Thirteen Myna Birds

20.

Breaking News

The Tower of Babel rises like wild
fire. Flaming fingers scratch
the sky. Songbirds screech
to clouds in mourning.

We The People look
at fireworks exploding,
gasp at stars bursting against dark sky.
Ooooooh, we say.

Rhinestone lined lips spew familiar words, landing
on sidewalks and fields.
Bundles of baubles
flash instructions—“How to Hurt Others,”
that We The
People glee to gather
greedily.

The cats are out
of the bag, and their fangs are mammoth.
Some have access to arsenals:
They creep slowly into madness and
kill innocent children. Black
helmets with bully sticks lash protesters, pinning
people on the ground like
cockroaches on cork board
Then spray immobilized faces with
chemicals burning to bone.

Dangerous winds howl down our streets, rising waters
swallow our homes, and

Wee The People believe that if—

            God—

wants to boil
our world,

Wee shouldn’t interfere.

~Debrah Shenefelt~

*

19.

Call off the dogs!

~MISH~

*

18.

Turn, Turn, Turn

The sun slowly turns its back on trees
Leaves turn gold like a king’s ransom
Birds turn southward in cool breezes
    Where will birds go? What will they eat? Who will watch
            the little ones if they can’t
                                                            fly?

~Debrah Shenefelt~

*

17.

        Hollow sky
Breathes against silo

Dark field green corn
Stars shimmer
Like the reflections
Of street lights
On the river

        The eternal madness
Hunting our love
Everywhere it go
---

~Merritt Waldon~

*

16.

UTILITY

I was home!
At last the day was over
And when I stepped out
Of the office I felt
The metal straps of my
Conformity fall away and suddenly
Freedom of action, freedom
Of spirit, was back and I
Would not be again, until
Tomorrow, the automaton of
Productivity and profit. I
Took off my jacket, and hung
My tie on the ceiling fan
Simply because I could. I
Felt so unburdened and light,
Mind awash with things I
Could do, and I was so euphoric
I rushed to the master bedroom
And took the wife out of the closet.
She smoothed herself and
Stretched both arms and
Asked what time is it?

~Ken Poyner~

*

15.

UNDERSTANDING

I could not count all the trees.
When I was assigned the task
I thought that if I went
Glen to glen, it might make for
A task even someone as ordinary
As I could accomplish. But no.
Yards in I could see
How magical a forest is, how
It is more than a number of trees.
I found myself stupefied
By the interconnectivity, the diversity.
I was amazed and at first
Simply lost count, then forgot to count,
Then abandoned counting. How
Could I have been fooled into thinking
I was worthy? Idiot me.
I stand in upturned leaves
And try to move from failure
To some imagination of allegiance.
It is not working

~Ken Poyner~

*

14.

Mission of the Earth (English)

        She did not chase away
                the tiger lurking among
    the anchor-rooted mangrove forests,

    but had the deceitful merchant skinned alive.

They broke the flute; in exchange
            for a demon-mask carved of bark
        he gave away a maple branch
        kept for thirty years…

        Moon-shield,
        warding off a stealth blade…

        The altar, a split shell,
              the frozen Eye of Horus.
        The altar, a split shell by a dying brushfire.
        From fused octopus-tentacles a ghost-hand shapes
                      a living cross.
              The mission of the Earth is fulfilled:
        the one who lands ashore
        is taken aim at
        by a blindfolded archer.

A Föld missziója (Hungarian)

        Nem űzte el a horgonygyökerű
                mangrove-fák között ólálkodó tigrist,

    de a csaló kufárt elevenen
    megnyúzatta.

Kettétörték a fuvolát, harminc éve
             őrzött repkényjuhar-ágat adott
    egy fakéregből készült démon-maszkért…

    Holdpajzs,
            orv kardcsapást fog föl…

    Szétnyílt kagyló az oltár,
    dermedt Hórusz-szem.
    Szétnyílt kagyló az oltár, kihunyó rőzsetűznél.
    Összenőtt polipcsápokból szellemkéz formáz
            eleven keresztet.
            Beteljesül a Föld missziója:
    a partraszállót
    célba veszi a bekötött szemű íjász.

~László Aranyi (Frater Azmon)~

*

13.

Dancing Kangaroos

~MISH~

*

12.

The Doll

a thousand bucks to screw
her head onto a bolt

and still her eyes are not
alive cross-eyed or fixated

on the moon no not the moon
there is no movement this orbit

of two bodies one breathing
the other a vacant center which

begs you to be the sun so it is
you who are fixated on the moon

believing you can irradiate a body
ninety-three million miles away

as you yank the black caterpillar
wig over chlorinated scalp

across its semblance of face
you don’t want to look at

what you need
to do

~James Croal Jackson~

*

11.

Sun Cancer

in the floatie in the Cebu Pacific my mom lost
me the jellyfish were squirming beneath me snakes

gathering the sun its magnifying glass onto me I fell
asleep the rays skinning me red boils popped

now my nightmare is these things
returning on my body slowly the sun

coming for me the doctor
freezing pieces of me off

no option but to run through
shallow sea past poison snakes’

tongues toward shore I could burn
for the rest of my life

~James Croal Jackson~

*

10.

Heat Inertia

I’m in my hammock in the heat stunned day
the air smoky from the fire 40 miles northeast
burning since July 4th.
The chickadees have stopped singing
but chatter above me in the lime green leaves.

I’m swinging
and hear their conversations
food
food
food
but I’m not getting out of the hammock
to toss seeds out on the sidewalk.

I look up through the tree leaves
waving like jazz hands
in no breeze I can feel
as the clouds stick
like painted images
in the reddened sky

and now the crows
are hopping from branch to branch
dropping closer
waiting.

~Ann Randlette~

*

9.

Where Is My Mind

My mind wanders during sex
even as my mouth, hands and hips
stay busy in the present moment.

He’s saying that he didn’t know you
could write a poem about a blow job
and in his mind the words would be
more along the lines of
oh fuck, suck
oh hell fuck
suck that harder.

In my mind hearing him always
links to my deepest first reading memories
See Dick
See Dick come.

My laughing
him coming
are often coincidental
yet not at all linked
with the present moment
except by this tenuous thread
in my head.

~Ann Randlette~

*

8.

Teaching the Cinderella Story

The wonderful “Cinderella” tale—but what if
some students can’t afford the book?

Would you please put down your cellphone?
You can call your fairy godmother some other time.

Gee, I never saw a prince-shaped cake before.
I guess you can have credit for the project.

You’re a princess yourself.
You don’t need to read the story.

Do you think a prince will ever ride his horse
in your direction if you can’t spell the word “spell”?

“Cinderella,” “Snow White,” “Rapunzel”—
to Barbie, they’re all one big blah of a story.

Birds pecked out the eyes of the wicked stepsisters.
I wish we had some of those birds here today.

When I am queen, I won’t have to listen to excuses
about phony flat tires and fake family funerals.

When I am queen, my students will crown me with flowers;
then again, they might set me on fire and dance.

~MISH~

*

7.

THE WITCH’S HAUNTED HOUSE

The neighbor gestured before
the gathered councilmembers to complain
about stagnant
housing values.

He lost
money every day
the witch was allowed to live
beside him.

They didn’t seem
concerned.

He played his trump –

            What about the children?
            It’s unsafe!

The mayor leaned
and cupped
his chin.

        Raccoons and mice!
        They’re rabid!
        What if
        a child gets trapped
        inside the basement?

Kids knew
to stay away.

They weren’t stupid.

There were no mysteries
for a local Nancy Drew
or Hardy Boy
to solve.

No ghosts to spy,
or séances to hold.

No iron cauldron,
paddle spoon to stir
an eye of newt
or pinch of rat dander
into the roiling swill.

They knew

the only answers
the house held
was how a hardwood maple floor
could yield and warp
after ten unheated winters.

How black the maw
of an unflushed toilet.

How a window could frost
and seal itself behind
a tenth of an inch of pinkish mold.

~Paul David Adkins~

*

6.

THE WITCH AS GRAFFITI ARTIST

She wanted so bad to burn
the word

            THIEF

on her neighbor’s lawn
with a propane torch.

That neighbor who cried
to the mayor
over and over
about her house’s
            mess,
the witch’s
                        personal business.

The city charged
to clean her house
and cart away the wreckage.

The house she returned to –
empty as a tooth socket.

The furniture was clean.
Her mattress had new sheets.

The whole place reeked of bleach.
Someone snatched her acetylene.
Not a single match remained.

She walked to the hardware store,
bought a quart
of ash-black paint,
a one inch brush
to scrawl
across her street-side clapboard:

              JULIAN T. SMITH
             COST ME $50,000 DOLLARS
              FOR THE TOWN TO CLEAN
                    MY HOUSE à

The paint ran down the siding
quick as a mouse.

~Paul David Adkins~

*

5.

My Friend

Let me tell you about my friend.
He’s intelligent…exceptionally so.
In some regards he’s my reflection,
my hillbilly doppelganger
from thirty-five years ago.

I’m a hillbilly too…learned much
of my personal phee-losophy
from J.D. Clampett himself.

I growed up in the southern
sandhills of Tripp Co., SD
with needle-and-thread grass,
hog-nosed snakes and sandburs.

Getting back to my friend,
he’s a rambunctious sort,
exasperatingly honest to a fault,
has a smile that could melt
butter off an icicle.
He’s a good ole southern boy.

He’s been in them Pentecostal churches
where they speaks in tongues,
drinks kerosene and handles
them copper-headed snakes.

I’d like to visit one of them churches,
sure as shootin, I would.
I wants to handle one of them
venomous, vituperous vipers
and sings Hallelujah or dies tryin.

My friend, he plays piano
better than the church pianist.
But you won’t find him in church no more,

cuz he got indoctrinated the way
white folks in them parts
is always indoctrinating the unbeliever—
by scaring or berating or beating or worse yet,
ignoring the hell out of an unrepented sinner.

A dad who didn’t really give a damn
and a mother who destroyed
all that should be good and righteous
between a woman and her son.

At least Grandma cared. She loved him,
probably saved him from dying.

And why should he have any feelings
of loving or belonging to the hate-mongers
who seemingly have forgotten that love
is the greatest of all commandments.

A message of hate never saved nobody.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
And that day of judgement is a coming
and the fires of hell are going to be fueled
by the self-righteous bodies
of sanctimonious Christians.

~Daniel G. Snethen~

*

4.

Where Have all the Maraschino Cherries Gone?

As I sit here in my autumnal years,
staring at my near colorless fruit cocktail,
I cannot help reminiscing over my childhood.

When young I ate things like
pear sauce, butterscotch pudding,
fruit cocktail and Jell-O for dessert.

I always hoped, I’d be lucky enough
to find a half-cherry
in my cup of fruit cocktail.

It didn’t happen every time,
but its occurrence was tangible enough,
to be something to look forward to.

And on those holidays,
when Mother really splurged,
nothing spoke Christmas more

than a hint of Maraschino red
poking out the side edge
of my lime green-Jell-O block.

But now as I pour over
can after can of fruit cocktail,
no familiar hint of red.

Where have all the Maraschino cherries gone?

~Daniel G. Snethen~

*

3.

Vortex

~MISH~

*

2.

The Proposition

                after The Thirty-Nine Steps, photograph by Arthur F. Kales

Death’s train trails, an oblivious
bridal veil, beyond her sight.
She misunderstands her direction.
Ascending angel clings to shadows, castles
of clouds, and impossibilities. She believes
she is made of more than wax and wishes, vows
this night shall hold her flight
through mourning. She tops tower
in testimony of desire, unaware
she is already melted and falling.
Her feet still stuck to the ground.

~A.J. Huffman~

*

1.

I Dream in Vengeance

The skin of my enemies pools
beneath my feet. Their blood
stains my teeth, the tips
of my fingers. I vomit hearts
drained of purpose. I wake
suddenly swallowed by empty
sadness as I digest
fleeting euphoria.

~A.J. Huffman~