Punk Monk Press/Magazine

She ran up to her room, cried with her head on the pillow, then threw up in the toilet. Finally, she slept and dreamed rutted roads, rotting barns, and twilight bats she took for songbirds. And then next morning, she felt grubby hands on her, middle aged men who leered from cars, or old farmers with liver spots. And she spat out all food. It tasted of cardboard left in the rain. And then she spent the afternoon with the boy she really wished had made her pregnant. They even kissed, tasted tongues. He grabbed at her breast with that explorer's eagerness, like it was the first time anyone was going there. His kisses were like white chocolate, sweet, but nothing that her stomach hadn't heard before. She longed to press her head against his chest and cry. Or even better, open him up and retch inside. Or open herself up and free her guts of the rutted roads, rotting barns, and those damn songbirds that she knew too well wer

This peace was originally performed on May 22 @ Cha Island for our local Speak Your Peace event! It was awesome. You shoulda been.  Status Quo  Fill out the form, schedule the meeting Though chance of improvement is definitely fleeting Honor “due process”, it's what you must follow Despite that the system is completely hollow That's the thing with chain of command. What it really means is you are on the bottom of the food chain. What they meant when they welcomed you on their crew, is you need to learn your place-cause you're new. Won't drink the Kool-Aid, at the toxic water cooler Though everyone insists, your dues must be paid. Perhaps this is why they hate, become terribly irate Wade in mediocrity pool. “Put up and shut up” is the silent, long-held rule. Sprinkle the egg-shells for this arduous dance We Cha-Cha around the truth we'll never tell. “Fabricate is a word we don't use in this house.” But we'll eagerly gobble assumptions and gossip at