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Mike Beruski Berube’s Three Beers For: Practicing the Dark Arts

 

Three nights back upon a levy,
I drank a tall but great Wee Heavy,
while I pondered glass and barrel of ales no more.
I thought my beer a bit too heady,
but decided to hold steady,
quoth the barman “gently pour.”

Okay, so I will probably leave the poems to the rest of the contributors from now on but secretly I’m hoping that Poe can peer through the void on this night of all nights to find some enjoyment in what I have written as much as I have found his poem “Lines on Ale”. Tonight is Halloween and I found it appropriate or perhaps inappropriate to find the perfect beer for practicing the dark arts. Our three selections from the brewers cauldron are Weyerbacher Heresy, Brasserie Dieu du Ciel! Rigor Mortis ABT, and Founders Devil Dancer.

 

Photo by Mike Berube

 

Weyerbacher Heresy is an imperial stout aged in whiskey barrels. Heresy is black with a thick tan head highlighted with a slight ruby color. At 8% abv this concoction is sweet and strong with whiskey flavor. Much of the stout character is lost as the whiskey left in the barrel overwhelms any roasted character that may have been part of the original grain bill. I find whiskey barrel aged beers to be hit or miss and in this case mostly a miss. Although I do find it has it merits and is actually enjoyable I feel that little character that lets me know I’m drinking beer remains.

 

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Our second potion is Rigor Mortis ABT from Brasserie Dieu du Ciel! An abbey-style brown ale that tops in at 10.5%. This brew is dark brown quad with malt forward but well balanced sweetness. Little to no hop character is present and no residual sweetness is detected. I find Rigor Mortis ABT to be smooth and drinkable which is a feat considering the abv. The flavor profile finishes with a slight Belgian yeast character and a nice chocolate note.

 

Photo by Mike Berube
Photo by Mike Berube

 

Our final but biggest selection is Founders Devil Dancer, 12% triple IPA that boasts the use of 10 hop varieties contributing to a hefty 112 IBUs. The color is impressive reminding me of dark ruby and the head is presented in a thin white lace. The malt and hop character are extremely well balanced which is surprising considering the bitterness and hop usage. The biggest detractor to this elixir is the slight medicinal taste that is likely contributed by the high alcohol content.

So which spooky filter is best to enjoy while practicing the dark arts? Although I don’t think I could drink it daily, my choice is Rigor Mortis ABT.

Boo!

 

Mike Berube is a beer lover who has the belief that there are good beers, there are bad beers, and then there is the right beer. He has begun a quest to find the perfect for every situation.

 

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Poem by Patricia Gomes

 

Banner design © TJ Edson
Banner design © TJ Edson

 

Hanging Upside Down Under the Eaves

Tis summer
and I wilt,
wilt,
wilt,
droop, bake—it’s all the same
shade
of yellow. Parch,
parched,
parchment. Arid, oven-dry
redundancy.

Hate it.

Abhor it.

Loath it.

I wear your summer and war
minute-by-minute,
second-by-second
to strip away its damp clinging shroud.

Noise!
Tinny, the sounds of three-quarter year.
Children, multitudes of children shriek
their short-lived, home-at-dark freedom.
In their pleas for lemonade and gushing sprinklers
I hear the menacing caw of the Crow.
Harsh, harsh and ugly. Bells—
whiny, miserly bleats
from ice cream trucks, and whistles…
bells and whistles, bells and whistles and shrieks
pierce the eardrums until I hide
my pounding head ‘neath
heaps of dark swathing. Black,
black and cool, black and cool and

the road
beckons under first-quarter moon.
The moon speaks, the moon sings:
Travel west to October.
October is slumber, October is wings.
Give flight, o’ tenth-month
and I will follow October
‘round and ‘round again
seeking answers
to my birth and medical conditions.
Usher was my father’s name,
my mother’s
Nevermore.

 

Currently the Poet Laureate of New Bedford, Massachusetts, Patricia Gomes is the creator of the Octologue, an 8-line syllabic form of poetry. She has been published in countless literary journals and anthologies, both in print and electronically. An award winning poet and author, Ms. Gomes is the author of four chapbooks. Performing her work extensively throughout the New England area, she also conducts workshops for adults, students, and children.

 

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Into Your Art Spotlight: Sadie Barbosa

 

Oddball Magazine is happy to sponsor and promote Into Your Art’s Live Art Event happening November 7 at Hibernian Hall in Roxbury. Join us for a wonderful night celebrating the brightest of Boston. For the next two weeks, we are introducing you to the electrifying performers that are going to bless the stage two weeks from now. Visit the event’s Facebook page for further information.

 

 

Sadie Barbosa is owner of Divine Treasures Jewelry. She began making metaphysical jewelry in 2012 after being inspired by the many people selling raw material jewelry solely for economic survival. She is a strong believer that nature heals all, so incorporating this ideology along with copper, metals, wood, semi- precious stones, shells, turquoise, crystals, rocks and other natural elements, helps to induce the wearer with naturalistic powers.

 

Ticket Prices

In ADV: General $20 & Students $15
At Door: General $25 & Students $20

 

into yourart

 

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Into Your Art Spotlight: Wayne Morin

 

Oddball Magazine is happy to sponsor and promote Into Your Art’s Live Art Event happening November 7 at Hibernian Hall in Roxbury. Join us for a wonderful night celebrating the brightest of Boston. For the next two weeks, we are introducing you to the electrifying performers that are going to bless the stage two weeks from now. Visit the event’s Facebook page for further information.

 

Wayne 1

Wayne Profile

 

Wayne Morin/HERT is a acrylic, aerosol, ink, sketch, sculpt, & mixed media artist. A lover of drawing his entire life around 16 years old he become interested in street art. He then started to use acrylic painting on canvas but maintaining the street cartoon style. Now you can find Wayne on Newbury St in Boston selling art.

 

Ticket Prices

In ADV: General $20 & Students $15
At Door: General $25 & Students $20

 

into yourart

 

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Poem by Donal Mahoney

 

Banner design © TJ Edson
Banner design © TJ Edson

 

Man at the Bus Stop on Halloween

The others, of course,
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he’s snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He’s one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
then stands like a Vatican Guard
with the wrist in his teeth
until he is certain
he has no pursuers.
At night in his dreams he sees
the women whose wrists
he has held in his teeth.
They stand at the bus stop
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving
their stumps like flares.
He prays their screams
will bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street.

 

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

 

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It’s All One Thing #52: Monsters of the Deep (All One thing II)

 

When we were kids, regularly, nature turned on herself in the radioactive glow
of those nuclear family Mom and Pop times and grew into various stages of
                                                                                         giganticism:
giant ants, giant dinosaurs, giant gorillas, even a giant woman to match
(I guess) a giant man who must be found to be her giant, monstrous mate.
Certainly that was quite a large man, indeed, in that frogman suit you saw
jump into the scary depths of that dismal dark Black, Black Lagoon.
And it was a very, very large Blob ready to eat the whole of the last small town
in one huge influx of acidic gall in a digestive orgy of post-war development.
In those days we took our time making our own fast food and it cost much less
on multiple levels both split level and what we paid with our arteries and hearts.
Yes, it was all so much simpler divine when so much so many now think important
was not even really imagined yet much less an, oh, too really probable possibility.
We could argue about anything at all and no one could prove anything until later.
We often stayed up late at night for no other very real reason except to talk.
We wandered around the house playing games and interacting with each other
while the old idiot box talked to itself in the corner where we had left it to its own
                                                                                        devices.
Here at the other end of life it’s like they think they’re the only game left in town
and we can’t possibly have a brain in our heads if they don’s tell us what to think.
They commit one crime against humanity after another and pass them off as if they
were a virtuous circle patting themselves on the back about all the wealth they create
and what a great seamless garment district of sweat shop factories and fatal toxic and
instantly obsolete baubles to hold in front of us as Ponzi scheme bubbles and boarding
house reach into every pocket of resistance which only grows as the thought machines,
all tactic and technique, tell us what to think about what they already told us
and its all under the umbrella of national insecurity which trumps human rights,
accountability (especially) and, of course, (perish the thought) justice never justice
because you can be assured you will never get any justice at the heavens forbid Justice
                                                                                                                    Dept.
And the Supreme Court which in my youth became a respected institution when it
finally ended Plessy vrs. Ferguson is again what it always was before a rubber stamp
for corporate and libertarian wish fulfillment that selects a president who lost the election
and makes persons of government created fictions and is naturally racist in its racial
                                                                                                                  blindness.
I t would be purely fascist except at least Hitler conquered territory and everyone got jobs
And now they treat the people’s pensions as if it were a carnival auction as the wages keep falling and falling
and all the jobs are contingent, part time, and/or temporary.
Oh, what a wonder now that we’re all free agents and the draft is economic and we all
have so many choices and there it is: the economic and legal pincer action —The Bush/
Cheney Regime and It’s All One Thing, Obama and Harvard and the Federalist Society,
The Global War on Terror (GWOT) and Structural Readjustment,
All One Thing All, One thing All One Neo-liberal –Neo Classical Thing,
All One Gigantic Monstrous Thing

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. Today marks his one year anniversary as a poet columnist for Oddball Magazine.