Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I was born a Christian, baptized of my sins, before I could walk. I tried to be a Muslim for two years. I didn’t eat pork, I took Aptes – ritual ablutions. I tattooed my ribs with “only god can judge.” An atheist in my spare time, when I wanted to sin. I ended up with no religion- though I prayed to God sometimes in the back of the bar on my knees for a man I just met. I had no religion, no religion except lust.  --Kristen Williamson 

Death Grips dropped a single today. I am  syncing myself with MC Ride to build an agreeable day,  got to teach myself the sounds of glitches, and  the lost art of breaking limits. I feel pretty good,  J Dilla kind of flow is kicking here.  survive another bout of empty feelings. Check.  call your wife at work. Check.  read friend's poems on Facebook. Check.  be humble. Check.  drink a lot of water. Check.  don't use the word "Love" in vain. Check.  don't forget parents' hard work. Check.  don't get bogged down by the Matrix. Check.  keep it gangster. Check. Break the rules.   I am not afraid to admit, this is an ugly  world I live in. Naturalists, Romantics disagree.  I take a sip of the lager. Beer-buds,  that is all you need to make the world a better place.  Get wasted on week-days sometimes.  "I make the money, man, I roll the nickels.  The game is mine. I deal the cards."* I live noise every day, but

This piece was originally performed on May 22 @ Cha Island for our local Speak Your Peace event! It was awesome. You shoulda been.  Now, if you could please stop every fuck-suckin, tickin clock -- cause time will soon be departing off- on a plane from this existence much like none of your dissonance Ya must trust its about to get weird and then queerd and then just on and on after thaat No tricks, I shit you not, I’m a fuckin space warlock and I got endless treats in my invisible hat You’ve nothing to fear, unless you take issue with queers and if so , before you hit the door lemme lick up them cishet tears Cause those in the know call me Sharpe and rightfully goddamn so my syntax will slice you slicker than any razor I wield in my professional field and with precision my words will envelope your vision much like the glitter I drop as I chopchop any busy-body cissy that can’t intimidate So don’t be marshin in my mellow, I don’t hesitate I will rough up a

Searching for Birdland by Bill Peterson “Yes, sir, you got the right street—44 th —an’ you’re headin’ the right way—west.  The club is just in the next block, other side of the street—north side.  Might be able to see…no, can’t quite see it from here, but when you get to the lights, go to the other side of the street and watch for the sign, about the middle of the block.” “Thanks for your help, I appreciate it.”  Fumbling in wallet for a dollar bill, which changes hands. “Thank you, sir.  I’m not a jazz man, but I understand they get good jazz there.  Been there a long time.  You enjoy your evening, sir.” Relieved, I walk on to the intersection.  Getting close to showtime.  Underestimated the time to get here; thought it would be straightforward from the address. Didn’t realize I’d have to work my way around Grand Central Station.  Then there was  Times Square , with wall-to-wall people and the overwhelming light show. I was disoriented, took some time to find  44 th