Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Poser I take the order of a punk with a jacket littered with patches and pins  that are not timid in the way I so often am.  The only good fascist is a dead fascist  adorns his breast and when I compliment it his face lights up, the word  brother  rolling off his tongue as he reaches out a fist to consummate  the connection.  When the next person in line takes too much time to fish their platinum card out of their Dolce and Gabbana wallet, I grit my teeth into a smile and dream of anarchy. --Conor Whalen

First Date   We were walking in the woods at night in December. I knew when I first spoke to him that he’d let me be weird, which I appreciated, so there we were. The tree branches looked like emaciated limbs. It would have been terrifying if I’d been alone. He was wearing a varsity jacket, but he was rich and only played tennis which he forced me to do when he eventually decided he was going to hate me. I don’t think we held hands, but he offered me his leather gloves. It made sense that he used to ride a motorcycle. He was so hot I figured he probably wanted to kill himself sometimes. That’s usually how it goes.  While I looked between tree trunks for ghosts, I told him about a dream I had where I stuck my head in an oven. And another where doctors were cutting my feet open to cure the Alzheimer’s I had. It’s because I’m on antidepressants. Oh my God, that’s insane, he said. I smiled at him and imagined what it’d be like to have him on top of me. He said, I used to have a therapist,