Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Hey, all!  I'm so excited to officially announce the first three chapbook titles acquired by Punk Monk Press, release dates TBA:  Children of Fire by Irena Praitis  When You Know by Lacey Cohen  Backpack by Kit E Lascher  Each of these works possesses a daring voice and beautiful message, emulating the Punk Monk ethos in their own unique way. I am inspired by each of these authors and honoured that they chose to submit something to my humble corner of the publishing world. I am learning every step of the way and deeply appreciate their continued patience, flexibility, and openness.  When available, titles will be able to be purchased from our store, and possibly on Amazon if we decide to go that route. Primary dissemination will be via local zine fares and markets in Canada. If any reviewer/book blogger is interested in an ARC, please contact the editor (me) via my personal website cehoffman.net!  Punk Monk Press will remain closed to new chapbook submissions for a while. I want to

She faces the buttons. Going up, Floor 34.                                   The uniform hat perches on her slick and gleaming bun: Regulation size. Regulation lipstick, regulation gloves, regulation heels (they measure them in the morning).   If you ask how often A hand brushed against the back of her skirt (regulation length) Or fingers lingered on her waist (regulation width) She’d hide her teeth with her hand cock her head to the side    If she hears another joke about pressing her buttons Or how the business is going (It has its ups and downs) her shoulders will shake  With the laughter that bounces off four glass walls   But at night, after a bath she shares with three generations In a cramped apartment a train ride away Where they turn off the lights to save the yen   Her fingers grip the futon   When she closes her eyes she goes up and down Inner ear confusing movement with memory   And as she sleeps, her teeth clench and unclench Buttons pressed over and over Grinding against

Thank my brother who told my mom that even though he is different now we have to learn to love him this way thank my friend who left a book about recognizing the signs of PTSD on the dashboard of my car thank my daughter who when I ask what she remembers about the time I was in Afghanistan says I only remember how much I missed you thank my wife who stayed even when I tried to drive her away when I tried to set fire to anyone who wanted to say they understand thank everyone thank anyone but me thank all the people who lived through this long march I am still making all the way back to a place I still can’t call home. --Matthew Borczon