Party Everywhere by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

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Party Everywhere

by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright


"Sigmar Polke Rides Again", Collage, Copyright © 2014 Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

“Sigmar Polke Rides Again”, Collage, Copyright © 2014 Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

Party Everywhere
Swing your partner
Round and round
Go down swinging
Write your own ticket
Imagine civic engagement
as a party
Now dive into now
Action figure
(Sucking wind) Read more

Panic Attack by Michael Holme

Posted on by urbangraffito Posted in Art, Photography, Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment
"Palette Of Light I", Copyright © 2008 Devin McCawley

“Palette Of Light I”, Copyright © 2008 Devin McCawley

Panic Attack
A spectacle of eyes transfixed by film
some third rate fifties black and white repeat.
Three minds imprisoned by the endless frames
are islands.
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Enigmatic Tweets of the Food Service Industry by Jose Padua

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Photo by Jose Padua
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Butterfly in Amber by Kenneth Radu — review by Mark McCawley

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Butterfly in Amber

by Kenneth Radu


a review by Mark McCawley

Butterfly in AmberButterfly in Amber
by Kenneth Radu
DC Books, April 2014
ISBN: 978-1-927599-24-2
$21.95 CDN | $20.11 US Paperback
5.5 x 8.5, Novel, 200 pp.


“The sole lingering on her tongue, followed by a sip of Sauterne, she let a wisp of doubt pass through her mind again. Without money, would Yves ever have made love to her? At least after the first time a few years ago when she was closer to fifty and perhaps layered with that mature redolent sensuality men claimed to see in women of a certain age?”

~ Kenneth Radu, Butterfly in Amber, p.20

Delia, an independent-minded Montreal woman of sixty and sexually experienced, is the heroine of Kenneth Radu’s novel from Quebec’s DC Books, Butterfly in Amber. The novel begins with Delia departing a liaison with her married lover, Yves, to go on a cruise along the Volga where she enters into a forbidden but lustful and satisfying liaison with Kostya, a twentysomething member of the ship’s crew. The trip along the Volga, itself, becomes an allegory for memory, identity, the inexorable passing of time, and the desire to be more in imagination than in actuality. Whether it be her liaison with Yves, or Kostya, Delia knows that sex and money are interchangeable as she is treated by both men as a sexual and financial ATM: “Delia had no intention of letting the body control her heart or mind. Gracious, a boy in bed was one thing, not that Yves was a boy despite puerile tendencies like fits of temper and sulking she had learned to soothe by dollars and talking dirty, but commitment to a man with his hands and other appendage out – sooner or later she paid – was quite another” (Butterfly in Amber, p. 25). Read more

Fuck Art: A conversation with Sally Eckhoff by bart plantenga

Posted on by bartplantenga Posted in Audio / Video MnemoTechnics, Bart Plantenga | Leave a comment

F*ck Art (Let’s Dance):

A conversation with Sally Eckhoff


by bart plantenga

party pic smaller

Eckhoff [middle] shows that art is a serious 24-7 business

“I became an artist of lots of different things besides painting: an artist of ordering takeout, dancing all beered up in downtown bars, banging around my own head in the night, walking home without getting mugged, of wanting –  sometimes begging and self-deceiving, too.”

• Sally Eckhoff

I must say I was worried when I began reading artist-writer-equestrian Sally Eckhoff’s exuberant ode-critique of New York from her decidedly engaged, joi de vivre, painter’s point of view as it portrays the NY “we” knew during its second-to-last gasps of affordable decadence, the mid-1980s. Since then – the exact date is unknown and debated – NYC has managed to descend into a state of tortured opulence, of clichéd bling, something like trannie makeup on a corpse – something like that. 

This decline is much bickered and written about on social media. But that’s OK because, even if the breakfast joint sucked back then it sucked with a certain panache that makes it superior to sucking today. Or so goes the argument. NYC is now a playground-backdrop for the elite’s commercials, their bonuses, their exploitations. Sally articulated this well: “I always under-estimate rich people’s ability to transform their routines for the sake of amusement.” And make no mistake, it is their amusement park now.

That the book was like one thick, page-turning, mnemonic device means that each page pretty much recalled or continued the already driving, pumping, heated, babel-like soundtrack as brought to you by jazz legends from the 50s, acid jazz, Fugs, Borbetomagus, Don Cherry, Lou Reed, bad FM radio like WNEW-FM & PIX-FM, the Ramones the Clash when they became obsessed with NYC, the Paladium concerts, the Limelight nights, the general din that seemed to keep our souls vacuum-sealed and hooked on the IV drip that was adrenalin + loud, clangorous and jangly sounds  – I think of the elegant, edgy beats at 99 Records – ESG, Liquid Liquid, Y Pants, Singers & Players – and that seemed to speak to us more than any visual or poetic works, that seemed to both criticize and lionize, both transcend and indulge in the tumultuous and frenetic out there where our the nerve endings of all of our extremities seemed to tingle day and night suspiciously until one day you just passed out. Each page in F*ck Art recalls a specific sound, each sound recalls a specific corner, each memory of that corner is a page in my/our diary.

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