Punk Monk Press/Magazine

The revolution will begin at home: I will draw moustaches and horns on the ancestral faces in the photo albums, translate my waltz memories into breakdance routines for the skeletons in the closets. I must listen to myself, gather my input, conduct a needs survey, form a one-man focus group, appoint me as facilitator; and if it doesn’t work out, I must let me go, no severance package, no staff farewell party, and carry on by myself— demand more relevance, transparency, accountability— and if I don’t cooperate, but instead stonewall, co-opt, buy time, then I need to occupy myself, set up a tent on my porch, ladle out communal soup, wiggle my fingers in consensus with persons unknown, instigate civil disobedience, chant, wave placards in my face, grin belligerently as I’m taken down by the usual father-figure policeman, cuffed and locked in the paddy wagon, placed once again in the familiar solitary confinement. I will scratch the number of days served into th

I wear red when I go visit him Jesus-cripsies, I never used to wear red. When we met I was high as a red kite at sunset, I must have been quite a fucking sweaty, muddy, vibrating sight of a kite, because looking through my huge pupils I caught him looking at me. 5 am and I had never felt so alive. (Thank all possible gods for acid.) He had red on his hat. I was wearing red when we met, and he wears red, so I wear red when I go visit him. Red doesn’t promise it’s viewer much (unlike blue, or green). Red Merely announces itself. but I wear red when I go visit him, Merely announcing myself. Red like Paul Maul 25 pack. Red like the handkerchief perfectly folded and calculated to hang out of his back pocket just the right way. It’s crumpled by evening, eventually cast on top of faded and worn books with red covers beside his bed when he passes out, red numbers on an alarm clock proclaiming 5 am . The plan B package is always blue, by the way, and is the perfect size to be hidden