®© Alternate Route, 2021

ISSN 2767-0317

Fall 2021 (Date of first publication: October 31st)

Editor: Michael Starr

Cover art: Lift by Arden Hunter

Contributors: Afra Ahmad, Arden Hunter, Bernard Pearson, Beth Mulcahy, Charlie Bowden, David Brady, Devika Mathur, Havard Cassandra, Jade Gaynor, Jody Rae, Laszlo Aranyi, Michael Igoe, M Patrick Riggin, Mike Hickman, Sam Szanto, Sarah Robin, Scott Cumming, Shiksha Dheda

This periodical proudly produced without institutional funding.

To submit, please see our website at <alternateroute.org> for guidelines.

Edited 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

Sarah Robin

Metamorphosis

Thrive

Laszlo Aranyi

Diadalszekér (Chariot)

Chariot

Homunculus [Hungarian]

Homunculus [English]

Jody Rae

Cat Hair

Empty Calories

Beth Mulcahy

Heart Flame

Queen Anne’s Lace

PTSD

Starving

Mike Hickman

1 to 1 to 1 to 1, with the 1 equalling You, always You

My take on local news with traditional shoehorned side order of disguised national news and desperate filler from a remarkably familiar, Russian-oligarch owned newspaper.

Afra Ahmad

down the stairs

i want to know

what do i do

Bernard Pearson

Big Dipper

Jade Gaynor

Lonely

Waves

A World in Which the Black Panther Party Logo Appears on a Box in My Parents’ Garage

Hailey

Limit

Sam Szanto

Hearing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter – The Four Seasons’

Michael Igoe

Advisory

And Suchlike

Bonneau’s Landing

Scientist

David Brady

It Came Through My Window One Night

The Grandfather Clock

Talent

Havard Cassandra

Thanks to the Fallen, I am free

Charlie Bowden

Luna Selene

Starlight

The Fold

The Red Rose

Devika Mathur

Barren Days

Scott Cumming

Burning Embers

Three Nil Down

Filling the Void

Demigods

Shiksha Dheda

The Unopened Rose

A Garden

Chocolate Cake

Art

Arden Hunter

Believe

Walk

Fraught

Brook

Flap

Last steps

M Patrick Riggin

Courthouse

Chestnut Ridge

Duquesne Fog

Metamorphosis

by Sarah Robin

“I’m not going!” I throw my arms into the air with frustration. My dad pokes his head around the door to see what’s going on. Seeing that the coast is clear and there aren’t any objects flying across the room, he enters my bedroom and stands behind me looking at my reflection in the mirror. I stare at his large hairy hands placed on my shoulders. “Deep breath, son.” He picks up my tie, untangles it and drapes it around my neck, tying it into a perfect knot.

“What if he sees the chair and changes his mind?” I scowl, my head cloudy with negative thoughts. “Then he’s obviously not the one for you.” My dad had a hard time accepting my sexuality, but he took it far better than knowing I’ll be stuck in this chair for the rest of my life. So what if I date other guys? I can’t swim, I can’t play football, I can’t go motorcycle racing with him. I can’t do all the things with him that we loved doing together as father and son. Being gay is trivial compared to the loss of my ‘old life’.

In the car, I sit staring out the window, my stomach turning over with nerves, my dad humming ‘Streets of London’ as we make our way to the restaurant. Once I’m in my chair and ready to go, he pauses for a moment and his eyes go a little red. “Hey, son.” He looks me up and down. “You look great.” He sniffs, smiles and then leans forward and nudges me on the arm. “I’m proud of you, son. Now you go and have a good night.”

I tell him I love him and start to roll away as panic starts to set in. What if there are steps? What if the table is the wrong height for my chair? What will he think of me? Will he be annoyed I didn’t tell him I use a chair? Thoughts race through my head as I approach the entrance to the restaurant. “Great, no steps. Good start.” I reassure myself silently. I arrive at the doors and just as I go to reach the door handle, a middle-aged guy and his wife spot me and they hold the doors open for me. “Cheers!” I thank them. “So far so good.” I begin to ease a little.

A young waitress strides over in her white blouse and black apron. “Reservation?” she squeaks. I confirm my name. “Great, your party has already arrived. Just this way, please.” Oh god, he’s already here! I don’t have any time to settle in and make sure everything is ok. I follow the waitress past many tables, conscious of the odd person looking up from their tables to look over at me, especially children who gawp at me until I’m out of sight.

We turn into a quieter area with a log fire and an impressive chimney breast. “There we are. Can I get you some drinks?” The waitress’ voice sounds muffled in my overwhelmed reaction to meeting Ryan for the first time after speaking online for a little over six months.

“Same again for me, please.” His voice is lower than I thought it would be. “I’ll have what he’s having.” I stammer. He smiles warmly at me, the orange glow from the log fire flickers onto his face. “Great, I’ll move this chair over.” I thank her and park myself into the spot. I stay silent for a moment, unsure as to what to say. I decide to let him speak first.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.” He grins, looking at the chair. I immediately spill out apologies and try to explain the many reasons why I didn’t mention anything about the chair beforehand. Before I could go any further, he raises his hand and I instantly stop my spiel. He calmly leans over to one side and points towards a wheelchair folded up behind him. “Me too!” He laughs. I sit open-mouthed and we both giggle uncontrollably. “No way! What are the chances?” We echo each other. This perfect ice breaker relaxes me and the twisting sensation in my stomach eases. Our drinks arrive and we order our food; our starters and mains identical with a dessert to share.

“How long have you used a chair?” I ask. “Parachuting accident four years ago. I did a jump for charity and the parachute got tangled and we had a pretty hard landing.” He explained. “What about you?” I tell him about the car accident; about how mum had died and dad blamed himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry” he frowned.

“This is my first time out in public on my own since getting the chair, so I was pretty nervous about not having someone with me in case I got stuck. But then again I didn’t fancy my dad joining us!” I joke. Ryan explains he had a few guys stop talking to him online after he told them he uses a chair so he figured just to get to know someone well enough to meet up and take it from there.

We speak a little about the emotional and psychological effects of using a chair and it comforted me to know he is fully independent, lives on his own, has a great job and plays a lot of sports. “You’re welcome to come along on Tuesday night and meet the team. Bring your dad along, too. It can be something you can do together,” he said enthusiastically. “How could he play?” I ask, confused. “He would need to use a spare chair from the sports hall,” he explained. I didn’t know if wheelchair basketball would be his thing, but it was worth mentioning, I suppose.

We finish our dessert, argue over who pays for the bill and get ready to leave. I watch him get into his chair quickly with ease. Once outside, we say goodnight and say we’ll talk later. I roll around the corner to the car park, a contented smile on my face. I enter the carpark to find, to my surprise, my dad’s car already waiting for me. I knock on the driver’s side window and wake up my snoring, drooling dad. After some disorientation he rolls down the window.

“How long have you been here?” I laughed. “I never left. Just in case, you know, you needed me or things didn’t work out,” he admitted. “You silly sod!” I go round to the passenger side and heave myself into the car with his help. He pushes the door shut and hauls my chair into the boot when I feel my phone vibrate;

RYAN

It was great meeting you tonight. See you Tuesday for

Basketball : ) I’ll msg you later to sort out our next

date, my treat this time xx

“I take it it went well then, yeah?” he asked, spotting the smile on my face. “I’m taking you out on Tuesday, Dad. Bring your gym shorts.”

Thrive

by Sarah Robin

A nation of back-garden farmers

Sowing, tending, nibbling

Our way through lockdown.

A positive lifeline

And escape outdoors.

We reach peak harvest,

Savour what we’ve grown,

Bottle up that goodness

With all the energy and love.

We owe it to ourselves

Not to waste a bit.

An old skill or a new discovery,

A positive force of good

Nurturing and feeding us

In so many ways,

Bringing together generations,

Communities and cultures.

Nature belongs to us all

And in the times of change ahead

We can all thrive through gardening.

Diadalszekér (Chariot)

(Tarot, Nagy Arkánum VII.)

by Laszlo Aranyi

Az illeszkedés kísérlete elárul.

Kiközösít a nyáj. A különb kérge küszöb,

s a kint-bent ugyanúgy sehol. Tűnő káprázat,

ha élősdi fény sziszeg kígyó-fürtökön;

küllőitől megfosztott kerék az Örök

Körforgás.

Féllábú, pingvin-képű cukros bácsi bámul a kapualjból,

tökhéj-bárkák úsznak

a lemeztelenített, reszkető víz testén.)

Minden állítás igaz. S ugyanúgy az ellentéte is.

Bűnös, aki összehasonlít, megkülönböztet;

kápó a fogyasztói társadalom átnevelő táboraiban…

Nem ural már érdek, düh, szánalom,

átmeneti formák az élők, a lét

szüntelen vágta hulla-halmokon.

A röfögve négykézlábra ereszkedők

kényszerítik harcra

a felegyenesedőt.

Chariot

(Tarot, Major Arcana VII.)

by Laszlo Aranyi

The attempt to fit in betrays you.

The flock excludes you. The better one’s bark is the threshold,

in or out is the same as nowhere.  Transient delusion,

if parasite light hisses on snake clusters.

Eternal Cycle is a wheel deprived of its

spokes.

A one-legged, penguin faced candy man’s staring

from the doorway,

pumpkin barges swim

on the bare body of the quivering water.

All statements are true. And so are their opposites.

The sinner is who compares, distinguishes,

he’s the capo in the reeducation camps of consumer society…

Interest, anger, and pity aren’t dominating me anymore,

these are the temporary forms of living,

a relentless galloping on the piles of corpses.

Those grunting on all fours

force

the one who stands up straight

to fight.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Homunculus

by Laszlo Aranyi

Csenevész, szőrös újszülöttet főz…

- Mi a lófaszt csinál komámasszony?

„Kifőzzük a kilenc ördögöt belőle.”

Kilenc koravén, kacsalábú gnóm,

istenkísértő praktikák

szülöttei. Ez a kölyök mumifikáltan is

(pergamen-tapintású, hámló, aszalmány-bőrű) a jászol szégyene.

Kóborló szarvasok ákása-képét

űzik, hajszolják agyafúrt

lőcslábú kopói. Kilenc lépésnyire a folyó, kilenc Hold ül a

mozdulatlan víz fölött.

A teremtő Uzsorás hétrét

görnyedve ural valós és vélt

világot. Cinkelt lapot oszt,

s őrzik termékeny irkafirkák

a kilenc kristályszerkezetű Gonoszt.

Homunculus

by Laszlo Aranyi

Cooking a scrawny, hairy newborn...

- What the fuck are you doing, cummer?

"We'll boil the nine devils out of him."

Nine precocious, duck-legged gnomes,

born by God-tempting practices of witchcraft.

This brat is not even mummified.

(parchment-coated, peeling, scaly-skinned) he is a   disgrace to the crib.

His shrewd, bow-legged hounds chase

and hunt the stray deers' akasha image.

Nine paces from the river, nine moons sit

above the motionless water.

Usurer, the sevenfold crouching creator rules

the real and the imagined world.

He deals zinc-clad cards

while fertile scribbles guard

the nine crystal-structured Villains.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Believe by Arden Hunter

Cat Hair

by Jody Rae

One roommate heard somewhere that the most effective way to achieve dreadlocks

over a short period of time

was to use egg whites and aerosol hair products.

I sat at my vanity and let four fellow white college girls twist and shred my dirty blond hair into tiny matted ropes using their bare hands and a rattail comb.

They sealed the locs with egg whites and extra-hold hair spray and, fearing their sculpture

might be water-soluble, told me not to wash my hair.

The dreads lasted three weeks until I could no longer abide

the colony of raw egg pathogens likely terraforming all over my head and pillowcase;

a live culture, appropriating.

J-Lo was delivering her SNL opening monologue, wearing her famous backwards dress, when

I sat in front of the hallway mirror and full-sober sawed off my locs two inches from my scalp with a pair of orange-handled Fiskars. As the scissors released each ropy twist, I felt bubbly, tipsy;

light as green Versace silk chiffon in a wind machine.

I left my hair in a pile on the hallway carpet to spook my roommates when they came home from the parties. That’s the kind of person I am.

Two roommates stumbled in and saw the locs on the floor. A lone dread snaked out from the pile. The drunk roommate kneeled and snuggled into the pile.

“It’s our cat. Pet the cat.”

We didn’t have a cat.

Empty Calories

by Jody Rae

Our Santa Cruz Street duplex is lit up when Paloma parks. I clutch Jeremy’s pillow from his Berkeley sublet and stagger out of Paloma’s backseat, exhausted, hungry, ready for bed. Siobhan is passed out on a porch chair. Some guy with black hair and sideburns kneels before her, cradling her head and stroking her alabaster face. “She didn’t eat enough.”

Our house is full of Abercrombie & Fitch associates from Siobhan’s closing shift, plus their friends. Three hot as fuck A&F’ers raid the fridge, shattering a pickle jar on the linoleum. Three strangers spread their legs on the couch, holding beers while watching “Waking Life” on mute. An Incubus song blares from the stereo. I hear Paloma down the hall yelling at some kid we’ll soon find out has an extensive criminal record. “Why are you in Siobhan’s room? Did you take something?”

A group of guys stare at the Abercrombie photo mural on our living room wall, a retired store display Siobhan took home last season, showing a shirtless man getting out of a pool in black and white. The guys on the couch thumb an Abercrombie catalogue, pausing over all the T&A spread across the pages.

Julie sits inside the refrigerator door, feeding slices of Paloma’s lunch meat to Hey Mister as he lounges with his head in her lap, his silver tags glinting under the refrigerator light. Julie laughs and takes a swig from a vodka bottle, probably her only meal that day. We named the neighbor's wandering puppy after that awful song by Custom that made me cry the first time I heard it. We really are just lumps of flesh to some boys, aren’t we?

Paloma grabs my arm. “Someone just drove away in Siobhan’s truck and backed over the fence.” I hold her hand while she phones the police. The music is silenced; the search party begins. Jeremy helps carry Siobhan to her bed where she stays until late morning, out cold and oblivious.

Hours later, an officer calls Paloma. He found the brand new Tacoma pulled to a curb three streets over, slightly dented. All of Siobhan’s cds are strewn across the asphalt. The officer picks one up. “Led Zeppelin, alright! Well, you can drive the truck home. Have your housemate file a report in the morning. Try to get some sleep.”

No one sleeps or eats that night, and the Abercrombie boys never come back again.

Walk by Arden Hunter

Heart Flame

by Beth Mulcahy

up

side

down or

rightside up

flames can be

touched but not held

I am trying to hand my

heart over to you as an upturned

dancing flame gasping to feed on your

breath growing full fueled by the oxygen of

hope emitting palpable vulnerability to stamping

out as it slips through the spaces between your

fingers onto the ground at our feet trembling to be

trampled. I bend to scoop up the dying ember

to save what can be salvaged before it dies

out altogether to put it back inside

of me where it belongs safely

upside down again

Queen Anne’s Lace

by Beth Mulcahy

walking around the arboretum

under a bright hot summer sun

taking pictures of flowers and trees,

I saw Queen Anne’s Lace

and thought about what made you happy

when you were here

you were grandma

and we would play

I Spy With My Little Eye

now I see you, a beautiful young woman

in black and white photos

jet black bone straight hair

curled to perfection every time

I spy someone I miss

and start to cry

I imagine your disapproving look

scowl-lipped, shaking head

saying don’t waste your time

it’s more than thirty years

I’m gone

I see you hand me a tissue

feel your arm around me

as you tsk tsk my tears dry

I still feel how it felt

when they told me you were gone

my insides gutted hollow

throbbing in dread

bringing you back like this

I miss you in a weepy way

like wandering a cemetary

crying for the dead

driving home the sky gets dark

giant drops pelt the windshield

until it’s hard to see anything at all

I think about the photos

what I can’t see outside the frames

I’m gutted all over again

you look lovestruck there

but so unhappy here

like you couldn’t smile

after your love died

but you carried on so many years

I wonder what we would have been

if I had ever been more than a kid to you

you would have shown me how to grow things

like the flowers we saw today

how to prune roses

without getting stuck

Sitting in the driveway in the car

It’s raining too hard to get out

You’d say keep your sunglasses on

don’t turn your tears into a problem

hold your head high

and carry on

I spy with my little eye

stoicism in you

building up in me

PTSD

by Beth Mulcahy

The glass was always half full

until it started to look half empty

then it shattered into shards

like your war stories

and we search for shards everywhere now

selecting each one to scrutinize

in the light

and piece together

again

in a way that holds water

Fraught by Arden Hunter

Starving

by Beth Mulcahy

i look down and watch them all day long

but my hands are not my own

only bones and veins

vivid blue as winding rivers

nor are my eyes my own

they cannot see

what isn’t there anymore

nor is my mind my own

i don’t control it

it controls my senses and self

the light is fading slowly

as i pretend it grows brighter

i can’t reach beyond my shadow world

the hazy fog is thick and overwhelming

you could lead me out

if you can find your way through it to me

take my strange hands in yours

make them my own again

help me to see again

show me how to make my mind

my own again

1 to 1 to 1 to 1, with the 1 equalling You, always You

by Mike Hickman

What has the staff member enjoyed most/least since their last supervision meeting?

N.B. The answer, “not having supervision meetings” is not acceptable. Please tick Box D below for the attention of HR so we can keep an eye on the sarcastic bugger. Equally, “sitting at home and scratching myself in front of Netflix” lacks an adequate focus on the job in hand. Although, if they’ve given you that answer, it’s possibly a good idea not to use the phrase “job in hand” in your follow-up question.

What tasks/activities do you feel confident doing here?

N.B. The “clever” response will focus on this room right now, i.e. “sitting here talking to you”. Again, please tick Box D below for the attention of HR. If necessary – i.e. if you’ve made the mistake of scheduling the meeting late on a Friday afternoon – prompt the employee with the tasks/activities about which they might have a reasonable chance of expressing confidence. No leading questions, though. Suggesting “showing up within half an hour of your scheduled start time” might well give them grounds to assume you’re not on their side. You’re not, but they don’t need to know that, at least until writing up the targets they can’t achieve at the end of the session.

What’s your biggest challenge right now?

N.B. Ensure adequate size of chair and that the heating is neither too high nor likely to invoke the brass monkeys that might otherwise be your answer.

N.N.B. Quite clearly, the employee will not be honest about this – remember the Mr Scott principle: never tell the boss how long a job is going to take. The same holds true for challenges. They’re unlikely to be real challenges. Make note of what is offered up and then check the Shared Drive to see if they’ve finished the job months back and they’re just taking the piss.

How can I get more involved in workplace culture? / Are there any aspects of our culture you wish you could change?

N.B. Best asked without blinking. If necessary, interrogate the ceiling tiles until they offer something they think might relate to workplace culture. This will be the most telling question of all – please note Boxes E – G below for the attention of HR. Answers relating solely to buying milk and the dishwasher are of concern, and if you find the bastard who keeps blocking the downstairs loo, please tick Box H and Facilities will be in touch with the photographic evidence for the follow-up disciplinary.

How can I best support you? / How can you best support me?

N.B. You’ll know what counts as an inappropriate answer to this one, although it might give you the heads up on future behaviour to watch out for.

Completed supervision forms should be written up by the line manager and forwarded to employee and HR within one week of the scheduled meeting. If any of the above questions present difficulties, please don’t hesitate to contact Derek in HR and he’ll make sure to write it up in advance on your own appraisal form. Either that or just fudge your way through it as you usually do – you don’t think anyone actually reads these things, do you?

My take on local news with traditional shoehorned side order of disguised national news and desperate filler from a remarkably familiar, Russian-oligarch owned newspaper.

by Mike Hickman

Reporter Benjamin Bench helps himself to a serving of The Evening News in South Sumpchester and drives away with mixed feelings.

Not Pictured: The Sumpchester Evening News’ front page, because you might as well look at this one.

When I set off to collect my takeaway news, my chief concern is always the parking.

Yes, I know it’s a peculiar opening, and not what you were expecting, but bear with me (he’s reviewing a newspaper and he’s mostly bothered about the parking? Surely his chief concern is news? I mean, hello? Have you read my other articles? I churn out eight a day for this rag, and that’s on a slow day.)

You see, like you, I want to get in and out in as quickly as possible. (You’ve got to imagine I’m writing all of this with a vision of you in my head. Which, I think, is probably better than you reading this with a vision of me in yours. Oh, and by the way, that innuendo you smirked at there – have it on me, because we’ve got to be cheeky chappies in our reporting, now, haven’t we? As the money runs out and the offices close and the staff who used to work for one city now find themselves writing copy for half the country, just making sure to put in local place names for verisimilitude, we’re got to maintain that journalistic insouciance. Like nothing really matters. Because, our bosses are so keen to tell us, nothing does).

But I digress.

As we all know, convenience is paramount these days. We want our news, but we want it as swiftly as possible. None of that unnecessary fannying about (bit of the old tabloid lingo, there) waiting for stories to be confirmed by a second source. Or even an initial one. No, what we want is our daily reminder that other people in town have it worse than we do, and the townies and the thugs have been given the frighteners by the local bobbies.

But how does this relate to the parking, I hear you ask? The 30% of you who’ve made it down to this bit of the page (because I’ve done the psychology about how people read headlines, then bylines, then maybe the lead paragraph, before their attention proceeds to dribble down the page, idly looking for anything shocking, surprising or amusing, or just flicking to the next page and the next story).

It relates to the parking because there were easily a hundred or so parking spaces and I could have my pick. Generously spaced bays, including one for an editor whose car was, of course, not to be found because he’ll be based somewhere else in the country entirely. And, from that, I had my takeaway, didn’t I? I knew what the news would be like in the paper even before I read it. I knew there’d be the story about a new chocolate bar on sale in B & M for 49p (11p off recommended price). I knew that a large amount of the story would have come from Twitter. I knew the by-line would come from the nuttiest of those comments (“some people said it should be illegal”). I knew because I’d actually “written” that one, wondering if it would get past whatever passes for quality control in local papers these days. Knowing that they’d print it anyway.

Like they’ve printed this, too. So, no, I’m sorry I can’t say I recommend the Sumpchester Evening News. Although I do look forward to seeing this article, word-for-word, repeated there, only with another paper’s name inserted.

down the stairs

by Afra Ahmad

you say you know everything about me

almost but not everything, here's a courageous confession:

you don't know what distresses me the most

the magnitude of how terrified I am to harm a man of muscles

so I go out of my way

down the stairs of comfort and freedom

to be an empyreal pillow

for everyone to dispose of their tears

but some days this feeble pillow

is so engaged in

combatting his own specters and fevers

that his actions stab few hearts

unwillingly, unintentionally

In sooth, I do not want to hurt anyone

I want to be kind and tender and soft

who wants to share the bitterness

of the leaves of Azadirachta indica?

I want to help mortals by building an encouraging raft

I want to be kind and tender and soft

but what is mere wanting

if not converted into acting?

i want to know

by Afra Ahmad

for you to get over

the loss of your

mother's mother

i know it is so

hard as if asking a

man without hands

to hold a

bundle of timber

to lose the love

that was vaster

than the Caspian sea

i know it is so

hard for you are

used to a fragrance

not many have

had the chance

to savor

but when you

move on, for once

spare some time

to consider the

magnitude of my pain

and let me know

what is it like to

be caressed by

crinkled hands

and just continue

holding them

for hours

when you know

the edifice of the

world you had

assembled carefully

has disintegrated

yet again

what is it like to be

cared and loved

for who you are

not for what you

can do, not for what

you can lend

what is it like

to place your

vulnerable head on

the safe lap

of your grandmother

and dauntlessly let

the tears drizzle

the way they prefer

even when everyone's

watching with

eyes like eagles

i do not know

for my mother's

mother died before

i entered this world.

what do i do

by Afra Ahmad

to become a poet

they say you have

to learn the correct

spelling

memorize

the complex names

of all the delicate herbs

of all the tiny seeds

of all the

captivating flowers

what do i do

with

the deep-rooted

softness of a poet

but frustrating

maladies named

ADHD and Dementia

i strive to

focus on ruddy roses

just them but

my mind

moves to

far away lands where

placid daisies grow

and

no one gathers them

for their beloveds

sometimes when i'm

rinsing my face

i plan

a whole poem

with a

terrific rhyme scheme

even if i say

so myself

but when i sit down on

my battered desk

with a pen

and a sheet

i'm unable to

recollect even the

remnants of the concept

that was supposed to

be executed

so you keep warning

me: you can

never become a poet

maybe i don't desire

to be dubbed a poet

by the world

my aureate heart

knows I possess

the genteel soul

of a poet

the heart knows

isn't that enough?

Big Dipper

by Bernard Pearson

The winter sky,   moon mocked

And torn with stars as I walked home,

The tear-drowned, teenage me,

Howled out and full of woe.

I crashed up that country hill

Wishing I was dead.

But as  it turned out

I didn’t die; the past did.

Lonely

by Jade Gaynor

When you arrive you climb the stairs up to her apart

ment and it’s so packed away you almost can’t be

lieve she ever moved in. She greets you with a hug

and she asks if you would like any of the stuff she is

n’t keeping (and you keep most of it in a box you still

don’t open) and conversation continues about the mem

ories the things bring and not at all about the big thing

that hangs heavy, swollen, sopping with grief above it

all until there is nothing else left and the gravity pulls you

both in and you begin to feel the raw size of it, the un

processed texture of a moment you are certain you will

remember forever and the crushing weight of not know

ing what to do with this fleeting ripe permanence and so

you say you love her and will miss her and she says the

same and hugs you and you both hug and you say you’re

excited to possibly date again as a poly foursome like you

’ve talked about and nothing changes but a catch clicks in

your mind and you say with soft recognition:

“We’re not going to date again, are we.”

Her head shakes slow, like she’s afraid it will fall off if she

moves too fast and that’s how you both start to cry, streams

of silent tears at first, then as it takes root you both begin

to shudder and small sobs escape and you sink to the floor

still holding together and you take turns talking and remin

iscing and singing some of your private songs together and

then it is late. It is very late and you have to go back to your

place and she has an early flight, so you hold tight at the door

on your way out, and a place in your heart knows this is the

last time you will see each other so you desperately promise

it isn’t, then you pick up your box and not knowing what else

to do you leave. You walk down the hall toward the elevator,

and suddenly realize there’s one thing you can do, so you set

the box down and walk back, getting faster with each step un

til you are knocking on her door and she answers it with a

red-eyed silly smile and asks what you forgot, and you say I

just need to hug you one more time, and you hold each other

tight, tight, tight—

Waves

by Jade Gaynor

Waves, ceaseless, carry themselves.

Thoughts of the world flow back and forth,

Ubi sunt?

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?

Two answers take turns:

Where are they that came before us?

They are dead

They are here.

Sunlight holds each needle of the pines

Tender

Tight

Tight they are here

Tender they are dead.

The waves and thoughts flow back and forth

Is truth the water or the sand?

Both pass

Both remain.

Here a hollow world

Fills with shadow and light

A World in Which the Black Panther Party Logo Appears on a Box in My Parents’ Garage

by Jade Gaynor

It would probably need to begin with their families.

Perhaps my dad, instead of being motivated by his father,

had been disillusioned,

or perhaps he worked in lumber and found it to his liking

and grew up to be a blue-collar union man

like so many of his cousins.

Perhaps my mom was the same in every way

but never became fearful and quiet.

Maybe she grew up climbing the greased pole at the county fair

and when she got the ten-dollar bill

was inspired.

Perhaps instead of dismissing the people pushing her

to be a doctor rather than nurse,

lawyer rather than librarian, she had heard

and succeeded

and found anger at injustice.

Perhaps that anger was fanned,

and she met a friend in college.

Perhaps the two of them still met at a Christmas party,

but dad talked about “strong together”

and mom talked about “mutual aid”

and when they talked about children it wasn’t how many

but how motivated,

how powerful,

how educated.

Perhaps when I am born they teach me

not obedience but determination,

freedom instead of faith.

Maybe in this world

I am not scared away from being gay, but

it is hard to imagine they have this house

unless there are greater changes.

And perhaps that’s the real answer.

Perhaps how the logo appears in their garage

is a world where the party was sold.

Perhaps it became the face of a company with good prices.

Perhaps it is easier to think hope can be bought

than to think my parents could become people

I would want to become.

Hailey

by Jade Gaynor

Hailey I’m breaking our friendship off

because you made me feel uncomfortable

when I tried to eat dinner with

you and your friends and

because you were not kind enough and

because you have not been

as good a friend

as I hoped and

because I am not involved

enough in your life

which tells me

that I am not

in a healthy place

to be friends and

because you are dead

and I want the pain to stop.

Limit

by Jade Gaynor

Sitting in my chair, reaching for

a glass of (which is an emptiness

made (although no, a cup is

not the emptiness it’s the

boundary (which is used to

create an understood space

like lines on paper, so then

maybe a cup is one example

(and it isn’t glass after all,

it’s plastic (probably formed

from some tarry soup made

of the eons when plants

ruled the earth uncontested,

rather than the hellish silica

adopted to frighten and kill

would-be devourers by

making themselves too

dangerous (and here too

is confusion and difference,

divergence between the

relatable need to survive

and the weapon (which has

proactive (like how ‘prey’

in vore might seek ‘predator’

to find fulfillment in filling

or intimacy in being taken

whole with no shadow doubts

that part is unwanted)

implications) that cannot be

wielded without loss) to eat)

instead) of an optical illusion)

made solid) useful) water.

Hearing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter – The Four Seasons’

by Sam Szanto

This is the music my father

would like, aching strings

a taking back to soaring

spires, heights I never quite

acquired, in the rarefied

slow air of his study

smelling of single malt,

books and the aftermath

of pipe smoke, I sat on blue

carpet before the drawn-out

note of grief-before-grief,

when he was the only man

I knew. I wish I’d listened

more closely to music like this,

rather than saying Make it stop,

so, with an eye roll, he switched it off,

because that is the father he was,

and that is the father he is.

Advisory

by Michael Igoe

If  you’re suckered,

you have groped

losing starry mites.

Why do you wheel away

hoping pleasant dreams

wind up in other minds.

Meeting an end,

as faded glories.

Embers of sadness,

a flickering gesture.

A simple request

likely unanswered.

And Suchlike

by Michael Igoe

You once foretold a notice

of a most noisy whirlwind

without a gift for language.

Emblems served

at different times

laid at death’s door.

Stricken by disease,

those rare and fatal.

Foaming at the mouth,

in sudden raging fever..

You know its meaning

from balding husbands. .

They raid Christian coffers

using lore from the Vikings.

Their teeth remain clenched,

keeping to a certain deafness.

Bonneau’s Landing

by Michael Igoe

Finding what’s warmest,

yellow bellied and naive.

A belligerent syrup flows

from each and every pore.

The streets  shimmer,

in a sense of urgency.

People seem to detest

hardworking eruptions...

For bargains with opponents,

who hits the ground running,.

They serve as mere relics

of the ones who departed.

Scientist

by Michael Igoe

On a shore forever lambent

he disappeared in the sands..

Robbery of a true birth

is the matter on record.

He played the market

for wine colored cars

but only on the side.

He is without claims

to formal description.

None is his color,

zero is his number.

In all his escapades,

he stays undetected.

Shrugging his shoulders

he gauges all the signals

of pendulums in a basin..

Chestnut Ridge by M Patrick Riggin

It Came Through My Window One Night

by David Brady

It came through my window one night.

Prayer-like. Though hardly expected. Yes,

death bore me. I barely felt its gentle hands

as they lifted me. Lifeless as I was, suspended

like a float in the ball of its flat fist.

I thought of all the things I´d miss.

I waved goodbye to passport and colouring book.

Caught the smell of clean bedsheets and rum.

I did things I´d never done. Spoke at the funerals

of people I never knew. I stepped in their shoes.

Wriggled my toes in new shores.

Why hadn’t I done this before?

They say your life passes you by when you die,

but that doesn’t tell even half of it.

And don’t ask me how, but I smiled

when it pulled me out of myself

and left all of me behind.

And the last thing I heard?

It was as if a single solitary note

played itself out in an encore.

Uncertain at first, then joined by

a gazillion more.

The Grandfather Clock

by David Brady

We dine together in the shadow of the grandfather clock.

I gaze at you. Perfect man. Greek God. Bad boy.

All rolled into one. Eyes like shiny shells. Lips

as moist as plums. The sweet allure of coconuts,

desiccated, or dripping delicately down the palm.

I will lose myself in that tonight.

We drink our fill of Cabernet Sauvignon,

perfected over decades in our sleepless cellar.

Ninety years old yet flush as a new-born cherub.

I propose a toast,

to the delicate tapestry of your Renaissance beauty,

holding your gaze through my crimsoned glass. A toast.

To the twirling liquid that sparkles like infant blood,

whose dancing legs play spring notes on our tongues.

To the ageless face of the grandfather clock,

whose slow, patient hands unravel all evenings to

a threadbare dusk.

Talent

by David Brady

I sit obediently in this chair for you.

Unblinking. ‘Please don‘t move’.

Not an inch. Still as a rock.

I disappear as you paint me on canvas.

A smearing of sepia makes a smattering

of nothing. Why did you choose me?

In my mind I offer you my empty palette.

You fill it with worms that shed their skin

onto my open palms.

Perhaps my portrait will hang in

London town, under sinful Red Lights,

bowing the heads of sleazy men in seedy

city bars–

'Sit up straight'. I wince and blush.

Bent to the whiskers of your

paintbrush.

Thanks to the Fallen, I am free

by Havard Cassandra

On a chilly night, a lady as bright as light,

Without any fright, sings lovely for wights delight:

“It will be alright; no one will forget your fights.

Even out of sight, everyone praises you, Knights.”

In the beautiful sky of blue, I used to view,

Two or more souls who blew, my mind and my heart too

Due to a freedom that came true. So, what I do

Is, I say to you: “Thank you.” “Thanks to all of you!”

For the Fallen of all wars, who have become stars

This poetic art soars, in honor of your scars.

“Thank you to you!” I roar. You may be far, but are

No more than our freedom core. Rare are such lodestars.

“Hey, can you hear me?” I asked, to the souls who passed

“Your love for the nation was vast, and it still lasts!”

Strong and steadfast, to the sky, my tribute I cast.

They pass very fast, but what a blast from the past!

Luna Selene

by Charlie Bowden

I want to hear what the moon is thinking.

Does it keep a diary because it’s been in bloom for centuries?

Does it take note of all those who dote on its dimples, like me?

Does it remember the ones that stand out, who love lawlessly,

who loiter in its shadow for a hint of a remedy?

Does it whisper to its Grecian brothers and sisters

about the slow-moving tragedies, the spoiled beauty of humanity,

the hundred tiny taskmasters who die every night of their own vanity?

And does it smile when it sees what we’ve made it out to be,

a goddess, a godmother, a symbol of love and eternity?

The maidens who dream of sailing its seas,

the mothers who bless their babies in its beams,

the crones who cry until their claws come out in its gleam,

they all want to hear the moon’s midnight screams.

Starlight

by Charlie Bowden

Oh sweet sombre starlight, how easy it seems

to stand on Windermere peaks and watch you be shorn

from the shore of the blighted black sea,

see your endless misty acquaintances

weave in and out of view like the ghostly guests of my garden party;

your headlights pierce through the curtained windows

to curtail my glee but you’re still happy to see me,

now emancipated from the arresting aura of shimmering moonbeams.

You watch the weeping willow sway in the breeze,

a beer bottle lying dead at the base of the trunk like an offering, a sacrifice to be seized,

and you’re reminded of your shivering sisters still stuck in the sun’s trajectory.

Over the years, since the start of the fight, you’ve stored up enough spite to invert the sky

but you need to wait until they all align when the time is right.

Until then you stand around until ten, waiting to watch your brethren start their shifts again.

The Fold

by Charlie Bowden

Marching down a hillside

I came upon a hermit

who spun a sordid story

and told me I should learn it;

he told me to spread it far

from summit to riverbed,

so all the world may hear it

and this is what he said:

be you priestly or a prince

ordained with golden roses,

take comfort in your certain seat

beside the ancient Moses.

But if you’re a lecher,

a trickster, fiend or drunk,

the prince’s serpent herd

will ensure your ego’s shrunk;

they’ll drag you down below,

flaunt the cinnamon springs

of heaven’s final blow,

show you what you’re missing.

The gates, shut forever

whether you’re young or old,

smirk at you as you’re pulled

further into the fold.

The Red Rose

by Charlie Bowden

The plants here are so miserable

in this sunless seafront flower shop.

You can’t grow confident about profit

when your custom can’t be counted on,

tourists passing its tinted windows one day

and magicked away the very next,

the ghosts of teenagers guffawing about plant sex.

Lent blackens the perfunctory pages of my ledger;

St. Valentine is long dead and there’s a change in the weather,

the leftovers of lost loves wilting to a fine leather.

I resort to make wine out of some red rose petals,

drink away the night as my letter box fills.

There’s always a love overspill, less couples down here every year,

but I don’t know what to with it – let it run free, stab its feeble heart with a spear? It’ll die soon anyway but these flowers aren’t free –

my life has a price and the red always rises as easter kills me.

Barren Days

by Devika Mathur

These days, possibly

I could stay awake all night

without lids open

without an outgrown mass for affection

staring into the raw rims of oval mouth- night shifters, as I say

A thing might be done during the afternoons

but generally nothing much happens in my house

all yellow- mahogany ruptured landscape

with tainted smiles to watch

monotony of colours, pigments and textures.

I have frowned faces all over

for spilled, spoiled milk (whatever you say)

A woman dragging her shadow in circles

counting till 50 backwards to go off to sanity,

nothing to stop her,

often, she skips if not running.

I can smell the salt all day.

Through the hanging stale night lamps,

a toothpaste now old and rustic

with beds cracking,

days so pale like the birds bereft of water

brown as your memory

brown table, brown cinema and nothing wonderful.

Breakfasts are small,

small and wholesome.

Pinkish fruity nectar,

jasmine tea

and no words.

The rose from my balcony is my muse

a snippet from a falling sky-

it reminds me of my field of stone,

air and blur.

Sunsets and smiles.

These days, possibly

I can imagine going off to sleep

with everything inside my clumsy fist.

Askew, I will wake and break,

Duquesne Fog by M Patrick Riggin

Burning Embers

by Scott Cumming

My words are nought

but burning embers

They hold no sway

Will change

merely a microcosm

of personal history

Every poem

an amusement

Mostly for myself

Still, I hustle

to validate

one more bruised ego.

Three Nil Down

by Scott Cumming

The manure stench

wafts in on the wind

The third swish of the net

That pre-match latte

sloshes

as you abandon the chase

The glamour of the game

Unfathomably far away

Those days

of being the best kid

on the school pitch

Remain

Stand on weakened parapets

as the fourth thwaps home

Rub at the fresh stud marks

branded to your inner thigh

Played and played

until youthful passion

Evaporates

Trying to pass it on

to a new generation

All the while

struggling to provide yourself

any motivation

Filling the Void

by Scott Cumming

My veins are spun sugar

Sanity bites eroding arteries

I grow bulbous

trying to fill the void

three layers at a time

Convenience over confidence

Why don’t these clothes fit?

Tugging at my tee

while unwrapping another sweet.

Demigods

by Scott Cumming

As religion fades to myth

We anoint them

as demigods

Mistake the work

for self-worth

Follow like disciples

hanging onto words

and wardrobes

The performance of a lifetime

Tik Tok

Attention spans

mean your 15 seconds

is coming up.

The Unopened Rose

by Shiksha Dheda

Walking through the garden of memories, I

smell the jasmine of youthful hope, gently

stroke the daisies of goodwill, admire the

beauteous lotus of hard work and cringe at

the many weeds of suspicion. Away from

the beauty, the delight, the chaos

of my growing garden;

-a wilted dead rose- so

full of colour,

abundance in fragrance.

But unopened by  the

hand of time and

captured within  the

grip of caution.

A Garden

by Shiksha Dheda

Searching for the truth beneath the sun

-looking for innocence once had- now

lost.

Calling out the name of devotion

-blindly followed-  now forsaken

for understanding.

Looking for respect within the juicy fruits

-always savoured- though

not always earned.

Tracing down obedience below colourful petals

-a companion I no longer heed. Standing

beneath trees, I try to find the naked

innocence of childhood

draped in the blackness  of

disturbed age.

Chocolate Cake

by Shiksha Dheda

Soft.

Moist.

Satisfying.

My daily routine.

The wealth of the decadent icing,

the labour put into the layered masterpiece.

An acquired craft

- diligent workmanship-

- a fine hand-

- years of knowledge-

all stripped away.

Really,

I have  just

been savouring

-   day after day    -

mundane

sponge.

Courthouse by M Patrick Riggin

Last Steps by Arden Hunter

Brook by Arden Hunter

Flap by Arden Hunter

Table of Contents

Cover

®© Alternate Route, 2021

Table of Contents

Art

Metamorphosis

Thrive

Diadalszekér (Chariot)

Chariot

Homunculus

Homunculus

Cat Hair

Empty Calories

Walk by Arden Hunter

Heart Flame

Queen Anne’s Lace

PTSD

Fraught by Arden Hunter

Starving

1 to 1 to 1 to 1, with the 1 equalling You, always You

My take on local news with traditional shoehorned side order of disguised national news and desperate filler from a remarkably familiar, Russian-oligarch owned newspaper.

down the stairs

i want to know

what do i do

Big Dipper

Lonely

Waves

A World in Which the Black Panther Party Logo Appears on a Box in My Parents’ Garage

Hailey

Limit

Hearing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter – The Four Seasons’

Advisory

And Suchlike

Bonneau’s Landing

Scientist

Chestnut Ridge by M Patrick Riggin

It Came Through My Window One Night

The Grandfather Clock

Talent

Thanks to the Fallen, I am free

Luna Selene

Starlight

The Fold

The Red Rose

Barren Days

Duquesne Fog by M Patrick Riggin

Burning Embers

Three Nil Down

Filling the Void

Demigods

The Unopened Rose

A Garden

Chocolate Cake

Courthouse by M Patrick Riggin

Last Steps by Arden Hunter

Brook by Arden Hunter

Flap by Arden Hunter