Three Prose/Poems Zines
Review from Antiquated Future: I love Tomas Moniz's writing. Rad Dad is one of my all time favorite zines, but I perhaps love the prose poem zines he's been writing over the course of the last couple years even more. They're incredibly inspiring, hilarious, political, body positive, and capture so many amazing and awkward moments. We just got some envelopes bursting with these zines and these are what I hope people will gift to their friends and lovers.
The Body is aWild Wild Thing
To Be Whole is To Be Part
Dirty
To get your own copy send 3 dollars to:
PO Box 3555
Berkeley, CA
94703
writer a letter, get a letter
The Body is aWild Wild Thing
To Be Whole is To Be Part
Dirty
To get your own copy send 3 dollars to:
PO Box 3555
Berkeley, CA
94703
writer a letter, get a letter
Here's a taste:
Asterisks
or, how I celebrate the New Year
I resolve
to break old patterns like lines in poems
I have yet to pen but quietly dictate to you
as we lay naked, and, while we’re on the subject
of bodies,
I promise to touch yours like manual typewriter keys,
pressing hard and firm, leaving bruises like asterisks,
gently returning the platen each time I get to your margin.
I commit
to writing less first person narrative poems,
employing less sexual metaphors like the one I was going to use
in the above stanza about a cock like an exclamation point!
I swear
off my festishized adoration
of German curse words
and tight black spandex; instead,
I decide
to dress better, to obey rules of grammar and syntax and etiquette,
to cite appropriately, to do unto others as I want done
to me, and, speaking of what I want done, how about forgiveness,
second chances;
please, let me unfuck that friend,
unopen that can of worms;
however, when cornered,
I vow
to cut and run, slash and grab, put my queer shoulder to the wheel
and, when desperate, I’ll gladly get on my knees to prove myself
to you if need be, my arms circling your waist like a belt holding up
your self-esteem,
so when you tell me there is no such thing
as coincidences on a winter afternoon
over green beans and veggie chicken,
I’ll proclaim
that my fate is to escape predestination
and meet you again
like Lazarus reborn, free of sin,
wearing new
shoes, the clack clack clack on the sidewalk
sounding like all my New Year’s resolutions
breaking before February.
Asterisks
or, how I celebrate the New Year
I resolve
to break old patterns like lines in poems
I have yet to pen but quietly dictate to you
as we lay naked, and, while we’re on the subject
of bodies,
I promise to touch yours like manual typewriter keys,
pressing hard and firm, leaving bruises like asterisks,
gently returning the platen each time I get to your margin.
I commit
to writing less first person narrative poems,
employing less sexual metaphors like the one I was going to use
in the above stanza about a cock like an exclamation point!
I swear
off my festishized adoration
of German curse words
and tight black spandex; instead,
I decide
to dress better, to obey rules of grammar and syntax and etiquette,
to cite appropriately, to do unto others as I want done
to me, and, speaking of what I want done, how about forgiveness,
second chances;
please, let me unfuck that friend,
unopen that can of worms;
however, when cornered,
I vow
to cut and run, slash and grab, put my queer shoulder to the wheel
and, when desperate, I’ll gladly get on my knees to prove myself
to you if need be, my arms circling your waist like a belt holding up
your self-esteem,
so when you tell me there is no such thing
as coincidences on a winter afternoon
over green beans and veggie chicken,
I’ll proclaim
that my fate is to escape predestination
and meet you again
like Lazarus reborn, free of sin,
wearing new
shoes, the clack clack clack on the sidewalk
sounding like all my New Year’s resolutions
breaking before February.