Thirteen Myna Birds

33.

Day Off

How do you take a day off? Peel it from

a calendar like you peel a postage stamp

from the sheet it’s stuck on? That sheet

is called a pane, and what a pain it is to

take a day off. Where do you put it?

What’s large enough to hold a whole day?

Maybe Russia or Africa? Would they want

our extra days? Don’t they have enough

days of their own?

 

How do you get on your day off—hop on it?

Ride it like a magic carpet in a Disney car-

toon, or like a buckin’ bronco—a Brahma

Bull of a day? How can you get on a day off?

If you’re off, how can you be on? You

can’t be on and off at the same time.

This is getting confusing.

 

When you say, today is my day off. How do

you know? How do you find it? Where is it

located? Between Sunday and Monday? Were

The Beatles right? Are there eight days a week?

When you tell somebody, I’ve put in for my

day off, what have you put your day off in? One

of those recyclable bags—the blue ones? Will

your day off wind up in the ocean with Q-Tips,

disposable razors, and toothpaste tubes, not to

mention batteries, lap tops, and empty Coke

bottles? Aren’t our oceans and rivers clogged

enough already with useless junk?

 

I heard you tell someone that you are saving

your days off? What? Do you deposit them

in a bank? What do you tell the teller? I want

to deposit three days off please. And what do

you save your days off for? A rainy day? Don’t

get me started on rainy days. I think it’s best not

to have days off. Just be happy you’ve got a job.

~Charlie Brice~

*

32.

contemplating nothingness

feeling low

all slowed down

where to go?

 

time to take

a permanent break

 

the world weighs

an infinite amount

too heavy to carry

too cruel to know

 

into the darkness

never come back

 

defeats outweigh

meaningless victories

nothing really matters

and neither do I

 

a one ticket trip

to the void

anywhere but here

 

but what if I change my mind?

~Frederick Frankenberg~   

*

31.

The Garden of Forgetting

Some days I think of walking down to the Garden of Forgetting.

It runs along the river

with forget-me-nots and metal sculptures

by an Italian whose name I don’t recall.

The last time I went into the garden

I had been thinking about a splendid day

with a woman I was in love with.

 

Somedays I think of walking down to the Garden of Forgetting,

or did I tell you that?

It has paved walks and benches

where you can sit while everything slips away.

The last time I was there

I tried to remember a conversation,

but all that was left was how I felt

when I heard “we don’t belong together”.

 

Somedays I think of walking down to the Garden of Forgetting.

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this before.

I was sitting on a bench there

looking at the strange sculptures,

and who knows where those came from.

In my mind I saw a street,

pleasant and shady, where I used to walk.

I had a feeling someone once walked with me,

yet when I recalled it,

I was walking alone.

 

There’s a garden in our town,

maybe you’ve heard of it,

called the Garden of Forgetting.

I’m thinking of going there.

I heard it’s beautiful.

If that’s true, I’d like to see it.

There’s nothing wrong with my apartment,

just little things that aren’t worth recalling.

I believe there used to be someone else here,

as it feels kind of empty now.

But I forget.

~David Hutto~    

*

30.

ODE TO THE WEATHERMAN

So what's the weather forecast for today?

Dense fog, he knows that,

air so thick and damp around the brain,

the next thought can barely see the last.

And the likelihood of thunderstorms...

well isn't that always the way,

when he lives alone

in the fourth floor attic,

with the constant buildup of clouds,

the ancient gray that goes into them,

and electricity generated

with every twitch of hands,

nod of head or bout of pacing.

So it will rain, heavy in places.

That happens every time he

takes to the streets,

his nimbus bursts, and every part

of his suddenly fluid, raging body

strafes an unlucky stranger.

Expect it to clear up by morning, they say.

But doesn't it always.

The blood from one weather pattern washed away,

the next one threatening.

~John Grey~

*

29.

THOSE WHO DIDN’T RETURN

The sky is hidden

behind clouds.

Mounds of snow

swallow the land.

 

What should be children

making their way home

is a slow procession

crossing the pond’s thin surface,

glowing white and winged

like chill-swathed angels.

 

One by one,

as the ice gives way,

they slip down

into the bitter waters.

 

A solitary crow

drops down from a bough,

pecks at a fading bead of light.

~John Grey~

*

28.

“Psych Hospital Dream” 

Strapped into a cart which rolls backwards  

by a nurse in shades quoting Outlander.  

Then, medicinal-drip-auto-shock  

and a near-instant snooze beneath  

handmade, patch-glued old rugged  

cross on the wall, two feet tall.  

Between us, at noon, chess games  

commence in the dust of cheap cigars.  

I am hustling—bare-chested—before  

the Lord Jesus Christ.  

 

The nurse’s boss, Dr. Lancelot, brings  

Zen texts, a laptop, and a secret map  

leading to herbal treasure. He knows  

by how he shuffles in shiny Cap Toes  

that he is king of the precinct.  

There is no out for me.  

 

I move and move again the jade pieces  

across the wooden board; lean into sun  

and, alternately, into rippling shade  

near the window, where we’ve set  

a rotating fan, sweating grape sodas  

and a box of stale crackers.  

In this dream, I can never  

get to checkmate. I'm dead.

~Mike Hackney~

*

27.

After Graduating Catholic School

God wasn’t long for this world a long time ago. He doesn’t belong

in adulthood. Praise Jesus for his death– two thousand years ago.

 

The wooden cross a ship at crucified sea. Calcified I-don’t-have-much-

to-say about Christianity these days. Just tattered Testament pages. King

 

James Bible– James, am I the king of myself? To a solipsist I

am God. To a solipsist I am the only solipsist. Me. Not even my introvert

 

wants to be that alone. God the whiskey. Godka. To be drunk– my way

to true higher power– is prayer inside my sanctum. Reverse

 

osmosis. Brita filter. The freezer door. Spilling ice into atmosphere,

all of Earth a cube. You know what it is. The endless cold. Faith.

~James Croal Jackson~

*

26.

18,000 Cows

In the Texas farm

explosion, some survive but

most are too wounded.

The farmer says they

will have to kill these things,

as if they are things,

not breathing beings,

not gentle in their low-

pitched songs. And I know.

I eat meat. I am part

of the system that makes them

sing then suffer then die.

~James Croal Jackson~

*

25.

Clarity

the end of our conversation

is a snap in the wire our love

tangled in the rushing

 

pressure of never-ending

water pushing through

strands of hairs bunched

 

and blocking the shower drain

after months of hearing

we were never together

 

I don’t know what I want

my brain a jumbled mess you say

what else would you like to say

 

we have time though cardinals

already fall from the sky

with microplastics lodged in

 

their tiny beating hearts that flap

in their attempts of unflappability

we feed the trees and ourselves

 

with pesticides when we need

a variety of wings in this world

that we have hand-pumped

 

into our ice cream bowl

with exhaust and oil and bottles

sprinkled everywhere on

 

tundra you say I’m very clear

it’s you it’s you echoes

forever into atmosphere

 

another pollutant to parse

in this home of dry bones

 ~James Croal Jackson~

*

24.

ARMED ROBBERY

What you hate about other people is what you hate about yourself.

A boy sees himself in other people

A girl sees herself in other people.

My parents used to fight like wild animals,

I didn’t see my dad for 5 years.

 

He called the police on me and I ran out of my mom's house.

The cops chased me down the street.

I had marijuana in my pocket

And I ran on my two goose legs

 

Being self-centered is being self-conscious.

You lose your mind to find your soul.

You kill your parents to become a child again.

There is more wisdom in a baby than an old man with a beard.

Fall from the sky while your feet are on the ground.

 

Writing has been my only friend for as long as I can remember.

During my days in school…

I spent my Friday nights, in my bed, writing and writing.

I never saw the appeal of Friday nights.

I never saw the appeal of going to parties or the club.

I never saw the appeal of kissing or hooking up.

Here I am, alone in my bedroom writing my shitty poetry.

Never liked my poems.

An artist who likes their own work is a parent who likes one kid more than the other.

 

When you have a lot of time to think about yourself, you start to hate yourself,

Alone for too long, you will believe things about yourself that aren’t true.

A poet will start to believe their poetry is good.

A pornstar will start to believe in religion.

When I’m alone, I want to be with friends,

When I’m with friends, I want to be alone.

There are some nights where killing myself

seems more beautiful than going to sleep.

And the babies are growing boobs and chest hair and mustaches.

The only fear I have about dying is if I ate enough fruit throughout my life.

 

I did not see my dad for 5 years.

The less I saw him, the more I became my own person.

I raised myself.

My mom is a crazy lunatic.

And my older brother plays piano until the sun shines.

There was a girlfriend he had that tried to hook up with me.

She wore a purple wig and carried pepper spray in her purse.

 ~Maceo Nightingale~

*

23.

DIRTY FINGERNAILS

A day spent not talking to humans is joy,

I haven’t talked to a friend or family member in 2 weeks.

My teeth are yellow and cracked

And my lips are bloody and dry.

I have been talking to my pet fish,

It swims inside a glass bowl

And gulps down water.

My leg hairs have turned blue,

It’s been hard for me to fall asleep.

I usually fall asleep at 7am and wake up at 6pm.

Some nights I do not go to bed at all.

 

She knew how to get around my heart.

I still think about her every day.

The way she talked.

Her cat like voice.

The way she smoked marijuana.

Her and I smoked marijuana on the weekends.

We would get so stoned that we fell asleep in my car,

Her red eyes looked like potato shrimp.

When I was in rehab, I sent her letters because I didn’t have a phone.

Her handwriting was beautiful.

She was much wiser and thoughtful than me.

I wanted to marry her, but she wasn’t comfortable farting in front of me.

I don’t know where she is anymore.

Her and I would fight all the time.

She threw white plates at my face

And the glass shattered my nose.

Blood dripped down my neck and stained my t shirt.

~Maceo Nightingale~

*

22.

IS HE HERE AGAIN?

And he walked through my door with his big floppy penis,

His armpit hair smelled like cherries

And he sat in my bedroom with his skinny naked body.

“Do you want to fuck?”

“Go jerk off you creep, you freak.”

I looked him in the eye.

He gazed into my shrimp plate.

 

His pet frog hopped around my bedroom as he masturbated,

I sat in my bed and gazed out my window.

He was rubbing his penis like a madman,

I first met him in middle school.

He played saxophone and carried his pet frog with him,

His floppy sausage ejaculated white juice onto my carpet,

Ahh, what a freak he was.

 

I walked into my backyard,

Smoked frog poison,

My old neighbor watched me smoke through his gate.

With his gray hair, long beard, fat legs.

“Is he here again?” My neighbor asked me.

“Yeah and he’s chocking the chicken in my bedroom”

The pet frog hopped into my backyard

And spat out tobacco leaves.

 ~Maceo Nightingale~

*

21.

Wednesday

~MISH~

*

20.

Voices

Lately, the local Christian radio station

has been coming through the vacuum cleaner when I turn it on

or over the radio in the stations of silence, the static in between channels

possibly through other appliances, too, so quietly

that I can’t be sure if I’m being lectured by a radio preacher

or just the voices in my head.

 

Sometimes, when I’m vacuuming, and I hear that voice

telling me how I’ve sinned, how we’ve all sinned

when I hear a gospel choir swelling beneath the rumble of the wheels

catching against dog hair or sand tracked in from outside

it feels like these voices are not such an accident after all

 

that I’ve been targeted by the crowds

carrying signs at the abortion clinic downtown

by the stern-looking men and women parading in and out

of the church at the end of the block

by a disapproving mother-in-law who whispered my name

through a confessional grate

 

this is how it all starts, and now that they’ve found me

things are only going to get louder around here

louder until I give up or give in.

~Holly Day~

*

19.

In Casual Conversation

The woman at the bus stop informs me

that all women have been raped at one time

or another, that at some point, what I thought

was love or affection was actually

brutal, torturous, an affront

to my femininity.

I don’t say anything to this.

I don’t want this person to know who I am.

The rain drizzles on

as the woman lectures me, tells me

we have got to stick together, the two of us

that all women are sisters

under the skin, and that the only way

we can stop this cycle of rape

is to stand up and say, “No!”

in one united, loud voice

or something like that.

The tiny hand on the face of my watch

tells me the bus should be by any moment

 

and knowing this gives me great joy.

No one needs to know anything else about me.

~Holly Day~

*

18.

"Much of a Muchness" from The Morning Papers Have Given Us the Vapours (by the black watch)

Listen HERE - https://theblackwatch.bandcamp.com/track/much-of-a-muchness-2

*

17.

Belief

the important thing is to

not die

though you have fuck-all

control over that

sometimes--

to be content

to exist

for however long--

not as long as the great pine

certainly

but longer than the moth

who burns itself out

in light

like answering a call of 

some kind

from a heaven

recruiting for the choir

of voices

singing

Inna God I Believe-a

or wanna

anyway.

~Wayne F Burke~

*

16.

Confession to Father S.

If I see an intriguing human

or canine,

I want to gulp them down,

learn their spine-lines,

trace their eyes

and mouth.

I give into temptation

whenever possible

because I’m greedy, Father.

The world delights me.

Shouldn’t I be free

to do that

if God

forgives me

like you said?

~MISH~

*

15.

Starfleet Commander

I tell the Starfleet Commander

in my dream: 

I know you hate me.

 

Short and athletic

with straight black hair

(my opposite),

she wears 

an officer’s 

silver jumpsuit,

laser gun in her belt. 

 

She represents

the woman the dreamer

desires to be:

effective, disciplined,

in charge.

 

But I see she’s

ready to yell at me,

and I don’t know why.

 

There are always plenty

of sides of me 

for the Commander

to hate. Jeez,

which part is it now?

 

My inner sloth,

my inner child,

or my inner 

bitch?

 

Peel me like an onion, o dream.

Taste my core.

~MISH~

*

14.

 A Homicidal Maniac

 A serial killer

With a hatred for the society

He lives in.

His crimes are cruel,

And his reason for murder

Is a wall that needs to be fed

Blood.

His mind is ravaged 

To the point of self-annihilation.

The comics he writes are either

Full of insanity

Or

Full of thoughts about the eternal suffering

Of life. 

~Alexandra Dark~

*

13.

Purple Elephant

~MISH~

*

12.

"Gobbledegook" from Weird Rooms (by the black watch)

Listen HERE - https://theblackwatch.bandcamp.com/track/gobbledegook

*

11.

Me Neither

you ever get off the Greyhound in from JFK--

sticky-stinky windy/muggy high-summer Grand Central Station, sidewalk

rubbish floating up at ya like attack-ghosts--

& start humping up Madison

with your Yonex rucksack & your guitar case held together

with stickers, rope, & a bit of hope

& suddenly everybody but everybody

you pass seems like someone you swear

you fucking know?  that whole entire Jungian 

oceanic sea of humanity motif & all?

yeah, me neither.

~John Andrew Fredrick~

*

10.

Sort Of

sometimes--not all times--you look

at what you've written & you wonder how you ever

ever ever thought it any good.

 

now swing that in a quasi-camp vaudevillian kinda

rat-a-tat accent & relax & have a laugh

at how writing is an act--

& a selfish-beautiful supersolipsistic one at that.

 

right now at Indian Wells Osaka's losing

to Osorio & I'm happy; the Columbiana has a tricky game:  lots

of variety, spin shots, dropshots, fiery.

& Osaka always looks & talks

like she's really stoned.

 

I'm stoned; so what

am I bloviating about?

on some fine Columbian, actually.

at least that's what the wrapper said.

trippy serendipity.

 

in the stands there's an insane fan--one with one 

of "those voices" that you'd kill to strangle--who keeps yodeling

all manner of not the ethics of tennis

& sportsmanship shall prevail.

 

"finish her!" he shrieks & claps

at the couple of double-faults

Osorio throws in.

 

some people.

sometimes you want to fry them.

 

you read The Letters 

of Mary Wortley Montagu

& think "How beautiful, how clear!  I know her; I see

her."  what twaddle.  you don't. well,

sort of, you do.

 ~John Andrew Fredrick~

*

9.

Walnut or Somewhere

kept getting these letters

that may as well have been perfumed.

interesting handwriting; somedeal calligraphic.

talked in enormous detail about her dark past.

in-depth indeed for someone

I had never met.

 

then the presents:

candles & shit.  incense sticks from Rajasthan.

not to sound callous, sniffy--

nice candles they were; eminently sniffable.

 

poems, delicately illustrated.

stars & fairy dust; spendy chocolates.

little drawings gold & purple, silver, yellow, tangerine & plum.

 

books followed (plus more letters):

thin classics she felt that I should read.

 

pictures of her as a babe

in college: the photobooth kind, very

sultry; her playing tennis in prep school.

Polaroids, no less.

& she was pretty then.

 

then the letters got more desperate--

huffy, psycho, Courtney Love

in a lather & a red teddy, red

high heels, & a leather jacket.  know what 

I did--after it got too risible-ridiculous?

I went over.

 

deep in The Valley:  Walnut or somewhere.

the address on the hippie-flower-stickered envelopes.

 

wow. hi.

there on her doorstep:

"You wanna shoot some hoops?" she said.

"Sure," I said.  "Why not."

 ~John Andrew Fredrick~

*

8.

i want ur sex

~MISH~

*

7.

Night Vision

 As the tide surges forward

From the heart of the ocean

A tiny white flower blooms

Against all the dark noises

Rising high along the coast

~Yuan Changming~

*

6.

Wandering

Walking through night crowds

I felt like a wounded wolf

Lost in a burned prairieland

 

Homeless, I kept wandering

More lonely than darkness

But no less serene than the stars

~Yuan Changming~

*

5.

Column of Fire

 

I can never write poetry

the moment I put the pen to it

the page bursts into flames.

I can never breathe

because oxygen is fuel

and I explode inside.

I can never live a life separate

from any other’s life

because we are all burning upward

in the same column of fire.

~James Moran~

*

4.

Bright Sunshine-y Day

~MISH~

*

3.

Hammer of the Gods

 Hammer!

 Hammer!

Hammer of the gods!

Your unrelenting blows

forge our souls!

Strike us so thin

we are the anvil’s skin!

Strike us so thin

we feel your gathering wind!

Strike us so thin

we are a resounding ring!

~James Moran~

*

2.

Self Portrait as Spider

I don’t want

to be a spider. I hate

insects

of any ilk.

 

It’s revolting

how I have these hairy legs

like my mother’s,

though I swore

I wouldn’t

let it happen.

Not to me.

 

My face has changed

to skull-bone,

covered in a hard shell.

No more hair on my head.

Teeth stained, missing.

Voice turned

screechy,

my soft hands, now

hard claws.

 

Someone should step

on me. Meanwhile,

I’ll hide in this

bed.

~MISH~

*

1.

"new brooms sweep clean" from The Morning Papers Have Given Us the Vapours (by the black watch)

Listen HERE -  https://theblackwatch.bandcamp.com/track/new-brooms-sweep-clean