Punk Monk Press/Magazine

  --Danny D Ford

Torturous minutes in horse stance, legs quivering in a converted Castro garage,  quads burning like a welder’s torch, feet pounding a wooden floor. Kiai!   I yelled, then advanced,  Kiai!  I yelled again as I    kicked, crisp snap of my white cotton gi as I struck an imaginary opponent, sweat dripping down newly my acquired pecs, unfamiliar bulges I feared were breast cancers not breastplate. Systematic aggression  disguised as graceful katas drilled again  and again to hone a sharp blade of anger—  a defense against perceived threats to my liberated womanhood. Belted triumphs: yellow, orange, green, blue, purple—increasingly dark hues, a progression towards lethality until the day  I actually struck a woman, her defensive  gloves failing to rise in our choreographed spar.  My fist smacked hard into her face. Her body spun like a paint wheel, blood-spattered walls, a Jackson Pollack canvas. I froze,    the tails of my purple belt dangling, stuffed leather mitts hanging heavy  at my sid

 Rebel Reviews is a new section of Punk Monk written by C.E. Hoffman. Click here to learn more/submit a review request.  We’re All Mad Here: TC Pescatore’s The Boxcar Bop  Say Kathy Acker donned a space suit. Kurt Vonnegut watched 2001 Space Odyssey on acid. Horace McCoy broke into the fifth dimension. William Burroughs' ghost rode a caterpillar through a 1930s movie set.  That’s the kind of whacky, wonderful, wordy weirdness to expect in TC Pescatore’s “surrealist sci-fi(?) hobo novella”, The Boxcar Bop , out from RunAmok Books.  This wasn’t the review request I expected. I was gifted a word doc by Tom, ever a joy to work with. He apologized (!) about the doc being in boring ol’ Times New Roman, indicating the novella utilizes various fonts.  Curiouser and curiouser!  This book’s a feast for the eyes AND brain, though I guess they tend to fraternize what with that optic nerve. One is delighted to find levity amidst the madness, a sort of junkyard space helmet for this topsy turvy

I want to die with a retirement account  That makes people gasp.  I’ll show everyone I made it big.  Working my entire life to save smartly.    Sixty-hour weeks, small important detail.   I want to lay on my deathbed And curse everyone who told me I couldn’t do it I’ll shake my fist at the ceiling and say: “You suckers!” And I’ll celebrate my thirtieth birthday   Being lowered into the ground, With a nice small number on the screen. --Hunter Craig

This very moment I looked into the sky, I heard a roar, I saw helicopter blades spinning I wondered about its story Was its gallant movement sign of luxury? People screamed "what a sweet gig!" then I suddenly remembered once upon a time, I was in that ride it wasn't luxury, neither was at will I was simply fighting for my life! -Monica Bastola

Hey, pals!  Due to an incredible influx of acceptances (we're stacked for pubs until AUGUST), we had to temporarily shut our doors.  I am delighted to announce we are again  OPEN FOR SUBMISSIONS !  We've updated our guidelines; please read thoroughly before sending your awesome words/art/whatever.  AND!!!!  I am VERY excited to announce a new branch of the magazine!  For the first time, Punk Monk is open to review requests!  We will be reviewing books, collections, novellas, chapbooks, and microchaps. (Fiction, poetry, non-fiction, art, hybrid, ANYTHING accepted.) Our aim is to publish 1-4 reviews a month.   All reviews will be written by me, C.E. Hoffman .  This has been a long time coming, inspired by my personal frustrations seeking cool alt lit spaces that accept ARCs for review.  Many mags accept pre-written reviews, but won't review works in-house. This creates an unfortunate barrier for authors trying to promote their work.  I want to help reduce that barrier. Writer

It had been raining on and off for the three days we held vigil in his room in the barren ICU. Red-eyed and hungry, we stood in our hunched-over way, or sat tentatively on edge of folding molded-plastic chairs while he, uncomfortably full of tubes and lifelines he never wanted, (apparently a DNR holds no sway when a person codes in an ambulance) slowly and with great effort, brought a nickel to the surface of the Lotto ticket, etching away at the filmy gray that covered what was sure to be a big hit. Already having defied the odds of living through a botched CPR attempt that left him alive, but with a hole in his right lung, the “Good” one, the one not totally filled to the brim with the ravages of COPD, he stared at the ticket, eyes shining with the glow of a winner. The left lung was the “Bad” one before a burly guy in a blue uniform blew out the right one as he ham-handed my fragile, strong, limitless father, my daddy, my gruff, sweet, luminous “Pops.” He repositioned in the slim wh

My mother has two sisters and while growing up boys weren’t allowed over. Not unsupervised, and especially not in the dark. But I  know  that’s where it happened,  in the dark , like most things. Something in the way it is spoken about.  Innocence is  lost , the girl has been  deflowered , Cherry has been  popped ? And if you can manage to get past that and haven't been told, well, it  hurts  too. But I was hungry for something that  only  lived in the dark. This thing, this right of passage, this introduction into the world of self-worth through my literal bones and body was the monster I touched myself to when no one was home. I wanted it so badly I feared it. Sex.  I will never forget the irony of babysitting that night. To have been the protector of another's laughing innocence  “Make sure no one burns the house down or  goes running through the hall with scissors.”  But somewhere in between warming chicken nuggets, pouring red juice and fanning flames I forgot my virginity