T H E A R T P A R T Y 

a b o u t !    ~    a r t !    ~    i s s u e s !    ~    p r o p a g a n d a !    ~    j o i n !    ~    e v e n t s !    ~    c o n t a c t !


Monday, November 5, 2007


house not home

all doors closed
all thoughts unlocked
we sit and breathe in
the living room, sticky
with spills and poison
sickly lights and sounds
of sirens spill
into our rabbit hole
we let ourselves get trapped
in here, despite
all doors no locks
we say we don't believe in fences
so who's to blame
when the puppy keeps, cat-like,
squeezing himself through
the balcony's white picket posts?
we lay ourselves down like dogs
and kick until we fall asleep
can i take you home with me?
on second thought
perhaps not
it seems i've lost the way
and our back door
(left open before)
it seems to have gone astray
there's ghosts inside the walls
cockroaches in the compost
a layer of ash over everything
we tell ourselves we'll one day sing
instead we oil rusty heads
and drink until we cannot think
again and fall down dead
again and somehow stumble to a bed


when I catch that smell I smile instantly
I remember that I am breathing
layers of dried sweat, sex, acrylic, liquor, dirt
tell the story of these last few train hops
open, the wind and rain and elements
kick at your frame, jammed into a train
the whistle blows and I think of your face
(and they've got a warrant out for your arrest,
you can't go back to Texass)
smiles and smell and stories to tell
me about these days' journey home
is where you are
laying your head in my lap
burying my face in your overalls
realizing my fullness, swoon
to the moon and sing sweet
like the ground herbs you take in your tea
so adventure stained all your clothes
but not me
was left there at the yard
as it emptied, smoke coloring my hair,
the hungry black monsters pulled you away
I smell my self to conjure you
but it's just not the same
I am too sweet and small,
you are gone too many trains away
sometimes I think I smell you in the wind,
or in the heaving crowd at punk shows
when I catch that smell I smile instantly
I can only breathe

Tuesday, November 06, 2007


Name that Quote. Ten Points or More, I Swear it.

how nice to feel happy again.
this time cold fingers don't clench a fading heart.
there is heat in the smiles
of my rebellious compatriots.
they are young, strung and pretty.
and though i used to feel shitty,
it takes but a short time
to unburden my soul.
"torture comes and torture goes"
but what one must do is
outlive the woes,
and hold on to some glorious,
sliver of hope.
i know it can feel so pointless
to look towards the glowing dawn,
but we must.
and give our trust
to the ones who help us to
our feet
when the night is black
and we trip over our own tongues.
trading beers for tears,
songs for longing sighs.
so like i said,
it's cold out,
but there's a dr. pepper on the table,
and anna's reading fables,
and i'm feeling more than able
to carry on.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

sinking into the sweet lavendar
of my mama's purple pillow
it's the best place in the house
to stare at the back of your eyelids
the soothing singing of the shower head
floats through the closed door next door
i know mama is inside preparing for
her favorite part of the day, almost time
to sleep,
to prepare her body and soul for the chore
of tomorrow's striking resemblance
to today
my mother loves her bath time
"kill me kill me kill me kill me"
loud, tinkling voice bounces off the white tiles
it's true that i can't help but smile
it's true, i always knew
the faucet turns, the water stops
i lift a heavy body from bed
steam rushes through the opening door
but just before my glasses fog
i glimpse the mirror, my own face flinching
in surprise, next to my mother's,
warm and washed and well
i am her distorted echo,
broke up and kicking back same thoughts
"i'm goinna bed"
she gives herself to the sheets, the comfort
or the night
i flip the light

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


"menstral moon charts" haiku series

menstral moon charts are
implications of distant
ovarian worlds
women still contain
the old world magic men lost
in simple machines
men cower under
their control over Nature's
deaths and orgasms

Saturday, June 16, 2007


Lyrics / Cut-Ups

we surprised our resources
we found the course
we changed the river shape
so our grapes busted
so our handlebars rusted

country living in simple english
the punk kids stole the pink sun gulf coast
our bikes stabbed the lifeless
into midnight zombie street revolts

all awake all thinking
all aware brains spinning
brains spinning all aware
cocaine drove us home through the typhoon nightmare

if you squint toward the inspired
you'll see our blood in their wires
our internet daydream movement
set those machines on fire

the grass island the tunnel light
paradise postcards define our nights

Sunday, May 13, 2007


My Mother

found a baby
in a bucket
of sidewalk
chalk, talking

and perhaps
this was how
we met. I forget.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

the summer comes caked with blue jewel pools.
your garden hose spills for days until the yard is a bowl
where you hang, supine and planet-faced, weighing
less than in space. The summer rises runed,
taroted, charted in the humming still of June rooms:
I say we go away. Where's the fresh water in this place?
Our cards are played, our fortunes made until
the sky glows orange-white from plaza lights and the
neighbors are Byzantines and Gypsies.
Memphis spreads out slow from its winter clench.
Arms unfold, the benches creak and crow in fronts,
new-mowed grass tells its headless story.
I'm picking up once the moon is limestone.
I'm leaving for the quarry.
Sorry, white legs. Sorry, coat pegs,
The days are hot for the taking.
The black spade of rot iron doesn't shape so menacing.
I need these calluses for climbing, goat curses for skirt lining,
chicken magic for my mancala eyes, shining.

Monday, April 02, 2007


Ode to One of Us

As I Sit in my Bright Room;
Listening to the components that make me thinking of you,
reflecting your eclectic personality.
Everybody tries to catch you,
But you always manage to escape, giving them the jailed fate instead.
As you move along my hands,
that feeling freely runs,
Like a horse in the prairie,
along my naked body.
There you keep moving,
your route and eating
smaller water creatures, as if their lives were not important enough to you
and not worth of living for that.
And they probably are ultimately not.
If she wants me,
we'll be
the sleepyheads,
but i will choose to be the craziest clock
(that)Likes to float around the galaxy that (she) is,
playing with the marbles she owns,
and thinking about what such whole universe means to me:
Infinite stacks of stars,
Floating lonely space cowboys,
On one side.
On the Other side.
To You,

Labels: , ,

Saturday, March 10, 2007


Hands so Little, Depression so Great

Rosasharn and Dewey Dell skippin' down the lane
O' those two'd skip to Timbuktu to undo all the pain
Of a blooming, pink baby's veins in her veins
Of a cold, blue baby washed away by the rain.

Take me in the secret shade, take me in the truck
He took me for a pretty whore ripe to be plucked
And that was swell, but truth to tell-- I was fucked
Left me inside out, and -- out of luck, O'

You put your arms around me, but it wasn't any good
Now, I'm naked in the wilderness beneath a red hood,
And I don't need a man; I can chop my own wood,
But you could do so much for me if you just would

The buzzards are cawing, the men are squatin'
On their hams watchin' hundreds of peaches go rotten
If it kills me, I'll pick til the sack froths with cotton
Til it's full like I was of one to be begotten.

One beautiful mornin' the road unfurled,
Sticky, we were kissing in the heat like syrup.
One mornin' he went missin', my hair uncurled,
Wide-mouth frog, hair of the dog, I am a stupid girl

So unlike my tight-lipped mother,
Body thrown down now in the swollen river
This is hell, my belly swell, pop and burst all over
Hold my hand, momma, cause it hurts all over

Sweat glued my matronly thighs to the seat
Sweat stained my dress; too tight, it bound me
And God wouldn't tell me what your name should be
Or why he gave us fruit if we're not suppose to eat

Still, I'm clinging tightly to the ballad's last lilt
Hold tight, hold tight, to the basket hilt,
Though I have been spat, sucked, and split.
I am full of guts. I am full of milk.

I tried to slam the door, but you stopped it with your foot,
And ran your dusty fingers down my cheek caked in soot,
And put your arms around me. But it wasn't any good.
And you could do so much for me if you just would.

writ by Cadet Morgan Rose

Sunday, February 25, 2007


A Love Song.

Hypocrite piece of shit waste of fucking space
Vacant desperate asshole- You're just a pretty face

You shoulda' been an egg in your Momma's Kotex
a dirty stain in yer Daddy's Kleenex- A useless fucking user who's all used up!

You're throw away you're yesterday you old fucking news- You're useless it's unanimous- flat as old booze!

Shut your penis parking!-quit your fucking barking!
You're spreadin' wide and spittin' lies

You shoulda' been an egg in your Momma's Kotex
a dirty stain in yer Daddy's Kleenex- a useless fucking user who's all used up!

You're mickey mouse you pubic louse
and no one cares for you!!

You shoulda' been an egg in your Momma's Kotex
a dirty stain in yer daddy's Kleenex- a useless fucking user who's all used up!

Shoulda' been an egg in your Momma's Kotex
a dirty stain in yer Daddy's Kleenex- a useless fucking user who's all used up!


Thursday, February 22, 2007


Homage to Nature

I think very few things in the world are more

beautiful than nature taking back what belongs

to her - yes, nature is a lady, the most beautiful

woman you will ever know.

Defying the most resistant and durable of all

humanly known inventions, she had been able

to win, breaking and molding the brute

concrete into rocks.

Even an artificial fence could not stand the
surprising force of the beautiful lady that, in such
a silent and yet pugnacious way.
We might feel big, strong, impossible to defeat.
But, in the end, she will triumph over our silly

Tuesday, February 06, 2007


A Sonnet

Burning the last of winter's dry leaves
we put behind past debts,
debts of the unfaithful heart,
debts of the dying soul, for these

our hopeful, colorful, new flowers,
which balm our bewilderment like any
small beauty. Left to me
this truth that everything shall pass over,

whether season or pleasure or pain,
reaffirms the idea of the innate eternity
waiting like a restless lover for me
in a timeless space that's sweet and sane.

These circles will not be my death
but resurrect my soothing breath.

Monday, February 05, 2007



The orange street light is blistering in my eye,
shining as a broken sun through the purple grass
everything's brown, dark, seemingly still,
as if the hand of Death is upon my head,
while I sit back and relax
letting my mind flow,
as a river full of little shiny fishes
flows underneath the bridge of life.
They're such a multitude,
electric thunders in the black water,
such white and blinking vibrations,
perceptions of my neutrons.
Hard to distinguish,
as hard it is to separate a child from his or her mother.
But I made it,
and came out of the dark tunnell,
out of that bed made of muddy dirt of my conscience,
and realized
that I caught one of those fishes,
that I separed the proton from its natural atom,
and it weighs about a ton:
an idea, that is!

Friday, February 02, 2007



Like a blow to the head
We half opened our eyes and saw stars
The static fizzled out and we were left
Clean and bleary
Awash in lamplight half-light
But safe...

Up the stairs and to the left
And to the tune of the unfocused AM (stations of the dead, Lazarus radio)
I pulled on my boots,
The one lightbulb muted
Like it was filtered through a cheap nylon stocking,
Or like a buzzing hive, heavy with honey -
The room cast in shadow, in the crook of an arm
In limbo


November, no clouds
No sign of the amazing show of fractals past
(Just broken branches on the bridge and singed wire next door)
So the shoes go first
The stockings (cheap nylon, like the lamp)
The dress hangs like curtains
Opened to let the moonlight inside

a woman lounges on the horizon
our breast are mounds against the sky
our stomachs round and filled
with veins
and tongues
green lightning

(Oh yes, I've been doing some (non)spring cleaning. I very rarely write poetry, so here is a blue-moon piece.)

Wednesday, January 31, 2007



The nebula of our life
is what gives us the energy
the power
to go on
in this widely infinite universe of stars

And such composed galaxies
are all so big ompared to our nebula
no matter what
we will always seem so small

A spit in the concrete,
prontly evaporated
compared to the giants
around us
cosmic force infinitely greater than ours;
so immense

We must notice it
and make it as an example
to educate our brains
seeming like trains.

Evebn though I don't understand why,
this is the mortal's life,
so small
and yet
so big to our fellow nebulas.

We're all made of stars,
despite our perceptions,
we are the truth,
the shiniest of all galaxies,
the youth,
and we will always
be giants
to another galaxy.

Saturday, January 27, 2007



They cut me into pieces like birthday cake
I raise my hand in protest and say it's a mistake
"I'm a girl! I'm a girl! I'm a girl!" I scream,
"So take me off your dinner plate!"
(This is my story, and it is true
I swear I do not fabricate)
Once I was married to golden dreams.
I am wizened widow,
I am baby minow
In the rapids of a stream.

Saturday, January 20, 2007



own the bugs and worms and the trees
serve as their towers: they watch over
parks while bums sleep and they keep
clear of cats and children and birds

own the powerlines we're too scared to climb;
they perch in ropes across sunset reds
and clutch our lights and heat and wires,
vibrating against our electric hums and birds

own outer space: they pass through a stratosphere
like bullets through a composition notebook;
they comprise the color of your average nebula,
gathering around the black hole, guarding the open gate

Thursday, January 18, 2007


Conspiracy Theory

Global warming: the powers that be are melting
the world's ice to create more land space
for the development of their supercreatures:

three trunked elephants, beige tree frogs,
time traveling turtles, inside-out fish,
flute beaked pelicans with perfect pitch.

Monday, January 08, 2007



when it had turned its face to june
we talked about the amber moon
and my home slice left me hanging
like a silver scaled fish
and the hole's still in my tongue
so all the words fall through it
but where the hook is i can't say
he up and took the hook away
the hole in the clouds is a bloody gash
and the sand on the beach upsets like a rash
but still i hold onto a bag full of ash
cause one man's trash is another man's trash trash trash

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

It was drizzling rain on a cold winters night.
All the houses were frosted with colorful lights.
Everybody was toasty and cuddled up close.
All around them were people that mattered the most.

But one little boy who had never been sadder,
Went to the shed and got out his ladder.
He climbed up on the roof and waited in the cold,
for a man dressed in red, who was jolly and old.

He waited up on the roof for most of the night,
When out of his doze he awoke to a great sight.
There were eight glistening reindeer, an old wooden sleigh,
and a chubby old man whose hair was far past grey.

The boy jumped up and ran, over to the old man.
He stumbled and mumbled and grasped the man's hand.
and said, "Sir, I know you give presents all over the land,
But I just have one request and I think you'll understand."

"What is it you wish for?" the old man replied.
"Love" the boy said, with a tear in his eye.
The man was so startled; he didn't know what to say.
So picked up the boy and sat him in his sleigh.

"You have all the love you need, but its wrapped up inside,
You have all the love you need just by being alive,
You have all the love you need and you can never run out,
You just have to learn how to give your love out."

Then the cold little boy, who had never been sadder
bid the old man goodbye and climbed down his ladder.
The next day he went out with a smile that could shatter.
He gave out his love, and he couldn't be gladder.

Saturday, December 30, 2006


You are Me in the Mirror

Meanwhile we attend to details like monks
and argue for lost moments. I steal glances
of the passing beauties but you just ask
them for cigarettes. I am will, the man says,
but you are addiction running me over.
I sit by lovely knowing I can kiss her
and blame you for my hesitation phases--
thinking and fidgeting a gin-empty flask.
All I could say comes down to fifteen paces.
Straighten up, boy, put down the rubber mask.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


Mechanics and Semantics: Language as Paralysis

I) The House Machine as the Renewable Starting Point

It spits us into streams of cars and busses
while the sun arcs above us. Imitation:
elevators, escalators, airplanes, burnt bread
leaping from the toaster. William Carlos Williams
offered us poem machines, but words are the things
that generate gravity, keep us from floating free.

II) Between Sunset and Sunrise

There's no sleep, just time travel: wake.
Alive. Surprise. You're the same animal
still saddled to the back of the bed machine.
The sun is an egg beater dream eater
and both of the better Beatles are dead.
Williams said poetry is this ship's engine,

yet it tethers us to this space like an anchor.

Saturday, December 02, 2006


A poem

Kind of sad/self-analytical. I wrote it over a few days adding lines at sporadic moments of interest. Havn't been able to commit anything of worth to audio documentation in the last week so I decided to post this.

What Am I?

A timely conduit for inspiration.
A bottomless well of philosophy.
Approximately twenty-one years of memes.
The intermediary variable in a randomly generated equation.
A minor footnote in the history of a shit-box delta hub.
Going to hell.
A host and a parasite.
A blurry-edged rectangle of colors.
Explainable but unjustified.
Carbon, calcium, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen.
The summation of an innumerable amount of decisions.
Four or five breaths short of panic.
Perpetually swinging between dread and content.
Creaky, apathetic wavelength.
An obsessive torrent of regurgitated concepts,
Layered upon one another in a house-of-cards dependency,
Frustratingly encrypted within itself,
Operating forever in service of an ambiguous pursuit.
A broken old phonograph skipping along a slow, whiskey-voiced ballad.
Eclipsed by an astral grid of varyingly accurate perceptions.
Forever at the mercy of affectionate whims.
The inadvertent legacy of assorted idols.
A structure of icons and metaphors.
A hobby of protein.
A string of relative realizations.
Zooming out.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006


Dead Head Blues

No one's in the kitchen, but they got pasta on the stove.
No one's in the kitchen, but they got pasta on the stove.
I go on sitting and staring at them noodles getting hard and cold.

Marijuana in the main room, tobacco on the balcony.
Marijuana in the main room, tobacco on the balcony.
My friends are stuck in a cycle. They're acting just like me.

I used to roll burritos, but the boss man sent me home.
I used to roll burritos, but the boss man sent me home.
Now I'm smoking all my paychecks and talking on the telephone.

So throw my textbooks on the fire. I ain't learning, I'm keepin warm.
Throw my textbooks on the fire. I ain't learning, I'm keepin warm.
Getting high, watching cartoons: don't mean a soul no harm.

Sunday, November 19, 2006


Hungry and the Seven Skirts

My feet, my scuffed and pealing leather shoes, will clatter on the cobblestone of a slumbering town! A dress of seven skirts, a dirty cape with a head-enveloping hood will billow behind me! The sloppy tied laces will be slipping! I won't need you! And I'll keep running until the road turns to dirt and I'll still be running when all wagon tracks and horse shoe prints have disappeared and the road too. I will be in a place that never knew peddlers with smirks like yours, those cunning men that peddle shampoos. I won't need shampoo! A place that is wild, witchy, and cold, silver-washed by the celestial beast that you never once compared me to! My hair will grow a foot; the frosted weeds will crunch under me like brittle bird bones shot from the mouth of the owl in the forest where I'll go! I'll go, the trees even blacker than their background, more twisted than my wrist the day you made me try your experimentally flavored eclairs. They were less pretty than glistening plumbs. But you never appreciated light on fruit of any kind, I know. I remember when I put chocolate-covered strawberries in your new suit just as a surpise, to be funny. You got mad. You said that you didn't want juice in your pockets. But I will be in the woods and you won't be able to find me if you try! The nearby trees will melt and so will I at the sight of electrically lit flowers! My shoes, lost! I'm dancing, trotting! I am a fox! Your eyes are fireworks! No they aren't! Stamp, twirl, and dip myself, and beat the hollow drum of a belly that is hungry! Oh! I collapse. I roll through the grass as it thaws leaving thousands of droplets for me to drink. Full orange flowers tipping nectar over the curling edge. The pockets of my seven skirts full of juice for me to drink! And when the electric eels trickle by I won't be scared; I'll even be a welcoming committee for the meteorites, God's very own dandruff! As well as a cheerleader. As well as a strike leader. As well as a plumb as well as sparkling as good as gone from you. As well as a lover of anyone but you.

Friday, November 17, 2006


trust us, we're communists: an poem

you may have heard on the news
that north korea's crazy
cuba is questionable
and sovjet reform was lazy

you've seen devilish dictators
rattle their sabres
and terrible tyrants
executing their traitors

there are revolutions and
topplings and killings of kings
but my dear friend
communism is none of these things

communism is right for the common man
topple these imperial castles of sand
communism breaks your capitalist prison
if you want peacefulness
trust us, we're communists

marx had the spark that started it all
if you want it to work you must heed his call
no poverty, no exploitation
we're the proletariat's emancipation

if we all work together
we'll not bemoan taxation
if we all love the land
there's no need for nations

we know we've gotten some bad press
we're not much associated with tenderness,
but we help our comrades, we're not so bad
we're the best social system you'll ever have

if you want peacefulness
trust us, we're communists

~art party anonyme

Thursday, November 16, 2006


from September 2005

What is hurts, my love-a-dee?
Could it be this bad treaty?
We sued but still we got no peace
We take what we get on our knees
I stand you up with my hands on your hips
But still you sway, as curved as roses there
My mission was heavier than it was right
Like trees, we crash and tear
Our song inherent in the bad wind
Whistling through the tipsy limbs
Nothing stays, we're trapped again
We learn only how to sin
I rattle the bones hung round my neck
Pull out my hair and call the dead
My marriage to this giant bends without a break
There's sickness stuck in what I'm fed
I want back everything I lost
I take back everything I said
I have not changed, I'm still the same
I still hide in a shoebox under my bed
But please can't I begin again?
I promise to do it right
I want to feel the flow of peace
To find a home tonight
Show me again the old red stick
There's nothing for me here
I learned to accept that what is just is
I've swallowed lies and beer
It's getting colder with each flame
Can you come back inside?
I want to feel that warmth again
It's better when I cry

Tuesday, October 31, 2006


I Feel More Like I Did When I Got Here Than I Do Right Now

I walked my first steps in a hair salon, stumbling to the buzz
of blow dryers and clapping old women, fell flat to black
linoleum, laughing in spasms. Pride: that first broken arm,
first bath alone, first morning drive free of child seats, first kiss,

first performance of oral sex under playground equipment,
prostrate, beestung stomach, pale legs and passing trains
squeezing my ears, that strange scene under the yellow canopy
of her skirt, crescent moonlight shooting through the holes,

a familiar sucking sound: afternoons alone with Fred Rogers,
cheap puppets and cardigan sweaters, straining to pull orange juice
through a sippy cup. Fucked up on SweeTarts and acid in my sweetheart's
day bed, climbing out of Burroughs' One God Universe

backwards through an ethereal uterus. That familiar
sucking sound, metamorphic shift to something beautiful. Like this:
a young boy forces himself into a rabbit hole, emerges
on the other side as wildflower pollen and a thousand green lights

WORDS           IMAGES           SOUNDS           MOTION