoke drifts vertically

My raccoon eye shadows denote permanent grief, yet

I do not grieve at the thought of it!

The "cat" is adapting...

It nods at me;

In respite it remembers the notion that some times are better than others but

That all we have is forgotten and gone and

So we must find another windmill, another landslide, in which to subsume one

Another and to assume the form of father windmill at the cross where the

Place was met, buried, under-armed, and furious at the thought of us breaking.

They never expect love

They NEVER EXPECT THAT

But do I not now talk about anything but lust

?

Forget, go, forget to do at the crossroads in high noon above the wind-uh-mill where typography lessons were handed out to youth and sunlit slices of distrust kicked at the bucket where reminade things lasted for you! 

Kick

In time

Lust?

?

Things,

things...

Not so long ago my father decided he and I were friends.

This happened right about around my birth and he took good care

like the cat takes care of the mouse

crabcakes and applesauce

dusted moon

not to shake, but forgotten you still had it

Mad.

I'm d'enying (on) the inside, 

(cutie curlicue, you)~

Spread-eagled and grossed out, what reprimand had for me is no longer and

I am in demand!

Medicated,

we saw each other take baths

in front of the sill

where brother father cut his wrists

and

it was lovely!

"Rodalia," they called it,

in remembrance of another year:

the year of the flower (fleur) 

damsel in distress and all

I remember how it used to be when there was no WiFi

Not to come at you mad, but I still do! 

And then, some of us can forestall conundra...

But, ah, do ghosts yell at me? 

Am I even asking anymore?

Am I asking anyone? For what? Which? Where? 

You may mean,

You may mean,

To say that not all fathers are lost, and that not all brothers are lost, for to foreshadow the future is a game, and we are learning as we go how to remember to keep care of each other through forgetful times, yes, while the computer monitor clicks and snaps missing frames at your eyes, while the lemonade runs dry and the girls have to sell their souls to their mistresses, yes, while the notion of forgiveness is lost and leading memories still fondle the soul for meaningless vice. I'm not in on it here, but I've got a lover, and that love[r] is me! 

Communications

by Michael Starr 

They told us, in the mandatory all-day group communication class at my company, that 90% of communication happens through body language and eye contact.

They asked us, "What do you think this means?"

I raised my hand:

“Sensationalized fabricated data and preaching?” 

Not the answer they wanted to hear.

I took my smoke break during the intermission.

Suffered the rest of the course.

Next exercise:

Sit back-to-back with your assigned partner and describe the shape made of triangles. The other one has to build that shape out of triangle blocks on a grid. They can ask as many questions as they want, but all you can do is answer those questions.

They told us the optimal strategy was to ask an equal balance of direct questions and open-ended questions.

I asked specific, direct questions, one every few seconds, like a rail gun, exclusively.

We finished first.

Not what they wanted to hear.

At the end of class we had to introduce ourselves to our classmates. We had to say one positive thing about each person we met.

One of the gentlemen and I introduced. We exchanged names. We stared into each other’s eyes. A back-breakingly tense silence. And in his face, the words written, explicitly: I want you.

I wished him good luck with his future.

The course ended and I drove home.

UNTITLED

by B 

Slit wrists paint horrid pictures

Noosed necks sing nasty songs

Fallen angels create a lovely mess

Laughter echoes when I’m gone

HER

by B 

I haven't played with her for weeks.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOTES:

“HER is creativity? Probably done. Geez; you’re boring. 

Her is….

She hates it when I take my pills. She says it numbs me. She said I was a great drunk. I want to drink to show her that I can still inspire her. I can't take this much longer. What I'm putting her through. She needs me less than I do her so it's just a matter of time

The few times I'm able to speak to her, I say stupid, banal thin.gs. But most of the time I don't say shit. Verbal impotence. No relationship will ever last long after all conversations dissolve into platitudes and pleasantries and who gives the fuck about your days

She sees nothing in me. Why should she. I am nothing, I'm just an insignificant

She won't put up with me much longer. She'll be fine, men and women desire her, but she won't even lay in bed with me anymore

She won't put up with me much longer

I miss her so much, but I'm afraid to disappoint her like I did the last time, and the time before that. I don't remember ever not disappointing her. Maybe I always have. Maybe I just got lucky once or twice. Now I sit down next to her

I tried to rekindle the spark

We haven't been seeing eye to eye. I miss her so much, but I'm afraid I'll disappoint her.

Cross My Heart

by BrokenMaya 

Cross my heart & hope to lie,

can't let you see inside. Is

that why

I don't understand the look in your eyes?

Maybe it's just the screen between us,

but all vision contains pixels in some sense.

                                            My breath

is short, my days are shorter:

            too much time smoking,

            too much time drinking

& a sleeping pattern warped & disjointed

as a melting plastic sculpture you made

of milk crates scavenged from foreign bins.

I feel more insignificant than

the blended days spent alone & away

from the desire for human heat I want but keep

shedding

like reptile skin:

If I lay eggs

please

promise to eat them..

Maiden of the Midden

by BrokenMaya 

The maiden of the midden suggests I start to consider

changing the relation to the relation

of the relation I have with my 'self'.

I want to tell them to fuck off

but they've been dead for years,

and besides it was only a joke...

A flame forever

roaring or falling so low it almost

gives up all heat completely:

someone once called this the

Accursed Share.

It corrupts so intensely that thoughts of tomorrow seep

into banal late-winter mist.

These moments,

haunted by what once existed and helplessly dependent

on the present moment to define what

will decide the past it will have to pass through;

these moments:

despised and delighted at the same time,

of entwined impatience and devotion

to life.

I want to tell them to fuck off

but only because I love them.

Waiting

by BrokenMaya 

Sweating through sheets as filthy as

the gutters, the streets

and the sewers beneath that seep through my skin as I sleep.

I own nothing but books and wine,

all else has been left behind by lovers who

coudn't withstand the tide.

Every morning I wake to shallow breath

and coughing fits, but don't worry:

it isn't the virus, just

the punishment I inflicted upon myself

every night.

I exhort professionals to tell me why

but I always fail to comply

with the platitudes they give me:

right now these pills don't seem to be working and

I don't want to keep explaining

through metaphors I know they won't understand

no matter how they try, that my

existence is my own: fuck

Either/Or, why

not And/Or? but I know that wont help:

this existence of mine is weight and pressure

and density and despair that

I can only caress during lonely

nights.

When the ecstasy hits me, I

know the consequence; when

I am happy

I know I will not remain in place.

So I wait.

I wait, and wait

and wait

until the day

when

finally

I am ready.

Die, My Love

by BrokenMaya 

Slow down for the car crash, take

your time but don't pretend to be surprised by

the pleasure it brings you:

own your perversions;

                    we're all

of us just our symptoms,

just don't expect me to care about them.

I dream of walking through a glass screen &

leaving the shards in my skin like a thousand

fractured mirrors so that then maybe

you'd be able to stand

to look at me:

if the edges reflected little images of yourself,

because like everyone else you want to be seen

                                                but

I don't seem to be able to help you with that.

Maybe my eyes are like obsidian glass?

Sometimes when I wake beside that body of yours

- still so alien! -

in the morning

                I want to scream

until I can't breathe,

which always makes me sense the weight & shape

of my organs;

            freedom

is no dizzying terror for me

it's the act of disappearing

without appearing absent.

Don't ask me to explain that,

you wouldn't understand anyway,

but don't worry.

It isn't your fault

                    & never was.

I'm the one gone wrong, the one

of glass who laughs when you need to be serious:

it isn't a nervous reaction,

honestly I don't mean to mock,

I just can't react appropriately no matter how hard I try.

Not that I try very often.

It wasn't your fault when

this morning as the birds where singing, the trees

breathing & everything was teeming with life,

you took it all away when you asked

"Is there anything you want?" &

pure hatred raged through my veins.

Please don't worry,

it isn't your fault.

I just wish one of us was gone.

Like Song

by RedBear 

 Hey 

                       hey  

                     hey 

                 hey 

       cradle my cheek 

   kiss me so slow 

I will hold you like song.

She Blushes

by RedBear 

She blushes with her body

Right to the lightly dancing toes

And I kiss her warmth as

So gently she tugs my ears.

Venus At Bellingham Bay

by RedBear 

Venus rises on the western eve

And so your beauty rises as the tide.

   Hear soft waves sigh upon the shore: 

here two bodies ardently close to one another,

                                 and dripping in Rumi's lore. 

Thinking

by RedBear 

A mind that thinks is a plague

Yet a mind that thinks is wondrous delight

And a soul that feels is deep, so deep in despair

And yet a soul that feels flies the starry sublime

Anything that lives comes to die

And cycles close between the two till

crossing over. We cycle and cycle and cycle

between two sides of a coin.

So there is art, art, art

slip it through the cracks

to grease the cogs

Grease the cogs, adorn the dreary walls

Alight the mantle of the fireplace

And light the oak and fir and fern

let it warm the coldest frigid body

But !%$@#^!

I want to feel better. Feel contented

Feel like I am moving forward. Moving

Consistently. Not always losing motivation

In need of remuneration for simply living

What am I? A capitalist dreaming in endless

upward growth? It seems so. It seems I so

So wish to capitalize my body and mind and

soul. Let them gather for me the currency of

life. The tokens of respect, of love, of monies,

of affection, of interest, of hope, experiences.

Let this body gather it up and make it all so

&*^%ing wholesome. Then at the end of my life

I can write it all out, autobiography,

a spreadsheet, a liberal millennial accountant’s account

of the capital gains of a good life.

Let our productive soul devour

devour our gentle light,

till there is nothing but a stack of paper

proclaiming our accomplishments

Our experiences

as our bones crumble to dust.

And too our gossamer world view

perishes under the weight of

the stress to realize it.

Nothing Makes Any Sense 

Pretend 

Wildflower 

Cherry Blossom  

Silver Branches 

Cherry Blossom 2 

Tulip Magnolia 

Spring Blossoms 

Mermaid

She Fell Apart

Naga

Paisley Funk

Om Mani Padme Hum Lotus

Tortoise

Magical Teapot