Punk Monk Press/Magazine

there's a place in my mind where the flowers grow wild I'd dance there for hours when I was a child I go to that place when I feel all alone that place with the flowers is where I feel home I'd lie in the grass and stare at the sky pictures in my mind of the clouds that pass by the vines all around would grow over my body and cover my eyes like the dark that surrounds me when I breathe in the air the sweet sounds of harmony the ground that rumbles so softly beneath me nobody can come to this place in my mind this place is too precious for those of your kind --Riesa McCumsey 

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but better days have come             i wipe the sweat             smell piss on my knuckles             abortion residue             drips down my leg             dogs will piss on my grave i’m coming into a moon             full of pock marks             jealous old lantern             lights my night             lights my route             down rockaway blvd             into blue-black alleys             where i give 20 dollar blowjobs and in the morning i see Rico at the newsstand             he gives me free smokes             tells me to get some money to my kids             who live with my mother             or my sister             maybe even a foster fondler             who will rip little wombs open crack             i

It's six A.M.  I boil the kettle  and prepare my coffee, strong  no sugar, a dark brooding  concoction,  stirring,  entwined  in  a mad ballet dance  with a spoon, destine never to be silver. Click On the television the  news anchors speak of unimaginable suffering, they seem to have a blood  lust in their eyes.  Blood lust Like  Modern day gladiators Gladiators tucked  safely   behind shiny new laptop shields.   And seated like Roman  emperors  upon a leather covered throne, their  courtroom, the pomp of brightly lit news  studios.   The lower ranks, take to the  battlefield  of urban blood  letting.  Reporters crowing at the  blood  shed rising, in the  hissing sun, a new day comes kicking and screaming into  fruition. The  Paranas  prepare to feast, sharping fangs, a feast of blood and meat, of meat and blood.