summer 2015 Aux./vox.

About Aux./Vox.Aux./Vox. is an independent literary magazine founded in 2014 by Max Bicking, Annie Rus, Dominick Knowles, and Brian Thomas.

We focus on experimental and traditional prose, verse, and visual art. This is our third issue.

Submissions are rolling and may be sent to aux.vox.submis-sions@gmail.com.

Past and current issues can be found at our wesbite: www.auxvoxmag.wordpress.com.

Like our Facebook page for frequent updates and general news from the editors desks: www.facebook.com/aux.vox.magazine.

Cover design by Sean Dolan.

In memory of Dr. C. Dallett Hemphill.

This issue is further dedicated to the extraordinary perseverence of her surviving family, especially Evan Hill--a friend, a brother, and a rock.

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Featured in Aux./Vox Summer 2015.:

Prose/Verse:

Glen ArmstrongZooey CoxDaniel de CullaIsabella Esser-Munera Lauren Geiger Sarah GowMitchell Grabois John KilduffDominick KnowlesMara Koren Juan David Lopez VelezBrandon Marlon Amelia PitcherellaAnnie RusPaige Szmodis

Visual Art:

Angier CooperDaniel de Culla Sean Dolan Danielle Farley

Contributors 2

Tunnel by Danielle Farley

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A Brief History of Late Night Radio

Nothing has been so aptly named as the transistor, minuscule miracle, interpreter of electric fish and their various schools of thought. Night, itself, woke up as soon as I was given a transistor radio for my tenth birthday. Pop stars, evangelists and hockey players swam through my room, their bodies shadowed, their ghostly transit subject to the switching post at my thumb. Thus, I made the transition from boy to man, from insomniac to loyal listener . . . and back. I pulled away from darkness and into a world of sound, away from a night that seemed to have no end and into a sea of conversation. Never again would I be bullied by silence.

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Glen Armstrong

Panopticism

VIIIscribble anything indiscriminate on receipt pagesticker tape false backs to closetsbefore they find you

VIIsave the paper for burning; face the heat and the yearning face the falsities of urban living

VI stretch your unconscious bend your will for making coffee that takes ten minutes longer note the color of his skin and the color of his sin

Vfall, falling, fallen swiftly fluid ever changing into the tightest pants

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you can find and the brightest polish for your soul

IVmother said no today no to the polish and to the soul to the tight jeans and free dresses to the me and the you

IIIfather lacks understanding clairvoyance he needs briefings for visits debriefings for departures which are often

IItwo steps twice first back, then forwardside to side and then down into bed and off to sleep

II oscillate here none define me

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here, my name is Zooey my gender is - freedom colored gold

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Zooey Cox

On Haikus

Wiped her eyesAnd walked over bedroomA dog in the door.

Soul without LightStaring beneath a dreamA dismal day.

Woman sent the kidTo school clapping her handsFlowers from peasants.

The boat was simplyLittle girl slapped itStamp postmarked.

Year pass by sideThere is something I mustLicking up rope.

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Daniel de Culla

91B by Sean Dolan

giant crickets

giant crickets go slinking round the corners of your room like shadows or curtainsthey hum quietly to themselves, whisper a lullaby from under their wings

gently this carousel : outside there is rain it is like pearls.

Isabella Esser-Munera

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Nixnutz

Anke: follower of fancy dutch folk medicine,hoyden of Grandmoms oral tradition

whose sable eyes flashed firefly pirouettes,whose silvered hair was slicked with sweat,as she slept in fern beds on warm June evesand burned red wood-ticks with kerosene.

Anke who chopped down fir treesScheisse!as thistles ripped her dungarees.

Anke of the stolen felling axeand the Feud of 1966of thirteen finicky chickens,of foraged raspberries in peanut tins,of a saffron distelfink on a wooden plate

Spin me in your Spielwerk!

Make me sharp as Schadenfreude,bright as fraktur tapestries.

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Lauren Geiger

Verdigris

Green:a dream you lived in an old blue houseof wildflowers and broken windows.

Beyondthe sunken porch: woods of white pineand an old man white beardwho waved from the tree line,then vanished. Girl: glass cicada.You swan-dived from the stoopand swooped above the elm trees.

Your opals/ wings meltedto sun,dripped sandto sky

as wind blewdry leaves through the windows.

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Lauren Geiger

The Doves

Heaven hangs in the snow.The quiet before the first foot printpressed on our lipslike the icy fingers of thegrandmother who you werenamed after but never met.He tells us death is cold butat least it reminds us we wereonce the coating on the armsof the dead tree branches likeour children and the oneswho first looked backat their foot prints to seewhere they had been.I dont think there are foot printsanymore up there andmaybe the birds that flythrough the squall can tell usthat snow will never stopcollecting on our wingslike mangled branches.Its as if sparrows have neverfrozen and fallen to earth like relicsfor us to find and ask if therewere ever angels orif He just laid on his backand spread his arms to pretendhe could conjure an armylike a dictator. Instead He

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lay to look at his own skyand ask if the snow was white enoughthis time for all his sculptors down there.There were dove wings on mywindow and they werentlike hands, they were likelips pressed and a letting loose a light burst ofBreath.And the day closed likewhite flyleaf pages at the endof Malachi where He wrotein bloodto form puddles of milk.And the day began the samewith my face that melts snowand my hands that try toarrange it but nevermake an angel beforeit melts.

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Sarah Gow

15Swamp

Im in a swamp of toxinsin the unregulated American South Somewhere through water lies PanamaSomewhere through water lies Europe

where East German and Bulgarian swimmersfill their bodies with steroids and threaten to overthrow me

Im on the medal standand wont get offBrutal men will have to drag me off

I am goldenforever golden

Mitchell Grabois

Untitled by Daniel de Culla

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#birdmansucks

#birdman sucked..now it might have had to do with where I saw it..on a red eye sitting next to someone who ap-peared to be having withdraws from drugs as he keeped bugging me to go to the bathroom at least 5 times....he kind of looked like #ryangouslon (sp) with a base base cap on with a hoodie over the hat...he keep moving around non-stop ....converting the plastic cup into a John cham-berlain smashed up auto sculpture....the movie was on those TV screens that are on the back of the chairs....so when the chair is reclined...the TV screen is a lot closer to your face...and since I need reading glasses...which I never use...I had a hard time just looking at the film...my earphones got lost on the last request from my seat niehbor....I got throw more than half the movie when I de-cided to play possum with my niehbor and close my eyes to sleep ....which I did at some point..it was a full flight so I could not move seats...what pissed me off is this guy keeped bugging me and not his girlfriend who was sleep-ing....the poor guy was in the center row...maybe she was not his girlfriend but one of those interventionists that chaparone addicts to recovery centers in Malibu and Flor-ida .....anyway...the movie sucked...why was #michaelke-aton up for an #oscar ? He was stumbling all over the place...as #edwardnorton made so evidently clear...btw...Norton wins best use of cod piece.........to be fair..I did not see the end, so maybe it ends with a bang .......moral of story...watching movies on airplanes suck, detoxing in the middle row of a red eye flight sucks, movies suck, drugs suck, Michael Keaton sucks, red eyes sucks , birdman sucks, my life sucks.

John Kilduff (Mr. Lets Paint)

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Reading Ferlinghetti

Reading Ferlinghetti with half an erection, I feel like an allegory, like a gutter of wet leaves that hangs / off the stucco of a windowless townhouse, battened over with strange sad laughter, and brittle brown lawn, moldering fungal.

America, the ferris wheel, crimson legs on rotting docks: The poet (like an acrobat) jolts these systems, jars their holy work. And when sleep balances the eyebeams, lies loam-like on his forehead, lamplight scattered on crown molding-- the primitive idea withers distance of moons,Suburbs wane in cosmic mirage, animals clot in skittering walls: angioplasty for the soul.

Dominick Knowles

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Ode to the House of Joy

1.On the way to the House of Joy, Nanny and I Talk about trees, maple syrup,Sugar snows, the Miami River, and the Olentangy River.When we arrive, I guide Poppy to the house.He keeps turning his head,Stopping, and I say,This way this way. Follow me.

2.The house smellsVaguely of filmy cooking Oil. The ceilings would beComfortable for the worlds Tallest man, and the furnitureIs all hard springs, but in A stoic sort of way. By the doorIs a white cat, and she rubs herHead against the back of my hand.

3. Anna, Mom, and I sing Together on the purple couch,While outside the evening bloomsTurquoise. We sing,You have always Walked in beauty,

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That is what I see.

4. At night we crunch across the lawn toSend off paper lanterns,And watch as the wind carriesThem a little too strongly,Until at last we see the goldenPin-point of one fallAnd disappear beyond the trees.When a siren starts in the distanceWe decide lanterns werent such a Good idea after all.

5.Coyotes call in the night While I am cramped on The two cushion couch, myBack to the back and my Eyes to the dark room.Ben and Sam breathe in Sleep, and I listen, gloriouslyScared and awake to hearThe coyotes and the creaks ofThe old house.

6. On our last night,After Jims spiritually transcendent Macaroni and cheese,Nanny brings out the slide projector. -

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There is Nanny, 50 years younger,But with the same smile,Arched eyebrows, and stunning posture. There is Poppy with thick-rimmedGlasses, argyle socks. There he isIn jean shorts and in THE RED SPEEDO!Everyone screams. There are AmyAnd Anna and Allen: The Huckabee Children, in various stages Of hair and glasses and height.Pointing to a slide Dad says, I believe that was the last day AlEver combed his hair.

7.After the slides,The grown Huckabee childrenSit around the living room.On instinct I am sad to see them So apart from their younger selves in the Color slides, where everyone alwaysSmiles, and no one knows the future.But of course, they are onlyPerfect in retrospect.

8.This was our last time in the big Yellow house in Loveland Ohio,And I could waste away onSentimentality alone. But we havePictures, and stories.Time has told us we will remember

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All that is important.

9.Someday, when the Huckabee childrenAre grandparents, we will set upThe slide projector and say Remember that, sledding down The porch steps? Hugging the scary Virgin Mary statue? Remember Maxs Zombie game, the old peeling rooms, and How we all sat down For Christmas DinnerIn the room with the green carpet And the huge round table?Our children will look at us inThe slides, and they will not know Of our uncertainties. They will say,Look at how beautiful They all are, in that bigHouse of Joy.

Mara Koren

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Untitled by Sean Dolan

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La siesta

Me acuesto en mi cama dura, cansado y solo. El bravo sol del trpico, que como los suspiros de un amante apasionado, ha tocado mi espalda todo el da. Sobre el aire se siente el olor leve de un almuerzo ya acabado. Los tristes boleros de la radio de mi abuelo cuelgan por el espacio como un fantasma. Hay siete almas en la casa, pero todos estn soando. No se percibe ningn movimiento, el barrio entero est dormido. La nica interrupcin sobre el silencio son los pasos rtmicos de los caballos que cargan los bienes de los vendedores ambulantes. El espacio est cargado con el peso de los sueos y los deseos de los que estn dormidos. En este ambiente cierro mis ojos. La clara imagen de los ojos de ella envuelve mi vista. Es en momentos como estos que el recuerdo de sus labios ms me azota. En mi mente se pasan los miles de recuerdos de nuestro amor indeleble. Los llantos de un bebe se pueden or en la distancia como un susurro trado por el viento. Y lentamente, el cansancio, las memorias de un amor perdido, y la brisa de la tarde me ahogan, y por fin me quedo dormido.

Juan David Lopez Velez

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Juan David Lopez Velez

25La siesta

Alone and tired, I lay down on my hard bed. The strong sun of the tropics, like the whispers of a passionate lover, has touched my back all day long. The smell of a now finished lunch can be felt in the air. The sad boleros from my grandfathers radio hang over the empty space like a ghost. There are seven souls in the house, but they are all dreaming. No movement can be perceived, the entire neighborhood is asleep. The only interruption over the silence is the rhythmic steps of the horses that carry the goods of the roving merchants. The emptiness is laden with the weight of the dreams and desires of those who are sleeping. In this climate I close my eyes. The clear image of her eyes surrounds me. It is in moments like these that the memories of her lips hit me. In my mind I run through the memories of our indelible love. The cries of a baby can be felt in the distance like murmurs brought over by the wind. And slowly, my tiredness, the memories of a lost love, and the afternoon breeze drown me, and I finally fall asleep.

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Danielle Farley

Sentinels of LightNitid stars winking across the celestial vaultoversee like sentries a wasteland of asperityrousting life from its undulating deathscape.Yet from within the hollows of the dunesdefiant firelight reaches skyward,steadfast counterparts mirroring illuminationbeneath a silver sliver of moon,keeping faith overnight in the advent of sunburst.

Brandon Marlon

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I drowned the paper boatwhen the bathroom got too small

I told it watch thiswatch thisand it did not have eyesso I drowned itand saw the passengersmake their underwaterpilgrimage, their littleskirts blooming.

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Amelia Pitcherella

When I wrote Vermont for the first time since you left an apostrophe slipped between the n and tputting denial there

It is cold where you areor does not exist, what differenceshould it make now? I gota message from the ethersaying sorry so thicklyI coughed on itYou said you would takethe train to New Havenand from there I do notknow, stopped listening(what good that did menow that I am lookingfor a way to youand not stopping) when yousaid I deserve better whichwas not a lie, you made meswell then you went out tothe taxi or New EnglandThis morning I felt in mypost office box for youand my hand left withitself again (there are twoways I see you now:having forgotten me or

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Amelia Pitcherella

Untitled by Daniel de Culla

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SEE, I CAN MAKE PROPHECIES TOO

just scry dust and water stainsand shapes in mold. anyonewith a good head for symmetrycan tell the future, the pastsbent shadows take the bonesunloved into shapelessness.glyphs strung together are stories:a femur is a fortune is braille stippledbetween muscle and skin. oraclesays ive got family histories clottingmy blood and growing ghosts in my cerebral foldsinoperablelabyrinthine and riddled with mouthlike holes. how do shadowsmetastasize across an x-ray with theirancestors buried in my family plot?here are the godparents of your minotaurs and mine, collaboratively labeled and lost to, and here is you:product of pheromone scrutinyorchestrated by the ashen dead. youknow but dont know you know them.when they breathe, your borrowed sludge trickle memory kicks a musclein the body of some day distant in thepast, the dead divine the echoes inmy skin

(heres one)

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TIME OF DEATH: each wooden clackalong a Jacobs ladder stretchedfrom Precambrian cell to heat deathcrown, my name and yours bothwoven in.

Annie Rus

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Raspberry Stains on the edge of the garden

From the age of eight, every July,I would pluck a white bowl from the kitchen cabinet,and skip to the sliding glass door.Bare feet bouncing across the backyardto the edge of the garden, where the long grass stems stop and tiny toes tip into the dirt.The soil squishes and I bend, balancing next to the tangled raspberry bush,left by the last owner of our garden strip.Some years we grew melons and cucumbersand tomatoes, which I hated, but the raspberries,they were always there for me to pluck.

Every July, I teetered on the edge of the garden,wrapping my white wrists around woven branches and thornsthat occasionally pricked my knuckles and scratched my skin, beads of blood popping, leaving some scars that would fade before next summers harvest.I carefully grasped red raspberries between my pale, dirty fingertips, pulling them off their vines and plopping them into the white bowl,sometimes daring to toss them onto my tongue,if they were clean and ripe enough, where they would melt into the crevices of my mouth, and I would swallow the seeds,and then lick the rosy stains from my fingertips.

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Every July, I would run back to the sliding back door,holding out my white bowl of ripe red raspberrieslike the silver wine glass trays at church offerings,balancing them so that they would not tip and topple over.I rotated the bowl under a stream of crystal water from the sink,making sure all the dirt and bugs were washed out and drowned down the drain. I placed the dripping bowl in our big, silver fridge to keep the raspberries cooland ripe for as long as possible, this time, not knowing thatafter the bowl became empty besides for the red juice stains,the bush on the edge of our garden would shrivel, brown like the soil,and never grow me raspberries to pluck in July again.

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Paige Szmodis

Ascending by Angier Cooper

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Acknowledgements36

As always, Aux./Vox. would like to extend its gratitude to our contributors for their gorgeous submissions.

And especially to our readers, who continue to keep this ship afloat.

Thank you.