Punk Monk Press/Magazine

You stand shoulder to jostling shoulder within the crowd, a throng of humanity which grows ever more aroused with each riff on the guitar, not to mention the effect of a relentless percussive thrum. The tide could turn at any moment. The collective unconscious vibrates with a propensity for an orgiastic expression of primal love or a violent manifestation of its, well, darker aspect. There’s no denying its potential, nor its power. The moon glows against the depth of an unseasonably warm and clear October sky, illuminating a lone heart-shaped swath of cloud cover. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the wisps were growing wings—or perhaps horns. Snapped out of your trance by the intrusion of your ruminations, which bring you to the cusp of an uninvited realization, you pocket your vape and nudge your way through bodies pressed mercilessly against one another, the result of a quest for expansion within the very constraints of each seeker's physical space. Tho...

I am the meeting of countless threads carrying blood and light and darkness through the holey bones of reality the cries of every encounter the network of complex alignment the living record of what happens when I am what I never wanted what I don't want to claim as part of me I am what they did, who came before what I do, and what comes after me the good and the bad, the violent, the loving the culmination of everything collected in my bundle from the spirit world and from this the poison and the antidote I am the harmed and the harmer one who perpetuates and is harmed by the selfsame I am a shoreline I catch relics of wrecked ships and garbage and cry as I hold the beached whales and there is a hard to see part of me holding space for the dumping, the hunting, the violence above and below the waves I am built by the sea of tears contribute to its making and witness to its outcomes I am what I don't want to see and what I do and what I can show...

there's a place in my mind where the flowers grow wild I'd dance there for hours when I was a child I go to that place when I feel all alone that place with the flowers is where I feel home I'd lie in the grass and stare at the sky pictures in my mind of the clouds that pass by the vines all around would grow over my body and cover my eyes like the dark that surrounds me when I breathe in the air the sweet sounds of harmony the ground that rumbles so softly beneath me nobody can come to this place in my mind this place is too precious for those of your kind --Riesa McCumsey 

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but better days have come             i wipe the sweat             smell piss on my knuckles             abortion residue             drips down my leg             dogs will piss on my grave i’m coming into a moon             full of pock marks             jealous old lantern             lights my night             lights my route       ...

It's six A.M.  I boil the kettle  and prepare my coffee, strong  no sugar, a dark brooding  concoction,  stirring,  entwined  in  a mad ballet dance  with a spoon, destine never to be silver. Click On the television the  news anchors speak of unimaginable suffering, they seem to have a blood  lust in their eyes.  Blood lust Like  Modern day gladiators Gladiators tucked  safely   behind shiny new laptop shields.   And seated like Roman  emperors  upon a leather covered throne, their  courtroom, the pomp of brightly lit news  studios.   The lower ranks, take to the  battlefield  of urban blood  letting.  Reporters crowing at the  blood  shed rising, in the  hissing sun, a new day comes kicking and screa...