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
| 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, 2007house not homeall doors closed trainTuesday, November 06, 2007Name 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, ephemeral, shimmering 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, 2007sinking into the sweet lavendarof 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 "I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU" 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 seriesmenstral moon charts areimplications 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, 2007Lyrics / Cut-Upswe surprised our resourceswe 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, 2007My Motherfound a babyin a bucket of sidewalk chalk, talking nonsense and perhaps this was how we met. I forget. Tuesday, April 24, 2007the 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, 2007Ode to One of UsAs 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. Thraumatized, Changed, There you keep moving, Following 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: Spring, Infinite stacks of stars, Floating lonely space cowboys, On one side. We, On the Other side. To You, Labels: it might be you indeed, space, what do you think(?) Saturday, March 10, 2007Hands so Little, Depression so GreatRosasharn and Dewey Dell skippin' down the laneO' 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, 2007A Love Song.Hypocrite piece of shit waste of fucking spaceVacant 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 GET A FUCKING CLUE! 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! Labels: eggs Thursday, February 22, 2007Homage 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 convictions. Tuesday, February 06, 2007A SonnetBurning the last of winter's dry leaveswe 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, 2007Idea!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, 2007post-stormLike a blow to the headWe 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 of green lightning and stars (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, 2007GiantsThe nebula of our lifeis 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 because 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, 2007BanjoThey cut me into pieces like birthday cakeI 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, 2007birdsown the bugs and worms and the treesserve 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, 2007Conspiracy TheoryGlobal warming: the powers that be are meltingthe 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, 2007Odewhen it had turned its face to junewe 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, 2007It 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, 2006You are Me in the MirrorMeanwhile we attend to details like monksand 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, 2006Mechanics and Semantics: Language as ParalysisI) The House Machine as the Renewable Starting Point Saturday, December 02, 2006A poemKind 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. Wednesday, November 29, 2006Dead Head BluesNo 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, 2006Hungry and the Seven SkirtsMy 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, 2006trust us, we're communists: an poemyou may have heard on the newsthat 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, 2006from September 2005What is hurts, my love-a-dee? Tuesday, October 31, 2006I Feel More Like I Did When I Got Here Than I Do Right NowI walked my first steps in a hair salon, stumbling to the buzz |
