Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Aberration Labyrinth Reunion Reunion Adrian Slonaker Tonight I started smoking again, distractedly extracting a satiny cylinder of strong tobacco from its elegant, emerald-colored pack, sliding the cigarette between soft, recently kissed lips. I light, then inhale. Maybe the swirling, lingering smoke will erase the scent of my best friend. The broad-shouldered buddy who was always at my side embraced me tenderly this evening, tasted me. The grizzled guy who’d gulped down shots of whiskey while wooing laughing women with me seduced me successfully under a starless sky. The comrade I’d counted on convinced me to be his lover, and tonight I started smoking again.
Body Language Richard Pacheco
When? Avi Spearshock
We meet and barter once again exchanging words of love for sex. constructing intricate paragraphs with our entwined limbs, long run on sentences full of Faulknerian passion thickets of prose yearning for more unable at last to corral true poetry. and we lie spent trading promises in foreign tongues— something lost in the translation.
The morning after the world ended, I had the best sex. It was finally personal.
Paradox for Duchamp Richard Pacheco
First Richard Pacheco First the image a flash like lightening bursting overhead so many miles away then the reluctant peal idea fixe and from this single form this twisting merge of color clinging deep within the mind the words emerge. First was not the word, but the ungraven image.
As a boy, sad serious bent on representation abandoned when you were twenty-four with yourself mocked sitting in a train. You yearned for majestic irony and found Your nude descending a stair to uncharted territory beyond the wild beasts and cubist chains to the Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelor’s Even all a chess game with perception pseudo—science in the fourth dimension of phenomenal sex— the ideal situation.
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
800-virgin/slut dynamic with a dash of June Cleaver Sophie M. Ellison For the hardest part of a relationship failing is forgiving yourself for the dumb shit you did For the late night phone calls answered when you were already asleep For the responses you gave as you lied through your teeth in an effort to save the the romance from the noose already strangling the life from your lips For all those times you dropped what you were doing to play taxi driver and prostitute on demand 1-800-virgin/slut dynamic with a dash of June Cleaver Apologies always come the next morning So do the “I’ll never do it again’s” But you both know they’re lying and you’re only that desperate to forgive And dying for a phone call that you don’t really want to slide ‘answer’ for anyway When a relationship ends after you tried so hard, the hardest part of saying good bye is acknowledging and accepting your own fucking fault in keeping the corpse as it rotted When you’d run all their errands and say that it’s fine even as your own priorities stack up untouched When you’d cook them their dinner while you starve on a diet of unfilled promises, Jäger, and imagined cues When you’d ignore their flirting with a stranger at the bar as you sit only inches away nursing a drink the bartender gave you for free out of pity 1-800-virgin/slut dynamic with a dash of June Cleaver Apologies sometimes come the next morning Maybe even an “I’ll never do it again” But you both know they’re lying and you’re only that desperate to forgive And dying for a phone call that you don’t really want to slide ‘answer’ for anyway It’s harder to move on after a relationship of one-sided love and two-sided hate It’s the most dangerous journey you take on a whim, giving your heart to a stranger in bed It’s the type of thing you regret as you’re doing but still helpless to stop It’s a way of life you’re making as you’re on a joint mission destroying your soul 1-800-virgin/slut dynamic with a dash of June Cleaver Apologies won’t come the next morning Neither will the “I’ll never do it again” By now only you are the liar and only that desperately pathetic And there isn’t any phone call to answer Over is a word you fought hard to never say Over is the thing you both hated and craved Over is the hardest part of a relationship failing.
Aberration Labyrinth Practical Poetry Jack Brown Williams was a literary drunk among a community of drunks. Neighbors, we lived on the 4th floor of a 5 story walk up on Fourth Street. He and a large gray cat named Raleigh-No Sir Walter requiredlived in abject squalor. One day he appeared at my door. “My worst nightmare just came true.” While indulging in an afternoon nap a sociable cockroach crawled over his lips into his mouth, along his tongue and into his nasal cavity. Williams arose and expelled the intruder in an explosive sneeze. It was a wake up call. By this time Williams was in recovery. Once before he had appeared at my door blacked out. Physically decrepit none-the less-threatening. After I confronted him sober with his alcoholic misadventure he joined AA. He credited me with 12 Stepping him, The roach his sponsor. At The White Horse Jack Brown The guy next to me at the bar said “ She's fat.” I said “buxom and-beauty is in the eyes of the beholder-bountiful” The portrait of Dylan Thomas peering with unflinching appraisal right through the foam of numberless heads of Guinness. “She's fat.” “ I like her face.” “She's so fat she doesn't have a face. She's going to die of cardiac arrest before she's forty. She's fat.” “ Not if I make love to her.” “That's practicing medicine without a license.” “I thought you like big women. What's the biggest woman you ever went with?” “ Biggest woman was 260. A black woman. Made a mistake. Let her get on top. I couldn't breathe.” I'm sure the eyes of Dylan Thomas dilated abruptly. Absolutely positive.
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
To Rest Nicole Hampton Your nods make ordering Gluten-free pizza and decaf tea Bearable Even if the waitress skips a beat Of her happy tone A tough customer at her table Honey, you have no idea Ask this man right here What tough is But only after you go grab me a lemon "Please" he adds at her Smiling back at me He softens me up I sharpen him How balanced Our deficiencies are How excessive Our love Curl up with me Let those little chips on the shoulder And all over Like exhausted paint Peel off piece by piece I am here to examine In my bed All the ways you think you aren't mine And carefully place them To rest
Shell Jade Donavan We become sufferers, And welcome suffering. For we are only welcoming To those whose pain we can feel, When our own boring lives Consume our souls, We welcome the pain if Only to feel something.
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
Arnold Andrew James Goulet
Following Snyder George Thomas
He wanted to go to Mars but his wife said no. He went to get memory implants but something went wrong. It was a conspiracy. Mars gets an atmosphere.
get up for coffee craving cigarettes a black hole sucking in light underwear pot gut hanging over barefoot toes in carpet scratching my balls come across the Snyder book of poems checked out yesterday browsing the library to read again years later
Best Friends Andrew James Goulet He was a machine from the future sent to kill a woman named Sarah Connor. But he was defeated, and reprogrammed in the future to protect her son John Connor in the past. Time travel makes you naked.
Snow Andrew James Goulet The mall is quiet. The kid at the pizza shop makes pizza. Judge Dredd pinball is only a quarter so I play Judge Dredd pinball. Almost time for Christmas.
first poem it begins "down valley a smoke haze three days heat after five days rain" it ends "looking down for miles through high still air" I go away and come back lost Gary Snyder in the passes ahead of me leaving town leaving Bukowski in taverns boxing ghosts leaving Kerouac dead in the house of women climbing in high still air rip rap up Cold Mountain twenty again
ISSN 2179-8805
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Skinny Ass Woman George Thomas there was that skinny ass girl on Nantucket us sailors away from home for the first time saying "the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat" others went others returned surrounded by ocean almost always pint bottle peach brandy hip pocket I stayed put remained on the beaches under the stars the moon or in the coffee shops the taverns swilling forgetfulness I have almost forgotten her completely now almost every damn thing about her skinny ass except the brandy
Cherry Rachel Oglesby I lost my virginity like I lost a bet, grinning and bearing.
Prowl Rachel Oglesby the air is fresh, the night is young the taste of trouble on my tongue. Slip into shoes, I walk my beat; Zig-zag patterns through the streets. noises of people, all around, the hand of night has pressed us down.
Regret As Science Fiction Ryan Carson Couldn't one argue Going back in time To change the timeline Doesn't accomplish anything? Let's assume an infinite number Of timelines. Any infinite number of solutions Have occurred across an equally Infinite number of universes Sending someone back to change Your timeline, to stop a needle, Catch a tumbling acrobat, Would not obliterate the prior Timeline, you're only hoping For another possible change. But by an infinite number Of universes, this has occurred Already, as the way things Have always worked out.
Aberration Labyrinth #FamousPoets Ryan Carson shelley fucking died on the beach for all our poems or a liquid sigh. Look with us becomes look as us. father figures as listless as absence is present. I lure the horizon, which was lent. I tongue sediment off each fingernailand transfer them to parchment so those cells may wail. there may now be pavement but our pores all lament.
I am a Hamster Cathy Capozzi Tired. My mind sleeps, My bones drop to the floor, Exhausted. My heart aches, My body turns to jelly and dust, I wish to be no more… Unconscious. I move through these hallways With my eyes closed, watching My life end with every millisecond They pass by in ages Like doors I cannot open. I’m drained. Drained of all my innocence and excitement For life there once was. Like the somber experience Of the knowing that purity is not what it seems… That mothers do not like their children And money rules the world, not love And that try as you might, you can’t Break free! No because it’s a cycle A hamster wheel of insanity.
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Dirty Poem Sergio A. Ortiz (...) Death spread all over the street penetrated the kitchen of my house was impregnated with the smell of roasted meat it shone on the cutlery arranged at the lunch table (...) Walking down or up the street you see a row of identical houses nightmare faces appear in the windows
The Girl With Style Mark Martyre I once read a poem about Style. About people who had style, and the importance of doing things with style, as opposed to without style. And when I thought about style, I thought about her. She had style. I wonder if she ever knew just how much. There was style in the way she dressed, the way she walked. There was style in the things she said, and in what she wrote. Her fingers had style. Her kisses had style. Her sex had style. There was style in the way she danced across the room, when we were together, and style in the way she dances through my head, now that we're apart.
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Post Partum Amanda Meyers Fleshy soft burden bun hot from my oven Crying and wailing like some mythological nightmare threatening to turn my body to ash The vibrations leaving tiny cracks on the surface of my soul Sunlight penetrates my lifeless eyelids as I rock myself back and forth In front of the picture window Watching the time pass through the glass trapped in my home with this child As far away as I can get is not far enough I find myself periodically walking the long carpeted hall to the nursery in my bare feet Sinking Zombielike Quick, darting glances in the crib to say I watched you A bottle propped up in your tiny arms with a washcloth to say I fed you A splash of sink water on my face to feign the appearance of good self-hygiene Of any concern for myself For my decaying sense of hope Ballroom dancing across the wood in a waltz of absolute loneliness- my chair and I exist alone A concrete wall stretches towards the sky separating me from the reality that had materialized from my lifelong dream of being Her mother Never could I have imagined seeing a stranger in the bassinet upstairs Anxiety sitting in my stomach from sunrise until dusk threatening to bubble up my throat Delusions of crimson and freedom play on a loop The worst film I’ve ever been forced to endure How do I live knowing I yearn to kill myself? That I yearn to murder my daughter?
Aberration Labyrinth Girl Leaving a Bar A.M. Clarke the wind picked pace she could feel the sound of the music, very distant now he was telling her about his sister fingers sliding through her hair like water saying, "You remind me," "You remind me." it was too early for spring bare branches stir with a sudden turn of crooked fingers as a car passes, shedding light on broken glass last night she dreamed of lions
Toxins Shannon Berg Gather up the toxins; dump them on the floor. Spill some bleach between the grout with a little in her mouth. Whose scars burn deeper? She'll oil up your truck and light a torch, burn it to the concrete, and toss the match on your hedges. Whose words burn longer? With your empty driveway, and a patchy browned heart, you'll hear jumbled echoes because you wouldn't listen.
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Burned Shannon Berg a steam burn causes less pain than the box of switchblades covered in dried blood i mailed to you today soak up the scent of dead cells when you rip the UPS label let the sting puncture every nose hair, hardened mucus shards you hack when the smell induces vomit shower in the most intense heat illustrate stick figures in the steam-covered mirror and try to feel something different
Silver Spoon Joshua Kostecka He was born with a perfect face, says the silk black suit on the man’s back covering a white dress shirt; he was born rich, says the expensive red dining chair at the head of the 300 foot long dining table; he was eating by himself, says the solid silver plate that was holding a lobster shipped from Spain; the man has always been alone, says the golden watch that is on the man’s right wrist. His family lived with him once, says the napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt; he used to smile too, says the three roses that were placed behind his food; his kids now blackmail him for money, says the fork that is in his left hand being used to lift food to his mouth; his wife stole his company when the two split, says the chandelier that is dangling over the middle of the dining table. His parents hated him, says squeaking floor as the man leaves his table to go upstairs; he looks relived, says the staircase that is just a room away where he was just eating; its been a long time since he’s had that face; says the stool that is at the head of his bed placed under a rope; he finally looks content, says the noose wrapped around his neck holding his lifeless body.
Aberration Labyrinth Untitled Orion Wise Through my eyes – Zera mine are light a gifted radiance downs? no! miniature clouds sewn together to carry me with the wind. yours however constructs of calamity cinder? in a way. ignited shrouds crudely etched upon the back, dragging. we believed possiblities of soaring unification friends? lost. dwindling crowds silhouettes—shades to this platinum tether.
Summer 2017 Dilapidated Kyle Kutz I've been trapped, Within this home, For years. Watching paint peel, Slowly, Amid mildew splotches. Unable to peek Through the boarded windows, Nailed snugly by My mother, Father, Therapist, “Friends,” Lost love, My son. His name would've been Cole. Daddy loves you, Cole. Please come home.
The Equable Basking Shark Colin James I signal the waiter by waving a color he recognizes. How ephemeral his footsteps are in the sand. He remembers my name & my balding head, lighthouse like dome. Unasked he applies sunblock wipes his hands on his short shorts. I will tip him the equivalent of four years, & inquire after his uncle who has been away opportunistically avoiding the sun's glare.
I put up fresh wallpaper In your room. New tinker toys, A crib, And countless pairs of footy pajamas. I'll even get you a dog Named Patches. You'll grow old together. Please come home. I miss your heartbeat Within the womb. Your midnight kicks That made mommy giggle. I just want To play catch In the backyard. To pat you on the head And tell you, Face-to-face, That I love you. Is it too late To tear down These boards?
ISSN 2179-8805
Aberration Labyrinth
My Life Isn’t So Bad Amanda Bremer It can’t all be like this, One bad break after the other. Weaving down one bad path, Only to end up on another. Letting one monster feel up their desires, Quenching their thirst for lust. In out, Up down, Sweat beading down the body of a creature, Who wants nothing more than the Sexual organs of a woman. Crying for help, With no one around. Letting him finish, Only to go home to a new form of horrid creation. A man supposedly to be a mentor, A father figure that my mother chose. Creeps into my bedroom each night, To leave upon me his temptations. To feel my body up with the juice of his labor. Thrust after thrust, Groan after groan, Moaning that feels up the room with vibrations. One more in, One more out, Only to spurt out so little and leave once again.
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
You were supposed to love me, My one true love in life, But the hatred inside you has made you Into something of a kickboxing machine. One punch, That’s all you said you needed. “No.” I said, pushed you to the edge, You lunge, You throw, An aching in my face, my legs, and my sides, The soreness you produced has fabricated Bruises so purple, so blue, and so black. Right hooks and left hooks, Jabbing me like sharp pointed knives, Only to leave me alive evermore. This can’t be how my life will be, Bad people here and bad people there. It can’t all be so bleek, so dark. I need something to make me feel, Something to feel my void. I want you, No I need you, To make the pain go away. One tiny needle to my arm, And the nightmares go away. Medicine to fly away all the cares, To feed my veins like blood to my heart. Your yellowish white tint, After being heated and burned. You are now mine, My bad path of existence, Only to one-day kill me like all of the others. But hey, my life isn’t so bad. Maybe deep down there are good things for me. Maybe there was happiness once upon a time, Only to be stolen by the creatures that lurk in the dark.
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
I Should Have Just Kissed Your Purple Lips Instead of Confiding in A Herbalist Colin James Democracy had its own aisle, the shelves ravished disproportionately. I pushed my crooked wheeled cart banging into another hysterical shopper. We competed over some vitamins. Instructive warnings were not hanging well, old signs sagged with faded blurry lettering. Every week a new unsubstantiated theory, labels up toward bad lightnings ambiguity. The bathroom was smaller than I remembered, flyers taped to a leaking sink. Phone numbers of adversarial sheiks. I found my supplements in the bargain bin. Outside, crude ribbons flew in a man made wind.
Collision Jordan Schauer I have a fantasy of you and I colliding the way two asteroids might; in the deep space without oxygen or warmth our explosion would create fire in a vacuum; and suddenly two invisible bodies would rumble and thrum into existence. Where there was nothing, suddenly, there was us. We could make time bend the way Einstein said we could. We could imagine it together one day. How longing is often more satisfying than having; How prolonging our lust only intensifies it, Magnetizes it. So we collect more pieces to add to it each and every day. One great ball of ice and dust, rocketing through the galaxy, Hoping, The way lovers do, To collide.
A Lapse Of Critical Thinking Michael Marrotti The propagation of digital garbage passed off as music and the white people who feel a need to incorporate the word nigga into their shallow vocabulary says more than an album worth of music The way the Islamist's live and die by a primitive book that's been antiquated speaks more than they're permitted the evidence is in the repression Disgruntled losers on the left who preach about unity are prone to attacking those on the other side their actions are not making me feel like I'm particularly wanted Speaking of critical thinking the candor of this poem is guaranteed to sequester the audience from the poet diminishing the sales of his book and opening up the next door for a new crude poem that will be bypassed by an audience who perceives the poet as an asshole
ISSN 2179-8805
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Sobriety Michael Marrotti
No Roust, Yes Coffee Russell Zazueta
I've endured the torture of waking up to empty bottles
Woke up a while ago and I know it’s mid morning, the coffee punches strong, that’s the way I like it, black, and 3 and a half scoops in a cup. that was everyday, but now the gods bestow peace to jobless men in showers. see, the unemployed receive the gift of solitude, and in between jobs, between the finances and dementia, pleasure offers time to reflect. It comes naturally lying in bed for hours or during a few beers next to the stereo, sometimes in front of a blank TV screen, sometimes after cerebral sex. a man’s strive for his cultivation is as important as his coming of age, and last night I hit the bed like a baby starved of sleep. all night the magnanimous rain stripped the grime off the City of Angels, washing into storm drains, and the skies in the morning drenched in wet blue. I began to shave, the hot water splashed into the sink. lots of corners, rough patches and finally under the chin and I stared back at the face from the dimension beyond the mirror. same mangled face of the years: jagged lines, stress marks (some say wisdom), the continuing sag of skin. usually the case, nothing unordinary, and not today: there was another face, a youthful face, the kind of morning rose that sings in the rain, and I touched the mirror to be sure. the face from the other side of the universe, mysterious and content, and it was good enough for me. I let it win me, the beck and call, and there I went for more coffee, black, no cream, no sugar, and only the sweetest juice of unemployment to add.
The temper tantrums and despair of losing an established home All it takes is walking through that door once to forever alter your trajection Now that I've tasted life as it dripped down my nasal cavities triggering this enlightenment spawning my creativity I decline any other way of living the choice is mine abstinence would only necessitate a code orange from equilibrium to destabilization For I'm at war with a divisive society chemical imbalance and the greatest threat to a creative mind Sobriety
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805
Love In A Starvation Economy Shawn Keller She had the empathy of a rose bush, which is to say none, when she came through the door, and I am a toddler under the table, with paint and paper, heart raw, wanting nothing more than the Mother. She coos to our toddler dog with all that maternalism, the kindness of gentle physicality, the slow strokes of the Mother. He twists and caresses back. I think of the last time we kissed. Not the standard hello/goodbye smack, but a full attack, infused with desire and grace. Instead I have the indignity of dog jealousy. Love the infinite, we believe, told by our parents. There is enough for all, but not love in a starvation economy, and I am a winter jacket in August. Keep me close. I will warm you. Ever reliable, fearful of the closet I live in and wondering what comes next if not winter. Link to the Wild's Mask M.B. Humphries I bite the apple as his sword falls beside me. Don't worry, you're next. Strong Enough Richard King Perkins II My hand is strong enough I think to pin your wrists above your head while I kiss you. That’s all you need to know.
Thick As Thieves Shawn Keller "You'll never be that guy," she says and the truth tetanus poisons the blood, running down my limbs with Bessemer hate fuel, and my loathing moves from the specific to the universal. I wonder if theyknow. Does the beauty ease the journey? Or is it the water fish, not knowing the sea's abundance? Do they see the harvest? Or do they thirst? "How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?" John asked. "Baby you're a rich man," he answered. My hatred will be a thief.
Destiny Richard King Perkins II The six hundred pound woman with one leg living in a nursing home says to me ”They’re starving us to death in here” as she rummages around the bottom of a McDonald’s bag searching for stray fries and when none are to be found asks me if I’m going to finish my apple which is already down to the core.
Aberration Labyrinth
Summer 2017
ISSN 2179-8805