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?
*
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.
*
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
*
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 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
*
7.
Night Vision
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
*
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.
*
4.
Bright Sunshine-y Day
.jpg)
~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!
*
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
