Punk Monk Press/Magazine

brooklyn blows trump gas 5 th  avenue apple hookah smells for a tuesday night i think i mean i hope they never fix this liquor store sign so beautiful half-pink neon uor like an exotic language mixing with the night my stomach hunger growls at the scent of kabobs lamb pyramids hanging in restaurant windows i walk behind two arab girls big american flag bags slung over small shoulders talking pop music new tv shows still not enough evidence for him who dips down low sneers in their faces says something i cannot hear stop stuns them walks off ofay proud like the king of america strolling home on a dead summer night. --John Grochalski 

sure dress me in fur but then wait for the teeth the tempest outside has died down, shattered the lawn ornaments, now the storm is inside --Angelica Fuse

The Night  ~~~ we didn’t want to see the body the smell was coming from her apartment and our mother had shot herself. I said I wanted proof she was dead I asked, “Are you sure you burned the right body?” the urn was so small. copper, tastefully etched later, my brother and I got so drunk we got into a fight, took it out to the street I tried to hit him and missed. ~~~ In The Seat Beside Me  ~~~ I can feel the knots the odd angles, the bones, want to tell her to run, run, run but deep inside, I know she will just go home. She sits so close to me, pressed against her seat the damage rippling under her thin skin hands shaking. ~~~ --Holly Day