Punk Monk Press/Magazine

  --Michael Moreth

Maybe money won't make me happy But it will make me happier That I am not drowning in debt That I can at least breathe That my self-worth though Not tied to piles of green Is not judged on unpaid bills That I do not have to juggle Dignity and solvency But claim humanity In a system of bad checks And social imbalances. --Mark Antony Rossi

Washington Senators   Whose autograph would you rather have, Albert Einstein  or Taylor Swift?  Pedro Ramos, a pitcher,  ran the fastest of any in the Majors.   His cursive scrolls across blue-lined paper;  his thin, curvy lips, good eyes, light brown hair,  a contrast to swarthy Camilo Pascual, the better pitcher.   Both are Washington Senators, the American League cellar.   Pedro about to board a bus outside Yankee Stadium,  the sky overcast, I hand him pen and paper, see his signature. He and Camilo raised in Batista’s Cuba, Pascual is the Senators’ ace. My friend Ray    Birmingham, a renowned coach, could tell you their best pitches. The name’s letters glide above a blue line, Ramos glides  across outfield grass, timed, faster than all other pitchers. I lost the autograph,    the paper in folds, that lay on a walnut end table. Who won that day?  Ray could tell me about the ‘57 Senators’ starters. Pascual already on the bus, my life and Ramos’s collide. --Pete Mladinic

Think tankie: combat boots and  a dirty rag  tied over your mouth.  Face streaked with tears from the gas but oh how they will gasp at your silhouette as you toss Molotov cocktails at the pigs.  Smile for the cameras, for the  revolution will be printed in 8 x 5  glossy black and white. Sashay and  slay capitalism. Lace your boots with  rainbow ribbons because IYKYK.  Make sure you have the snazziest  placard on the picket line.  Bulletproof vests are a must  must for fall. All the cool kids have manifestos. Anarchy tattoo optional. But preferred.  --Ly Faulk 

  Written on Wadawurrung land (commonly known as Ballarat, Victoria)   SMS from my mother:   Hope you got yourself a decent hostel this time.      Yes. Everything I wanted                           – I reply      from my lumpy top bunk, rattling only slightly with the thrum  of a skinhead band in the bar below, screaming,   WE WISH AUSTRALIA HAD ITS GUNS BACK.      The yellow pillow smells   of damp walls that smell   of smoked cones and spent sweat,   nightmare lust and midnight yiros.  Still I wrap it tighter round my ears,   turning sharp knife words blunt.      I do lie – but never to my mother.    I wanted this, much as I’m hating this.    I came to find the real Australia,   to sleep with the real Australia   and be sleepless with Australia   – the splitting too-much of it,   the shadows piled inside   every politician’s scripted speech   and unscripted gaffe   – the Australia that shouted down a carbon-tax   and yearly lights up fireworks   to commemorate all it razed   with tho

The boy waited in the darkness until he was certain that they were gone, until he couldn’t hear their muffled giggles in anticipation. Then, he straightened his arms to reach the surface, imagining himself swimming, imagining the hard and soft things he pushed aside to be the resistance of clean water. Some of these things, though, were wet and stuck to his slim fingers, he didn’t know what they were, but the smell prickled in his nostrils. He remembered that this wasn’t water but that these were garbage bags, and he was just getting used to the stench. He pushed the lid open and peeked halfway out of the garbage bin. The fresh air cooled him, it started to get hot in there. He turned to the street to see the empty alleyway but met the eyes of a girl instead. She was about his age, her hair was wild, pretty but in need of a wash. She wore a trench coat that was too big for her, making her appear smaller than she already was. They stared at each other for a while. He decided to push him

Black nail polish, chips into my morning cereal, sunrise oclock, my eyes aren't even awake yet, and I reek of vodka, from a night of chewing my nails, and watching bands thrash.  Fast forward, and little do I know, that in three years, a sober life would take me, right after your death, because one of us. must find a way, to carry on.  --Arthur DeHart