Thirteen Myna Birds

15.

The Death Season

There are butterflies
in the heart of May
so profound that
it feels alive.
Woe to the generic soul
whose reign only comes
once a year
and then resigns
over petty indifference.
And empty crop husks
fill with dreams
of old sad dog writers,
where books
that once fed his soul
are covered with dust,
and promises
of a world
where men eat
with furious intent
as the manufactured
family does
on Thanksgiving-
filled as pigs and ducks
before the slaughter.
Guts purging
and livers bulging
as moons on fire
shine down
and light a way
to doom.

Doom,
says the old dog
adjusting to the end.
His carpal tunnel inadequacies
make him
the greatest fool
of May
all the way to October-
for November death
is just thirty days
of empty sonnets,
and bile in the stomach
comes up so strong-
wanting change
with beautiful cryptic meanings
scribbled past the pages
and lost to the beyond.

~Davide Nixon~

(This poem also appears within the recent Blood Pudding Press poetry chapbook, "White Octopus" by Davide Nixon, available HERE - https://www.etsy.com/listing/1725376434/new-white-octopus-a-poetry-chapbook-by)

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14.

The Whippoorwill Screams

the whippoorwill screams
as the needles of the EKG
tell me what I am
as the tides of my heartbeat
give voice to my veins
the whippoorwill screams
to a sky full of cobwebs
over trees bare of feathers
as the monitors bleat
and lungs that haven’t learned yet
they’re no longer needed
bloom like flowers

~M.P. Strayer~

*

13.

TEMPORARY RONDEAU

She met time halfway. They agreed this time
wasn’t right. She rose, straightened her long spine,
set off for a science with no strict clocks
or counters. No point in waiting. She shocked
this universe enough. Time for fresh crimes.

Her heel slipped once as she reached up to climb
a vanishing ladder. She refused to mind
but pulled without time’s help, quick as a fox.
She met time halfway,

coming down, weighed by sorrow and false signs
that mean nothing now, since there’s no real time
to carve into motion. She wants to talk
but breath fails words. Stillness raises blocks
to her tiny thoughts. That’s precisely why
she meets time halfway.

~Mark J. Mitchell~

*

12.

HER FIRST LIFE AS A COFFEE BEAN

She grew inside a cherry. Warm and safe.
The sun, she’d think if she thought. The rich skin.
Her long stay. Or short. Then they pulled away
her twin. Dried them both. Air and dust. Next, fire.
In flames she recalled many cups. She knew
what brought her here. Then sacks—she must have sailed
somewhere, touching others like her. Fibers
scratched her flat, naked shape. She wore no skin
when they crushed her. Scalded. Began their brew.

~Mark J. Mitchell~

*

11.

A Boy Alive (God Awakens and Slumbers Here)

    Staring into the eyes of the beached whale. Eyes white, rolling backwards into the ivory skull. Grey flesh scraped and stripped by seabirds, split white to pink and purple, deep-down-red. The weight of the body crushing the ribcage emulsifying the lungs. Picking along the beach, the boy drags shiny polished pieces of driftwood and shells and seaglass across the sand. The boy will not be going home tonight, it is a day like any other.

    The stars rise in the East and the boy burns the salt-shined driftwood on the seashore. The rotting whale carcass reeking of magnificent death that permeates the unconscious mind and the boy is consumed by it. Salt crusts in the corner of his eyes and mouth and across his skin and he forms a shell like a sea urchin, spiny and untouchable. The smoke is acrid with salt and the wood burns and burns slow and black rises into the sky.

    How languid is sleep when dreams are tainted by the smell of rot and ugly unending death. Face prickled by sharp shimmering crystals of dried mineral and the sand in the underclothes, worming its way into all the easily-chafed areas of pink sensitive skin. The boy awakens sometime in the silvery blue night of crashing waves and reflected moon. Barnacles across the great-dead-ones bursting flesh grind their teeth in the night with a rasping that undertows the sound of salt-foam fizzing into nothingness and waves breaking their backs on one another.

    He lights the fire again from the embers and the salt-fire glows blue and lavender. The sun rises in its reds and oranges and sets the clouds aflame with pink and purples. The sky is burning down. The air burns in hues of the split flesh, the spaces between the clouds, the white fat blubber melting off of the skeleton-scaffolding of the chaotic yonder.

    The giant whale skeleton in the sky holds the Heavens from the Earth and the ether ripens.

    Fire to sand to blue skies. The waves break and shatter the isolating silence. The boy lays on his back as the great azure opens itself to him, fissuring in a seraphic blast of light.

    And the world is suddenly silent.

    In the silence, the waves still, the barnacles stop grinding teeth and the driftwood burns silently. The lilac flames rise and the smoke and soot blackens the flesh of the whale.

    The boy's voice rasps hungrily in a vacuum. He says something now, that no one hears, that is altogether insignificant, and has no bearing on anything whatsoever. The noiseless world ignores him, the canyon in the sky grows larger and brighter and the Heavens split.

    Something is coming.

    The welkin sky explodes with a racking explosion of trumpeting blares, the boy falls to his knees and covers his ears, yet his brain still rattles inside his skull. The world shakes and the sky cracks. Clefts form in the Earth.

    God wakes up.

    The boy is privileged to see the awakening of a God. He goes instantly blind at the sight of God, and deaf with the noise God makes as God rips through the Heavens.

    Unending white spider webbing tentacles race along the splitting fissures of the sky and the Earth, freeing itself. God crawls as an insatiable divine mass that overtakes all. The Pure and the Energy of the Galaxy of Everything leaves waste and a fate better than death to all the things that God once gave life, at no consequence to Itself, without notice. Gods' million eyes consume the Earth, and the unending ending universe all at once, and Its perception breaks the stratosphere of every orbiting mass in the galactic dynamo simultaneously. God stretches its webbing across every conceivable inch of every conceivable space and fills the Totality with Itself. For no reason in particular, God has chosen this moment to awaken. And it rends the Infinity apart menially– without desire, or need, or impulse.

    It just Is.

    It just Is.

    For no rhyme, or reason, instantly, the world ended today.

    It All ended today.

    Then It was finished yawning and the last of the atoms blinked into nothingness, It spread itself along a space comparable to the Totality of all Un-Creation and It made itself into Everything with no effort at all, and It said (in a sense), for its own entertainment only, of no consequence to anything at all:

    "Let there be light,"

    And there was light. God saw that the light was good, and It separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day," and the darkness it called "night." And there was evening, and there was morning-the first Day. And Time passed of no consequence, and nothing happened because it needed to, only because it could.

~Josey M.~

*

10.

small town death

small towns filled with ignorance and calamity.
rural bones submerged in deep country backwaters.
towns where everyone knows one another and
neighbors would eat you alive given the chance.
kids who don't know better,
live and die by the thrill of the high.
this is where the naughty pastor was
exiled for his own good, and where no one dare whisper.
in case it brings to life some horrible cursèd notion
that God has abandoned this place.
these small towns don't forgive.
this is a small town death.
unobserved in its violence.

an abandoned and decrepit church stands in a field of swaying yellow grasses.
the roof caved in, ripped open. the sky dropping down into its cavernous belly.
rotting wood and vandalized pews of beech.
where does this building end and the earth begin?
wood so old it has decomposed, repeating the cycle of nature, fused with the soil.
God has abandoned this place, he has abandoned us.
in this swaying field a little boy was beaten to death by older boys
for no reason in particular- for the thrill.
and coincidentally, the sherrif's son is a troublemaker.
small towns don't forgive.
on Halloween a disturbed little boy pikes a cow's head
on the gate outside the principal's house.
the devil has got these small town boys.
the devil himself has run wild these
small town, good Christian boys.

a rotting whale belly explodes on a desolate beach.
if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it
does it make a sound?
a boy cries for his mother in the hot and humid night,
a sinner this boy is, a sinner.
entangled in his best friend's arms on the roof of the highschool.
they were just looking at the stars.
bedrooms in empty houses while the parents are away and
in the backseats of gifted, past-life cars.
the boy cries for his mother the boy cries for forgiveness.
lonely boys, hungry boys, desperate boys.
the dark night was so lovely,
pale limbs and desperate hands.
the truck had only one headlight.
small towns don't forgive.
a sinner boy cries for his mother, on a hot and humid night.
he is alone and he cannot find anyone to help him.
his prayers remain unanswered.

a small town good Christian boy, repentant sinner boy, visits the Big City.
a place of contaminate, tar and grime.
a concrete jungle, full of people and lights and noise.
but observed in its violence.
he misses the buzz of the cicadas and the howl of coy wolves,
and the blessèd but complete silence.
they go to see a performance, the boy and his father.
it is the beginning of rapture, it is the beginning of enlightenment.
and for a moment the small town feels forever away.
the boy watches, yes, the boy watches and is cured by what he sees.
small towns don't forgive.
the sucking hungry silence of a thousand people holding their breath,
the darkness cloaking all but the stage.
a single actor, unparalleled in grief,
portrays what it is like to be so completely and totally alone.
small towns don't forget.
oh how this young boy will
learn what it is like to live and die by the thrill of the high.
and when he returns home, and his lover has self-destructed from loneliness,
he knows what he must do.
he must escape this small town, for
small towns don't forgive.

~Josey M.~

*

9.

THE BODY ELECTRIC

I

IT IS PROTEST. THE MIND. THE SOUL. THE BODY.
MAN PRAYS TO THE BODY ELECTRIC.
NEURONS FIRING FAST HARD ENDLESSLY. UNTIL DEATH.
THE BODY ELECTRIC.
I LOVE YOU BODY ELECTRIC.

ARMORED CABLES RUNNING OVER VIBRANT WOODLAND.
BUBBLING CREEKS AND CRUMBLING LIMESTONE OF THE RAILROAD BRIDGE.
THE HUMMING OF GODLY ELECTRICITY OVER NIGHTLY PEEPERS.
REMEMBRANCES OF CATCHING PUMPKINSEED AND BLUEGILL.

A BASS GASPING ON SHORE– HOOKED THROUGH THE GILLS–
SHAKING HANDS WRESTLE RUSTED, SEIZING PLIER–      TWIST.
            GIVE UP.         FIND SOMETHING HEAVY.          CRUSH THE SKULL.
MUCUS,          MUD,            AND TEARS.               BLOOD.          BLOOD.         BLOOD.

SETTING SUN. FRAGMENTED BRICKWORK. I LOVE YOU BODY ELECTRIC. TWISTED RUSTED TRAIN LINE. REINFORCED CABLE. WHINING MOSQUITOES. SMELL OF DEATH. BURNED OUT AUTOMOBILE SKELETON. MARY SHELLEY’S WET DREAM. WIRE SHEATHED LIKE NEURONS. SINEW. JOINTS. SOCKETS. FLESH. TENDON. BONE. TEAR. REND. SACRIFICE. RETURN. PRAY.

THE BODY ELECTRIC.      THE MIND ELECTRIC.

THE REVELATORY ELECTRIC.

II

GOD BLESS THE BODY, ELECTRIC!
LIVE WIRE, RECLINATION IN DEATH, INDUSTRIALIZATION OF THE RUIN, FORD LIGHTNING, THE RAPID ASSEMBLY LINE, MAN-BUILT CAPITALIST PARADISE.
THE ELECTRIC QUEEN LIVES IN STRINGS OF COPPER AND IN MACHINATIONS OF STEEL!
THE LOCOMOTIVE SPIRIT RUNS GREAT AMERICA AND BECKONS US!

PRAY TO THE BODY ELECTRIC!
ON YOUR KNEES FOR THE BODY ELECTRIC!
BURN THE FOREST TO STUMP AND BUILD A HIGHRISE OF ASHES!
PARADE OUR VICTORY OVER NATURE, MY BODIES! CLAIM YOUR RIGHTFUL, MY BODIES!

A HYMENAL OF THE CORPSE!
A KIERKEGAARDIAN DREAD! SUFFERING! PAIN! TRAGEDY! DISASTER! ANXIETY! NEUROSIS! DESPAIR!
HOLY LIGHTNING! VISIONS OF GOD! GIDEON THE MIGHTY WARRIOR, BE CLEANSED!
PRAY TO THE BODY AND THE MIND ELECTRIC!

III

THE OLD GODS ARE DEAD AND THE NEW GODS RISE FROM HUMAN PROGRESS!
STRING UP MAN ON STEEL WIRING! A STRAW MAN OF MODERN SIN!
A MONUMENT TO THE CHANGE! THE BODY ELECTRIC!
A MODERN CRUCIFIXION! GARROTE THE SINNER!
WIRE CUT INTO FLESH CARVE THROUGH SINEW TIGHTEN AROUND BONE SNAP IT INTO A MILLION SHARDS!

SELF-IMMOLATION! PROTEST FOR THE PEACE AND THE GOOD OF THE FREE NATION! MAKE A DIFFERENCE!
RALLY IN FRONT OF THE PARAMILITARY!
STONEWALL! BERLIN! RED SQUARE! ETCETERA! ETCETERA!

A SHATTERED DEER BLEATS DESPERATELY IN A ROADSIDE DITCH.
A STARVING HYENA TEARS A CALF OUT FROM THE BODY OF ITS MOTHER.
A NEW LION KING TURNS ON THE UNSIRED CUBS OF THE PRIDE.

MEN JUMP IN FRONT OF BULLET TRAINS, THROWING THEMSELVES UPON THE ELECTRIC TRACKS,
IN ABSOLUTE TERROR AND SOME IN MARTYRDOM PROTEST OF THE INSTITUTION.
ECOTERRORISTS SPLASH PAINT ON PRICELESS ART-WORKS AND
BOMB METHYL BROMIDE PALLET PROCESSING FACTORIES WITH SPIDERWEB FERTILIZER EXPLOSIVES.

GETTING SHOT IN THE HEAD FOR CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE TAKES PRECEDENCE OVER SIT-INS AND
ECOTAGE, TREE SPIKING, MONKEYWRENCHING, ARSON.
THE TROOP-EDIFICE IS DISILLUSIONMENT, THE ESTABLISHMENT HAS ITS TEETH IN THEM TOO DEEP.
CURSE THIS BODY, ELECTRIC!
THIS TRANSHUMANIST CONDITION–
            BODY,
            MY BODY–      ELECTRIC!

~Josey M.~

*

8.

Forgiveness is a Pretty Word

You look me in the eye
Stab me in the chest and say
It’s my fault
I handed you the knife

Forgiveness is a pretty word

You pull it out
You dress the wound
And ask me to trust your friend

Forgiveness is a pretty word

Your friend stabs me in the chest
Pulls out the knife
And dresses the wound

Forgiveness is a pretty word

You claim to make amends
and I encase myself in steel
I can’t hurt like this again

Forgiveness is a pretty word

~Paula Cary~

*

7.

The Woman Who Cried PROTEST

FIRE FIRE FIRE

She cries daily
hourly, nightly

Fire, she tells us to aim
Our extinguishers
Gather ‘round
With words and bully the mayor

As soon as we point at the flames
She runs

Runs away

Cries again
FIRE FIRE FIRE

Calls us away
The first fire remains
Growing larger in our abandonment

We aim at the next one
Mouths drawn to echo
everything she says

Before we can speak up
Speak out about the crimes
Against the marginalized
She runs to the next

FIRE FIRE FIRE

The world around her is burning

We try to keep up

Where is she going

All the other fires
are still burning

The fires grow larger
Because we can’t stay
long enough to make a change

We just point and shout
FIRE FIRE FIRE
No water, no resources
No coordinated action

FIRE FIRE FIRE

OVER THERE

FIRE FIRE FIRE

OVER HERE

FIRE FIRE FIRE

I stop and look behind me
The crowd runs after her
I turn and walk away

It’s time to go home
To protect my soul
From the burn
of their self-proclaimed
righteousness

~Paula Cary~

*

6.

Soul of Man

There is an ugliness to the soul of man.
It runneth straight and six bottoms deep,
even in the noblest of them.

Yet, for a rare, few individuals,
no apparent ugliness inhabits
their soul’s castle keeps.

But with the ebbing of
each timeless tide,
close introspection reveals
the clandestine lies.

Upon my confession,
I wish I could die.
Within all men,
be it whale-like or fry,
resides the damning
essence of Jekyll and Hyde.

~Daniel G. Snethen~

*

5.

R.I.P. Gary Johnson

It was Halloween and It,
by the dozens, descended
upon a quaint little Missouri town.

The wizened old man,
a staunch Catholic
alienated by his grandson’s
insistence of transgendering.

He refused to call her Lilly,
disinheriting her from his will.

Lilly was hurt,
became indifferent,
spiteful and filled with hatred.

She knew his great fear of clowns,
especially of Pennywise
and she knew It would
destroy him,
especially in his frail condition.

Lilly engaged all of her friends
to don the trappings
of this cosmic clown.

It knocked upon his door
peered through the windows,
all of them—simultaneously,
chanting “trick or treat”
in maniacal surround clown sound.

On the third of November,
Authorities found him
in rigor mortis clutching,
with gnarled fingers,
at his chest.

His pants fouled and wet.
Two dogs whimpering
at his feet and a single lily
clenched between his teeth.

~Daniel G. Snethen~

*

4.

Yellow Clown

The yellow clown
was found lying dead
on the center of the floor
of the vacated department store.

The body removed,
the potential crime scene secured,
I found myself staring
out across the concrete floor.

Turning to leave, my eyes
caught a glimpse of a yellow cylinder
standing upright, catawampus
from the chalked clown outline on the floor.

The cylinder was metallic
with several pinholes
evenly distributed
throughout its walls.

Closer inspection revealed
a lid or cap with a golden spider
etched upon its polished surface.

Further investigation determined
the lid could be removed
and another smaller more yellow
cylinder nestled inside.

It too was perforated
with precise precision.
An etched golden spider
perfectly centered on cap.

Seven times I conducted this ceremony,
each cylinder a different yellow,
each with a precision etched spider.

In front of me the eighth nesting chamber.
Carefully I removed its three-inch cap.
Nestled within, a yellow spider
with a clown face upon its abdomen.

I found myself mesmerized by the grinning
of the clown. I wanted to touch the spider
to see if it were dead, and then it suddenly
turned Its grinning abdominal head.

~Daniel G. Snethen~

*

3.

I Sketch You Love Letters

I sketch you love letters
lines and verse in a dancing calligraphy of worship and abandon
dewdrop cyphers back and forth and up and curlicue and down
gone and there again upon the leas of bumplings chasing each other across
the electric canvas of your skin
odes and arias dribbled and teased over ridge and bead and slick and yawning mouth
with the fleet-winged and fevered brushstrokes of my tongue

~M.P. Strayer~

*

2.

For house cats & Artaud__

Just outside my window
Starlings trill & tempt
House cats

Who dream all day long
Of leaping from porch
Roof

To catch one winged
Critter

& bring it back to the din
The nature of things

The offering to companions
The hunt sacred life gift

Sustaining all and their return
The cyclical madness of existence

Only the Starlings & the cats seem
To know the futile philosophies

Of men are as foolish as windows
-----

~Merritt Waldon~

*

1.

Oracles for my grandmother from tea leaves__for Her & A. Sexton

Messages from other realities
Seem to teem from vague portals

The stars dance tonight like the
Way she walks after midnight

When i smoke a lot times i think
About Anne Sexton

I think of my paternal grandmother
Leola Fox

As i sit smoking & drinking hot tea
And scrying my DNA

Comparing micro to macro
Laughing at fate and destiny

Knowing that mutations exist
Knowing that the poem persists

Like lightning in veins
Thunder in heart beats

I am
Fluid rivers of furious
Transmissions
Am i
Getting through
Are there any ears

Are there any who seek oracle
Or dharmas from strange fires

Smoldering vapors of lovely
Music from yet to be known
Places
----

~Merritt Waldon~