Punk Monk Press/Magazine

So here I am. in the company of the world's true assholes. shit kickers. blood spitters, ex-dancers from the Foxy Lady. shoplifters, ball squeezers and bag snatchers. I'm hidden in a ratty apartment overwhelmed by fleas. I'm surrounded by stale cigarette smoke. walls of candied smut. I walk on urine floorboards. I sleep in a garroted gambler's bed. The last good high says it best: Smash the gin bottles. Crank up the fire with whatever furniture is left. Toss the much-used condom out the window. Spare the needle and spoil the arm. Throw up in the sink. while you’re at it. I live with the worst roommates necessity could come up with. But without them. I could never make the rent. And without their crazies, you're not reading this. --John Grey

Saint             FOR WENDY DAVIS At seven I asked to name my new sister Wendy so I could fly with Peter Pan. One Wendy friend here A second one there; she came she went until two thousand thirteen in June. A Bethlehem teardrop wet my cheek when a Texas Wendy rose in stature to an icon. Here stood an unwed mother in a race for justice the world watched another Mary. -- Sydney McQuoid