The First Flock of Myna Birds for 2016!


Phantasmata #7

She came out from under the bed
like all good monsters
fingers twig bracken
wood handle wrists
pointed a brass tac at my cheek
raised a ball peen hammer
to mingle dexterity
and air lightning
sliced the earth



Phantasmata #9

She came out from under the bed
too many legs swiveled over
turpentine and oak
follow these directions:
left broken
right broken
forward questionable
squid ink mixed  heavy
watery implode



Phantasmata #10

She came out from under the bed
hunkered over my ribcage,
a stoning torso on torso
how could she emulate me
A pitcher poured sight and sound
I closed my eyes to keep the future out
breath stopped and began with her
the smiling pictures on walls, cracked

~Jennifer MacBain-Stephens~



Phantasmata #11

She came out from under the bed
a rock chained to her neck,
wrists bound
a glistening  slash across cheek
The slash leaked salt
it isn’t me          it isn’t me
I did not raise the knife
she would not leave my kneecaps alone
she could not comprehend
how we bend and do not break



the floral witch laments the end of another summer.

the tea leaves
at the bottom of my mug read of a
thunder cloud behind glassy eyes

they tell of the coldness
seeping in through closed doors
how early winter has come this year

i plead with tarot
to show me death or the
iv of wands but all i ever pull are
hierophant or reversed hanged man and i

can feel it in my bones
something sleeps inside my gut
begging to make meal of tenacity

and i am so
worried winter will
hallow my bones
empty my rib cage
read my tea leaves wrong

leaving nothing but a haunting of



i’m sorry i ruined the tobias jesso jr. concert.

You ask me
to describe my sadness -
“paint it on the blood moon, love,
so I’ll know what it is I am dealing with,”

but here’s the thing:
my sadness
is a grab-bag of clichés.

My sadness
is a barbed wire fence;
is a wilted peach;
is a fistful of mud;
is a bad hair day;
is a goddamn brick wall;
is the textbook definition of boring.

I imagine an alternate universe
where you get to love someone

who doesn’t cry in public due to
so much sensitivity flooding her veins;

who does not envy all this happy
on strangers’ stupid mugs;

who hasn’t tattooed the word
“sorry” across her forehead.

The blood moon cries:
the world thinks her beautiful
but doesn’t take note how she shows
her innards at every autumn’s turn.

We are both trying
to get a grip on things.

If only people
would stop marveling
at every eclipse
we craft
when really we are just
finger painting
our boring sadness,
hoping we
don’t ruin the moment



conversations over coffee #263.

My father reasons:

You don’t have depression.
Your legs are far too strong.

You have not constructed a cabin from your bed; your
existence not confined to soft sheets and tear soaked pillows.

I’ve never known you to hold a serrated edge and cry lunacy.
Such a bubbly personality, if only you’d grin
more often. It would make you feel
better. Do not call your unrest
depression when you

clearly do not even know what your vocabulary sounds like.

He says all this through a laugh, as if poking
fun at my attitude will hide the fact his
child suffers from a mental illness - a sweet, little lie in his eyes.

I use terms like
“walking depression”
“functional depression”
“zombie depression”
in hopes he will begin to understand

the dragging of feet and numbness in head;
how the task of showing up
will never be an issue, but that does not mean
my body is not screaming on the inside

and he always replies:

Well now you’re just making up words.



on the nights i cannot bring myself to
lick the crumbs off my fingers.

most days i try to find the perfect metaphor
to describe my body like
it’s that simple
paint it in poetic subtext
so it must be true

all these words claiming my body is
a china plate is
a dumbbell is
a sinking ship is
a meteor shower is
a wishing well but

last i checked
my body is
a body

all bone rubble and crying muscles
the arteries routing through flesh
dotted freckles kissing wrists and hips

my body is just as complex as the body
it shares a bed with the body it speaks to
in the office the body it does not
smile at on the street the
body it downs a beer with at day’s end

there is nothing and everything poetic
about trying to survive
in these bodies we do not understand

most days my body is a body
but therein lies the problem

some days my body wishes
it could be
anything else

~Julia Gaskill~




I want to choke you,
he whispered against my head,
his hands moving leisurely
to my neck.

~Kristen Williamson~



Sleeping with the Enemy

I lied in bed
with the feeling of defeat
sleeping silently next to me.

~Kristen Williamson~



Sketch Comedy

Touch my penis.
And I will rub your vagina.
We’ll either enjoy it or we won’t.
That’s how the cookie often crumbles when your mouth is filled with milk and despair.

We were going nowhere fast so I put on the breaks just to see what would happen.
I’ll never forget watching as you went through the windshield and the sickly pangs of joy I felt as the delicate creature you once were became indelicate and indisposed.   
When I got out of the car I couldn’t believe how sexy you still were and how the whole mangled and mashed thing worked for you.

Stroke my issues of low self-esteem.
And I will somehow reach your candy center before you become sour and muted.
You always had this off-kilter way of making me feel brand new when my thrift store body and second hand intellect had had enough and there was no point going on, especially when our love had taken a detour and I was tired of all those three ways you were becoming enmeshed in.
That’s how the femme fatale breaks when her eyes are bigger than her stomach and her legs will only bend so far back before they snap like insubordinate twigs or sugar free candy canes.

I used to believe we would make it through no matter the harsh conditions swirling around us like Frosty the Snowman with a crystal meth problem or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with a nose so bright that the PoPo knows exactly where to look when rounding up the usual suspects.
Some people cannot get enough cowbell while I’ve learned less is most definitely more, especially when it’s next to impossible training your significant other to play all of the parts in your next sketch comedy.
You cannot make someone do something just because you demand it of them unless you’re a dictator and what fun is there in that if you always know what the outcome will be and genocide becomes just another over played hand you’ll most likely get tired of once everyone has gone up in smoke.



To Jo-Jo Sai

On Valentine’s Day
girls jump
from buildings
and land on
beds of flowers.
Sometimes when
pink roses bloom
they ooze glitter,
and spit powdered make-up.
Sometimes if you burn
pink roses
they turn black
and begin to smell
like rotten heart candy.
They have to be painted
with gallons of nail polish
to cover its

What exactly are
girls supposed to do
once they leap
onto the flowers
which were once so
full of hope?
Do they become a smeared kiss
on the side walk
for people to look
over in dismay?
Do you marry
into the sea of roses
and put on war paint
so thickly
that it becomes impossible
to see your fears?

~Davide Nixon~



The White Party

I see a gourd
surrounded by
pretentious party goers
hoping for
a round or two
of what such thickness
the squash has
to offer.
Virgins dance
around it
spitting glitter-nothings
all the while
keeping it at
like some tempestuous
waiting to reject
their pure hearts.

Was Truman Capote
really that pretentious
or was his voice just
cautiously high?
Are people really
that drawn to a prick
to give up
meaning to a fucking façade.
“This is the white party”
says a party pooper
filled with the gourd
and saying what is expected.
We drown in
a sea of black balloons
crowded by a helium voice
smothering our wishful heads.
“This is the white party.”

~Davide Nixon~


  1. Awesome poetry on this page! I especially like 'Evidence.' Thanks for the inclusion with such talent!

  2. Thank you for being within the flock.

  3. So many great poets. I love what you guys are all about. On a scale of one to ten, Myna is a thirteen! Looking forward to the next issue.

  4. It's an honor to be included. Thank you.

  5. Thank YOU. Feel free to submit again in the future.

  6. I really love this and hope you will continue this series. Thank you for asking. This is exciting!

  7. Thank you Charles. You should also feel free to submit in the future, with any poems you think might fit. You know what the title and the cover derive from, right? Lynchian-ness. :)

  8. Proud to be associated with your beautiful journal. Thank you Juliet for the publication.

    1. Thank you for being a part of it, Debasis.

  9. Juliet, thank you for including me here. I really enjoy the diversity. In this grouping I particularly enjoyed Erin Renee Wahl's #4 piece, "Adhesive Climax."

  10. These are all great, "Shake Awake the Sandman" in particular.

  11. So lucky to be in this flock with the rest of these amazing poets. You've created the most bada$$ of poetry communities here, Ms. Juliet. Love my fellow poets!

  12. What a wonderful series of poetry! I feel lucky to have been part of this flock! Thanks so much for including me!