Punk Monk Press/Magazine

This piece was originally performed at Cha Island on March 26, 2015 for our local Speak Your Peace! event. It was amazing. Radiation ~~~~~~~~~ My bones are not chalk And yet the osteoporosis that accompanies each fevered thought And impassioned expression of emotional and Unrestricted contemplation Reduces my wails to whispers, My screams to sighs I am stuck between two worlds, Held in orbit by The exoticism of my skin A mestiza of San Fernando and Bagio A Daughter of La Union and Benquet One of the many threads that weave together the Igorot The Estoestas, Panelas, Ulats, Advinculas, Everlistas, Anchetas, Riveras, Estoestas. Our skin is made of the grains of the mountains we carved, Freckled with sunshine flares, Rice water and coconut husks in the resolve of our feet, Our nails are pearls, Stronger than the very currents that shaped the islands we call home Yet We are held in orbit between two worlds Colonized over and over and over again, Eroding th...

The revolution will begin at home: I will draw moustaches and horns on the ancestral faces in the photo albums, translate my waltz memories into breakdance routines for the skeletons in the closets. I must listen to myself, gather my input, conduct a needs survey, form a one-man focus group, appoint me as facilitator; and if it doesn’t work out, I must let me go, no severance package, no staff farewell party, and carry on by myself— demand more relevance, transparency, accountability— and if I don’t cooperate, but instead stonewall, co-opt, buy time, then I need to occupy myself, set up a tent on my porch, ladle out communal soup, wiggle my fingers in consensus with persons unknown, instigate civil disobedience, chant, wave placards in my face, grin belligerently as I’m taken down by the usual father-figure policeman, cuffed and locked in the paddy wagon, placed once again in the familiar solitary confinement. I will scratch the number of days served into th...

I wear red when I go visit him Jesus-cripsies, I never used to wear red. When we met I was high as a red kite at sunset, I must have been quite a fucking sweaty, muddy, vibrating sight of a kite, because looking through my huge pupils I caught him looking at me. 5 am and I had never felt so alive. (Thank all possible gods for acid.) He had red on his hat. I was wearing red when we met, and he wears red, so I wear red when I go visit him. Red doesn’t promise it’s viewer much (unlike blue, or green). Red Merely announces itself. but I wear red when I go visit him, Merely announcing myself. Red like Paul Maul 25 pack. Red like the handkerchief perfectly folded and calculated to hang out of his back pocket just the right way. It’s crumpled by evening, eventually cast on top of faded and worn books with red covers beside his bed when he passes out, red numbers on an alarm clock proclaiming 5 am . The plan B package is always blue, by the way, and is the perfect size to be hidden ...

***ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN OUR FIRST PRINT EDITION. MSG VISCERALUTERUS@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT TITLE ZINE ORDER IF YOU WANNA COPY.*** She straddles the coffee table and takes a hit. Tendrils of smoke caress her face as they escape her mouth and dissolve into the ether. A dreamy haze floods her eyes; a smile creeps across her face. We are now both sufficiently high enough to go munch out at Mill Creek Café. We gather the necessities and head for the door, making it halfway up the stairs when my stupor is penetrated by one simple question from Our Editor: "Did you remember your pen and notepad?" Shit. Upon re-entering the premises, I suggest we take another hit. It seems like the right thing to do- we did come all the way down a half a flight of stairs, after all! We do another rip and head out. On our way back up the stairs, she beams: "Forgot your notepad again, didn’t you." Fuck sake! That last bong hit was clearly unnecessary. I trudge back down...

There was a time  when I was a younger man,  but probably should have still been considered  just a boy,  when I was so desperate  for a high  that I huffed spray paint  from a paper bag.  All the alcohol and marijuana was gone.  All the pills and cocaine were gone.  All the ecstasy and acid was gone.  It was either sniff glue or huff paint,  and I chose the latter because  I'd already tried the former earlier.  My roommate and I  had just returned to the house  after a weekend in Athens  full of football and parties.  We smoked the last roach  on the drive back,  but it did nothing for the hangover.  I'd been in a two day stupor,  and the only relics that remained  from the experience  were the sloppy suicide notes in my jean pocket.  I'd been frustrated  after getting rejected by a girl  who had flirted with me all day  ...

I need time in my own head to feel grounded So that I don't feel lost with all you others. But I went under too long and came up empty handed. If you thought the world was a deep dark ocean take a good long look inside of yourself and see if you still recognize the sound of your own laughter. --Neal Wagram

             Don't be sad pink cat I'm coming back out of the night but it's cold so       I might not be the same in the morning           but you liked that about me      because even though your eyes don't add up when you're speaking straight              at me above the noise of your girlfriend's spazzy heart attack     as I nuzzle you with a slow dance the others think is                                                               because of the size of my   but wasn't all that a long time ago when the silences promised one more go around   when all I wanted was to lie to you for no rewards to the ones for whom the night-birds dance     ...