Punk Monk Press/Magazine

  --Emily St. Marie ( Esma ) 

flat squirrel  three meters from my feet           three cigarettes to notice  -- Jerome Berglund  

  “My father still reads the dictionary every day. He says your life depends on your power to master words.” — Arthur Scargill It’s a small word that destroys us. Four letters, one syllable, a hard word, a harsh word. A word as deadly as a stiletto, a word to wound. The word is daubed on the front door, a metre tall, bright red drips pooling to the floor like blood. SCAB Mam brings scalding water and some rags, and we try to wipe it away before Da gets home, but the word has been gouged into the wood; it remains, an indelible accusation. Across the street a couple of men sitting on the stoop watch us. We can feel their hatred from here. It burns, our backs blacken and char as we try to remove the word. We’re not welcome in this village now. SCAB Da’s a self-taught man, an auto-didact.  At home he’s never without a book, eating knowledge like a starving man, the library his magic porridge pot, his source of infinite nourishment. In another time, in a different family,...

I’m drinking Southern Comfort New Orleans style whiskey with a slice of lime. I’ve had a half a pint, along with an unclear number of beers. We’re at Rachel’s apartment. She teaches middle school chorus and hopes we get along with her new boyfriend. He had the idea to add a lime to my drink so we’re getting along quite well It’s late now, and Rachel is going to bed. She tells you, you’re free to take the guest bed and tells me I seem comfortable on the couch. And as you get up there is a moment just a moment where you look back, and we see each other for the first time in a very long time. So often when I am asked who I am I respond with a name, a social security number, a current address (with either utility bill or signed lease as proof of residence). But if you ask me who I am, if you really asked me I would say I am these moments. These innumerable moments that can move the earth beneath our feet yet are forgotten so easily, in their hundreds and thousands. And so many of them shar...