Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Elegy for a Frightened Rabbit #1 I didn’t listen to your music until after you died /  something about your voice // too scottish // no // too  honest // so honest / I was afraid / because I’ve got a bridge too //  every time I cross it / I stumble back years // I fell in love / got addicted  to the feeling /of being their fix // sometimes / I still want / to step out / into the sea / fully clothed /   float away / / --Nico Penaaranda

A good indicator of health   There’s a price for preparing breakfast— “Mommy makes it best!”— pleading for my children to wake Daddy, can’t let them see my fear as I  lie  paralyzed on the couch, thankful  to retain the power  of speech.   I no longer wash my own hair and body, my once-a-week shower  leaves me collapsed in bed,  with leaden limbs.   My entire body quivers with the effort of the trek  from bathroom to couch, as I grip my rollator like a marathoner  clinging to support as they stumble across the finish line.   But, good news! The doctor declares me healthy,  for every 28 days I bleed. --Kristin Houlihan 

Sometimes We Outgrow Things   My husband collects things that are brown. Sepia, mahogany, burnt sienna, cocoa, taupe – all the browns you can think of, in nature and in Pantone. It’s a grounding color. He needs grounding.  He’s easy to buy presents for, though – anything brown. He was overjoyed when I presented him with the copper replica of a motorbike he had when he was young. He displays it with a brown-uniformed action figure of some alien or something, I don’t know what it is. The action figure is barely taller than the wheels on the copper motorbike.  “Perfect proportions,” my husband says, beaming. “That’s how small I felt compared to my motorbike. God the power in that thing!”  I’ve seen pictures, it was a 200cc is all. But I don’t want to question his bravery. “Chicks dig motorbikes,” he tells me. “My teacher told me in fifth grade.” I picture him, putting along the street, the back of his seat empty, him in goggles and an aviator’s abandoned helmet, cruising for chicks. At ag

SONGS ON A MARCH FOR WOMEN’S LIVES     (a frontline report in the form of a poem) My baby don’t mess around, Code Pink Girls know what happens when you mess around in Washington D.C. on April 24, 2004,  don’t mess with us now. a   One, two, three, four! Code Pink Girls have a routine; four to a line, 4 – 8 -- 12 –16, palms up, palms down,  my baby don’t mess around until the right-to-lifers break the line and then the dance really begins, Code Pink Girls shimmy up, join arms around the outraged, red faced, bloody fetus  placard waving young man, belly to belly with the rage, gently  dance him back behind police lines. Hey Ya!   Here we are  – “Post Menopausal Women Nostalgic For Choice” marching next to aqua t-shirted “Not In My Lifetime!” twenty-two year olds.    We’re all here and we won’t go back We won’t go back It’s too late to turn back now I believe I believe  I’m falling in love but it’s still my body. Hey ya!    All together now Black, white, male, female, old, young, rich, po