Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I have this dream where I hand a beautiful woman one of my poems and she begins to undress on the spot. We're in a coffee shop and I plead with her, "Please, not here." But she answers with, "You showed me the poem here didn't you." She has a point. So I begin undressing as well. The people at the other tables don't seem to notice. Four co-eds are like discussing like everything that like happened to them today. A young guy, in a tattered jacket, and a scarf swirling around his throat, is head down in a Spanish translation of "Crime And Punishment." Two gallery owners blame it all on Matisse. Three engineering students share formulas. Two aging gays hold hands. So we make love on the table amid the muffin crumbs and Java stains and then, when we're done, we put our clothes back on, and I ask her, "Can I get you anything?" She says, "Yes, do you have a poem where...

I am writing anywhere carrying and placing mugs, leaving rings of condensation, atomization around tired eyes, staring out into light polluted skies no STARS! My God! No Stars! NO FUCKING stars! blankets of purple clouds unfurled, beyond that unearthly opaque blackness, like skyscraper windows unframed, hell, and ah! shit, expletives and what-ever-have-you-not watch this thing unseen, it's video-logged to you head linked directly to the brain, layered like cake, thick and creamy icing spread between pink naive wrinkles and synapse, LOOK, I only write what's behind my iris, see? didn't you know? I got hazel eyes, two colors unfold, you'll be wondering, we'll be gazing, face to face, sight line switches between pupils, dilating--if only there were enough words to get it-- but there's too much--Aww~! you know, too much too much, I only have one line left. --Tom Pescatore 

(I always breathe in deeply a couple times before I start reading. maybe you wanna imagine that, maybe you don't.)  "Nobody cares!"  Bolded, italicized, underlined.  " No body   cares !"  I visualize your lips and your tongue painting what you just said to me.  "This is the real world, this is how things work," you spit. I visualize jumping. 'Get used to it' fills the silence in my head that my breathing couldn't.  As I restrain my lungs from expelling air, I restrain myself from letting you hear my cry because it's not longer safe to.  What you're saying to me is that I am other, my kind is abnormal, that I don't exist in the real world.  When you kissed me again for the second 1st time on Sunday, I was elated.  I was finally kissing someone who saw me. I was kissing someone who I didn't have to justify or defend myself to.  It's Wednesday now, and I don't want to kiss yo...

How to write a love letter. Just Start. --Mark Sturmy