Punk Monk Magazine

  “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, Da wouldn’t be a p

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

  -- Kurt Cole Eidsvig

You took the words right out of my mouth, Sitting in that tree so many months ago. A tree older than time itself. Seeded before the bastard sons of our grandfathers grandfathers came across the ocean to rape and colonize this land.  You rolled your spliff so tight, Nestled in the crotch of your fingers. Your teeth shining down on me,  I didn't think in that moment that three months later I'd be falling in love with you, And three months later you'd be breaking my heart, And three months after that I'd be sober. The heart corrupts the mind, Much like cocaine.  That flood of euphoria and arousal,  How I can't get enough Of your eyes, Your nose, Your scent, Your hips, Your breast,  Your teeth, Because when you bite, You leave marks, And when that smile wanes across your lips, You leave scars,  Long after we have parted ways I'm still thinking about you.  Your bite. Your smile. Long after we have been together, I still think about you.  I still think, I'm still.

We’d never had power before.    We were nerds; we negotiated Indian burns instead of beatings, bargained to get back twenty-five percent of our lunch money. Even Petro, already a boy-mountain, didn’t have power before John had a car. I climbed into the backseat and Petro handed me a water balloon, a dozen or so rolling around at his feet, and John asked for directions.    It was a beautiful June day, sunny and hot but not sticky yet, and I directed us to a neighborhood with sidewalks and people we could shower with water. We drove slow loops through the streets and didn’t see anyone; they were inside, or in backyard in-ground pools, gathered around barbecue grills. All we saw was one girl, our age more or less, walking by herself, nodding her head to the Walkman in her hand. We drove by, ready, and let fly. All our missiles missed and she dismissed us with a look.    We circled the block and came from the other direction, tried again. She shrank and turned her back on us. We launched o

… as he looked up …   his hand brushed –  sharply, pushed really – the glass of hot coffee over on his computer, and he was seen swearing around the village for generations …  Birds whose names start with “t” are as follows (pause) :   Robin – Weeping willow Campbell’s soup Thomas Payne The TV series MADMEN Dancing  ( pause, dance, pause dance )  …  …  when my mother, my true and honest mother, my theatrical, demonstrative,  “come get the funny while you can” mother died … All the men in Holland baked apple pies  …  Whereas the Northerners were called carpetbaggers because they were migrating to South Carolina.    How many children are dying?   UNICEF says that 29,000 children are dying each day.  My father fell face down in the mud and then swore never to drink again. -- Marc Isaac Potter