Punk Monk Press/Magazine

beth the summer of 2002, i turned thirteen i spent my days by the pool,  eating ice cream,  watching my friends braid each other’s hair i spent that summer in love with my life you had an abortion. we were never close friends,  truthfully i was a bit skeptical of you, because your best friend always looked like she would beat my ass, but i now know she was protective of you when others should have been.  i told my mom i felt sorry for you but she scoffed because abortions aren’t talked about in my family because it’s a sin, so i was told, but you were thirteen and my first thought was, will you bleed out, and who will braid your hair while you recover? my aunt’s mom called you and your family -trash- and  -how could you take an innocent life-  but the rumor was your boyfriend was twenty five and your parents let him stay at your house in your bed, in your pants because if you were out of their hair, they didn’t care who played with your’s.  one day aft...

Driving Through Maine when you’re unexpectedly invited to dinner but you hate to arrive  empty handed you find an open gas station on Route 1 with a young clerk her eye not really black  but shades of purple and yellow and green her hair  defiantly swept up  off her face  held back by a polka dot scrunchy the kind you wore in eighth grade her ponytail the color of Taylor’s old money blonde but she’s probably heard  dish-water and dirty her whole life you buy a two-liter of rootbeer and some festive cookies. the young clerk approves says she doesn’t buy  pretty cookies because they never  taste good but these  are “the real deal.” and you never pray, but tonight  you hope for the best.

I bought a death note journal. Poetry is the only name I wrote down. It seems to have not worked, Because time is already doing the job. I’m just here to bury the casket. Pretend to be Poe and Kaur If their high art, Walmart wouldn’t even sell your knockoffs. There's no message understandable For the common man and woman, Exclusive for the unemployed degrees. Another poet hates modern poetry. What a surprise. Give us an award. I said “us” 'cause it’s not just me; I’m speaking for the outcasts. We say let it burn, Because editors casted us out For telling “our truth.” There is no “our truth.” Reality is controlled by culture, And they’re speaking for the record That this is a rotting corpse. --Ethan McKnight

Poser I take the order of a punk with a jacket littered with patches and pins  that are not timid in the way I so often am.  The only good fascist is a dead fascist  adorns his breast and when I compliment it his face lights up, the word  brother  rolling off his tongue as he reaches out a fist to consummate  the connection.  When the next person in line takes too much time to fish their platinum card out of their Dolce and Gabbana wallet, I grit my teeth into a smile and dream of anarchy. --Conor Whalen

First Date   We were walking in the woods at night in December. I knew when I first spoke to him that he’d let me be weird, which I appreciated, so there we were. The tree branches looked like emaciated limbs. It would have been terrifying if I’d been alone. He was wearing a varsity jacket, but he was rich and only played tennis which he forced me to do when he eventually decided he was going to hate me. I don’t think we held hands, but he offered me his leather gloves. It made sense that he used to ride a motorcycle. He was so hot I figured he probably wanted to kill himself sometimes. That’s usually how it goes.  While I looked between tree trunks for ghosts, I told him about a dream I had where I stuck my head in an oven. And another where doctors were cutting my feet open to cure the Alzheimer’s I had. It’s because I’m on antidepressants. Oh my God, that’s insane, he said. I smiled at him and imagined what it’d be like to have him on top of me. He said, I used to have a th...