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summer 2015

About Aux./Vox.
Aux./Vox. is an independent literary magazine founded in 2014
by Max Bicking, Annie Rus, Dominick Knowles, and Brian
We focus on experimental and traditional prose, verse, and
visual art. This is our third issue.
Submissions are rolling and may be sent to
Past and current issues can be found at our wesbite:
Like our Facebook page for frequent updates and general news
from the editors desks:
Cover design by Sean Dolan.
In memory of Dr. C. Dallett Hemphill.
This issue is further dedicated to the extraordinary perseverance
of her surviving family, especially Evan Hill--a friend, a brother,
and a rock.

Featured in Aux./Vox Summer 2015.:
Glen Armstrong
Zooey Cox
Daniel de Culla
Isabella Esser-Munera
Lauren Geiger
Sarah Gow
Mitchell Grabois
John Kilduff
Dominick Knowles
Mara Koren
Juan David Lopez Velez
Brandon Marlon
Amelia Pitcherella
Annie Rus
Paige Szmodis
Visual Art:
Angier Cooper
Daniel de Culla
Sean Dolan
Danielle Farley

Tunnel by Danielle Farley

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.

Glen Armstrong

scribble anything
on receipt pages
ticker tape
false backs to closets
before they find you
save the paper
for burning;
face the heat
and the yearning
face the falsities of
urban living
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
fall, falling, fallen
swiftly fluid
ever changing
into the tightest pants

you can find
and the brightest
polish for your soul
mother said no today
no to the polish
and to the soul
to the tight jeans
and free dresses
to the me and the you
father lacks understanding
he needs briefings
for visits
for departures which are often
two steps twice
first back,
then forward
side to side
and then down
into bed and off to sleep
I oscillate here
none define me

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

Zooey Cox

On Haikus
Wiped her eyes
And walked over bedroom
A dog in the door.
Soul without Light
Staring beneath a dream
A dismal day.
Woman sent the kid
To school clapping her hands
Flowers from peasants.
The boat was simply
Little girl slapped it
Stamp postmarked.
Year pass by side
There is something I must
Licking up rope.

Daniel de Culla

1B by Sean Dolan

giant crickets

giant crickets
go slinking round the corners of your room like
shadows or curtains
they 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

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 eves
and burned red wood-ticks with kerosene.
Anke who chopped down fir trees
as thistles ripped her dungarees.
Anke of the stolen felling axe
and the Feud of 1966
of 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.

Lauren Geiger

a dream you lived
in an old blue house
of wildflowers
and broken windows.
the sunken porch:
woods of white pine
and an old man white beard
who waved from the tree line,
then vanished.
glass cicada.
You swan-dived from the stoop
and swooped above the elm trees.
Your opals
/ wings melted
to sun,
dripped sand
to sky
as wind blew
dry leaves
the windows.
Lauren Geiger

The Doves
Heaven hangs in the snow.
The quiet before the first foot print
pressed on our lips
like the icy fingers of the
grandmother who you were
named after but never met.
He tells us death is cold but
at least it reminds us we were
once the coating on the arms
of the dead tree branches like
our children and the ones
who first looked back
at their foot prints to see
where they had been.
I dont think there are foot prints
anymore up there and
maybe the birds that fly
through the squall can tell us
that snow will never stop
collecting on our wings
like mangled branches.
Its as if sparrows have never
frozen and fallen to earth like relics
for us to find and ask if there
were ever angels or
if He just laid on his back
and spread his arms to pretend
he could conjure an army
like a dictator. Instead He

lay to look at his own sky
and ask if the snow was white enough
this time for all his sculptors down there.
There were dove wings on my
window and they werent
like hands, they were like
lips pressed and a letting loose a light burst of
And the day closed like
white flyleaf pages at the end
of Malachi where He wrote
in blood
to form puddles of milk.
And the day began the same
with my face that melts snow
and my hands that try to
arrange it but never
make an angel before
it melts.

Sarah Gow

Im in a swamp of toxins
in the unregulated American South
Somewhere through water lies Panama
Somewhere through water lies
where East German
and Bulgarian swimmers
fill their bodies with steroids
and threaten to overthrow me
Im on the medal stand
and wont get off
Brutal men will have to drag me off
I am golden
forever golden

Mitchell Grabois


Untitled by Daniel de Culla

#birdman it might have had to do with where
I saw it..on a red eye sitting next to someone who appeared 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 chamberlain smashed up auto sculpture....the movie was on
those TV screens that are on the back of the
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 decided to play possum with my niehbor and close my eyes
to sleep ....which I did at some 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 sleeping....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 Florida .....anyway...the movie sucked...why was #michaelkeaton up for an #oscar ? He was stumbling all over the #edwardnorton made so evidently clear...btw...
Norton wins best use of cod 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)

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

Ode to the House of Joy
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.
The house smells
Vaguely of filmy cooking
Oil. The ceilings would be
Comfortable for the worlds
Tallest man, and the furniture
Is all hard springs, but in
A stoic sort of way. By the door
Is a white cat, and she rubs her
Head against the back of my hand.
Anna, Mom, and I sing
Together on the purple couch,
While outside the evening blooms
Turquoise. We sing,
You have always
Walked in beauty,

That is what I see.
At night we crunch across the lawn to
Send off paper lanterns,
And watch as the wind carries
Them a little too strongly,
Until at last we see the golden
Pin-point of one fall
And disappear beyond the trees.
When a siren starts in the distance
We decide lanterns werent such a
Good idea after all.
Coyotes call in the night
While I am cramped on
The two cushion couch, my
Back to the back and my
Eyes to the dark room.
Ben and Sam breathe in
Sleep, and I listen, gloriously
Scared and awake to hear
The coyotes and the creaks of
The old house.
On our last night,
After Jims spiritually transcendent
Macaroni and cheese,
Nanny brings out the slide projector. -

There is Nanny, 50 years younger,
But with the same smile,
Arched eyebrows, and stunning posture.
There is Poppy with thick-rimmed
Glasses, argyle socks. There he is
In jean shorts and in THE RED SPEEDO!
Everyone screams. There are Amy
And 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 Al
Ever combed his hair.
After the slides,
The grown Huckabee children
Sit around the living room.
On instinct I am sad to see them
So apart from their younger selves in the
Color slides, where everyone always
Smiles, and no one knows the future.
But of course, they are only
Perfect in retrospect.
This was our last time in the big
Yellow house in Loveland Ohio,
And I could waste away on
Sentimentality alone. But we have
Pictures, and stories.
Time has told us we will remember

All that is important.
Someday, when the Huckabee children
Are grandparents, we will set up
The 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 Dinner
In the room with the green carpet
And the huge round table?
Our children will look at us in
The slides, and they will not know
Of our uncertainties. They will say,
Look at how beautiful
They all are, in that big
House of Joy.

Mara Koren


Untitled by Sean Dolan

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

La 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.

Juan David Lopez Velez


Danielle Farley

Sentinels of Light

Nitid stars winking across the celestial vault

oversee like sentries a wasteland of asperity
rousting life from its undulating deathscape.
Yet from within the hollows of the dunes
defiant firelight reaches skyward,
steadfast counterparts mirroring illumination
beneath a silver sliver of moon,
keeping faith overnight in the advent of sunburst.

Brandon Marlon

I drowned the paper boat
when the bathroom got too small
I told it watch this
watch this
and it did not have eyes
so I drowned it
and saw the passengers
make their underwater
pilgrimage, their little
skirts blooming.

Amelia Pitcherella

When I wrote Vermont for the first time since you
an apostrophe slipped between the n and t
putting denial there
It is cold where you are
or does not exist, what difference
should it make now? I got
a message from the ether
saying sorry so thickly
I coughed on it
You said you would take
the train to New Haven
and from there I do not
know, stopped listening
(what good that did me
now that I am looking
for a way to you
and not stopping) when you
said I deserve better which
was not a lie, you made me
swell then you went out to
the taxi or New England
This morning I felt in my
post office box for you
and my hand left with
itself again (there are two
ways I see you now:
having forgotten me or

Amelia Pitcherella


Untitled by Daniel de Culla

just scry dust and water stains
and shapes in mold. anyone
with a good head for symmetry
can tell the future, the pasts
bent shadows take the bones
unloved into shapelessness.
glyphs strung together are stories:
a femur is a fortune is braille stippled
between muscle and skin. oracle
says ive got family histories clotting
my blood and growing ghosts in my
cerebral foldsinoperable
labyrinthine and riddled with
mouthlike holes. how do shadows
metastasize across an x-ray with their
ancestors 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 scrutiny
orchestrated by the ashen dead. you
know but dont know you know them.
when they breathe, your borrowed
sludge trickle memory kicks a muscle
in the body of some day distant in the
past, the dead divine the echoes in
my skin
(heres one)


TIME OF DEATH: each wooden clack

along a Jacobs ladder stretched
from Precambrian cell to heat death
crown, my name and yours both
woven in.

Annie Rus

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 backyard
to 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 cucumbers
and 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
that 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
into the crevices of my mouth, and I would swallow the
and then lick the rosy stains from my fingertips.

Every July, I would run back to the sliding back door,
holding out my white bowl of ripe red raspberries
like 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 cool
and ripe for as long as possible, this time, not knowing
after the bowl became empty besides for the red juice
the bush on the edge of our garden would shrivel, brown
like the soil,
and never grow me raspberries to pluck in July again.

Paige Szmodis


Ascending by Angier Cooper


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.

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