Punk Monk Press/Magazine

  -- Kurt Cole Eidsvig

You took the words right out of my mouth, Sitting in that tree so many months ago. A tree older than time itself. Seeded before the bastard sons of our grandfathers grandfathers came across the ocean to rape and colonize this land.  You rolled your spliff so tight, Nestled in the crotch of your fingers. Your teeth shining down on me,  I didn't think in that moment that three months later I'd be falling in love with you, And three months later you'd be breaking my heart, And three months after that I'd be sober. The heart corrupts the mind, Much like cocaine.  That flood of euphoria and arousal,  How I can't get enough Of your eyes, Your nose, Your scent, Your hips, Your breast,  Your teeth, Because when you bite, You leave marks, And when that smile wanes across your lips, You leave scars,  Long after we have parted ways I'm still thinking about you.  Your bite. Your smile. Long after we have been together, I still think about you.  I still think, I'm still.

We’d never had power before.    We were nerds; we negotiated Indian burns instead of beatings, bargained to get back twenty-five percent of our lunch money. Even Petro, already a boy-mountain, didn’t have power before John had a car. I climbed into the backseat and Petro handed me a water balloon, a dozen or so rolling around at his feet, and John asked for directions.    It was a beautiful June day, sunny and hot but not sticky yet, and I directed us to a neighborhood with sidewalks and people we could shower with water. We drove slow loops through the streets and didn’t see anyone; they were inside, or in backyard in-ground pools, gathered around barbecue grills. All we saw was one girl, our age more or less, walking by herself, nodding her head to the Walkman in her hand. We drove by, ready, and let fly. All our missiles missed and she dismissed us with a look.    We circled the block and came from the other direction, tried again. She shrank and turned her back on us. We launched o

… as he looked up …   his hand brushed –  sharply, pushed really – the glass of hot coffee over on his computer, and he was seen swearing around the village for generations …  Birds whose names start with “t” are as follows (pause) :   Robin – Weeping willow Campbell’s soup Thomas Payne The TV series MADMEN Dancing  ( pause, dance, pause dance )  …  …  when my mother, my true and honest mother, my theatrical, demonstrative,  “come get the funny while you can” mother died … All the men in Holland baked apple pies  …  Whereas the Northerners were called carpetbaggers because they were migrating to South Carolina.    How many children are dying?   UNICEF says that 29,000 children are dying each day.  My father fell face down in the mud and then swore never to drink again. -- Marc Isaac Potter