Thirteen Myna Birds


"Eating donuts in an alternate universe"




Old Journals


Written for snow, slippery

sidewalks, storefront windows

(the geometric sun in fog)–


memories were what they

were for. Manuals deep

in hidden drawers.


To say they were for perspective–

no, the fear, frozen ground

thawing. What needs forgotten.


~James Croal Jackson~





We want to leap over sadness like acrobats,

but our hearts won’t let us.


Death is measured by how close

or how far we are to that person.

Witnessing that death brings us closer

to seeing our own death.


We can’t avoid grief,

any more than a fruit-bearing tree

can stop producing fruit until it dies.


Each sadness erupts differently.

~Martin Willitts Jr~





I hunker down for a resurrection

from the constant bombardment of memory

in the wilderness of loss, without a compass,

following the same trail, until it occurs to me —


I’ve done this before, it’s not a dream.

~Martin Willitts Jr~



"Alternate universe-the Red Planet"




Regretful Wretch

Hold on Dark Lord - when I brimmed

with your eggs


open legged and wild-eyed

I moved soooo fast then

now I’m slowed to a dumb



old mess

why didn’t you make me

your vampiress      

while I oozed with potent venom and froth

you lifted me up

shared my blood with

your dark angels only to

drop me

as I fell I realized I would break

(thanks…for nothing)

into a thousand pieces

(and I did)

some old hag

swept me into a plastic bag

tried to glue my parts

I came back

all fack-yacked

an awful science project gone awry

I begged

to be put out of my misery

howled for you……

your icy cold fingers poke me

your horsemen scream a laughter

that shatters through my days

I swear I didn’t swear

if I did…………………….

my fingers were crossed

~Donna Dallas~



the carousal

into his mouth & assisting
in letting him gulp,
the snow inebriated
the land. swelled
with drunkenness,
he purged a mass river,
sweeping away the content.

~john compton~

(this poem currently appears in the chapbook, "i saw god cooking children / paint their bones" by john compton, published by Blood Pudding Press and available HERE -




there is no tender-hearted romance,

no tantalizing undressing.
there is just the hard dick
i suck into my mouth
& maneuver my tongue
until he cums. i swallow.
i’m fond of the flavor.
we do not make do with lavish words,
or the eager caressing
that leads to kissing.
an idle thank you & goodbye.
the passion is in the leaving.

~john compton~

(this poem currently appears in the chapbook, "i saw god cooking children / paint their bones" by john compton, published by Blood Pudding Press and available HERE -



the memory of seeing my first uncut penis

i was sucking on my boyfriend’s cock 

when i started thinking about my uncle’s penis,
viewing each other’s when we were teens.
i hurried & finished.
he looked at me slantways. i told him a poem’s
in my head, he understands. i grab my pen
to write this memory:
i thought it was weird
but still a normal penis
once you pulled back the extra flesh.
i was stunned & curious
at how ours appeared different:
his skin stretchy & mine tight,
his shape bulbous & mine straight.
now that i am grown, i play with my boyfriend’s
like it’s my favorite toy i remember as a child.

~john compton~

(this poem currently appears in the chapbook, "i saw god cooking children / paint their bones" by john compton, published by Blood Pudding Press and available HERE -



killing civilians again

bodies lie

are given

as gifts

people who have lost
are supposed to take apologies
with gratitude

& smile

& say thank you

& appreciate
what the murderers
have said

because its okay
it was all a mistake

a misunderstanding

an accident

theyre paid to kill
though sometimes
faces blur together

look like

~john compton~


(this poem currently appears in the chapbook, "i saw god cooking children / paint their bones" by john compton, published by Blood Pudding Press and available HERE -



"King of the Insect People and His Senior Wives"

~MISH and Ariana Stockwell~



the poisoned mouse"

the poisoned mouse

lies rotting in the walls

hidden in the closet

demanding much more

than to taste of our bounty

the poisoned mouse 

loses skin and fur


sightless sockets gaze

unblinking at her executioner

the poisoned mouse

doesn't care about germs

dropping on counters

where we prepare our food

all she wants is revenge

all she leaves behind

her rotting corpse

the stench of moldering meat

we’ll never get clean

~Cat Russell~




Inside Out

sightless eyes view the light 

behind this billowing curtain

as eaters become the eaten

digestive aids digest hosts 

instead hosting a feast for those 

who dine upon what remains

breaking down this diet for 

worms for maggots and flies

the grossest of the grotesque

hatching to become airborne

as the angels in their heaven

or the ones down below

that have only forgotten

how to fly

~Cat Russell~





the flood, of syllables, of mouths forming


of all shapes and size and lies

and delay

a circle, a smile, a sky, an imperfection

“impossible," says the world

the one released by intoxicating


but there’s no such thing as a savior 

a  vertebrae crushed, marked by the teeth

of a beast 

(a sun setting in the east)

of burden

the result of even thinking about the welfare of the doomed among us

flies have holes in the back of their abdomens

dressed in black, solitary armory

they are what they do, right

what they do right is … fly

speak again with aging hands



hanging out of the holes of a long sleeved sweater

your hair hangs too, around something evolved

something bought and soiled

you know, the garden of eggs hatched

eating fruit and vegetables

regardless of what your god desires

~Joe Kidd~

(this poem currently appears in the book, "The Invisible Waterhole" by Joe Kidd, available HERE -




after Servant 

You can be trapped in an opulent house.

Sneak down a sculptural stair, away from 

your spouse who’s too medicated to rouse,

past staff who should be asleep, overcome 

by a secret you can no longer keep.

Pause in the dark before arched double doors.

Brisk fingers brush buttons, familiar beeps 

of memorized digits you yourself stored

then invalid code, two attempts more. Slow 

index finger subsequent times.  You must 

be right.  Retreat is a crime.  Moment you know 

as the alarm blares, you can no longer trust 

these footsteps on the stairs.  You are not free.

You built this house.  One of them stole the key. 

~Kristin Garth~



"Alternate universes / brush against each other / kissing each other / for a nanosecond / causing echoes / throughout the multiverse"





(Ambystoma maculatum)


Under the unspoken, hyacinth sky

incomplete unfolding,

chameleons find their way into being unseen,


short-lived smoke,

a color of stories, a vacuum filling,

a talisman of fortunes always at risk.


Chameleon, I know you/I don’t know you.

You are either/or

and variations between,


the unmentionable weather, the motion

of light slithering over a rock, a tongue

tasting wind as it rants.


Your life is a constant do-over.

Patterns of stripes, bars, spots, blotches,

or dots of Morse code,


a continuous made-up story.

Chameleons, I know nothing about you/

I know everything worth knowing about you.

~Martin Willitts Jr~



Rainbows Burning

Pot of gold melted

this isn’t a story

it’s a prophecy

we called it back then

after Atlantis perished

during the dark ages

when Rome fell

when the Tsar was born

when Hiroshima melted

we were gonna fuck it up

someone predicted it


or was it the Bible?

they didn’t say we would burn

through the ozone

or machete the fins

off all the great whites

to help keep erections


or stab babies sucked out of the womb

this wasn’t written in the stars

but burn the mother fucker down to

the ground

could have been scrolled

in Latin

or some type of hieroglyphics

painted in blood on a cave wall

as all great colonies fail

at some point or another because of

natural disasters or


we spray the

rainbow down

with diesel

light it up into oblivion

the fallout will penetrate

some clean and virgin planet

ruin that one too

 ~Donna Dallas~




I was born from ice and slept in a cradle of clouds, swaddled in time and silence at the edge of the solar system. Then galactic tides shifted, tipping my cradle and suddenly I was sailing on a parabolic trajectory toward its center. 

My self-destructive path remained unobserved until I passed a small blue sphere. Countless eyes analyzed my face and long, streaming hair, bright and aglow, from behind glass lenses. 

The eyes continued to watch as I dissolved into the sun, and the only traces of when I lived reduced to eternally drifting ash.

 ~Heather Santo~