Stone Age HAA The Holy MAA

Stone Age HAA The Holy MAA

Writing - Noise - Magic

Monday, January 27, 2014

Burning Hands 2

Potty’s skin is grey. Chrissy doesn’t know why. She’s known Potty since 1987. They met at the mall downtown in the Terminal Tower. Chrissy was working at the pretzel stand---she was just a young teenager. Potty asked what they did with the pretzels at the end of the night---did they throw them out, or donate them or what. Potty was ageless. She seemed 40 then and she seemed 50 now, though more than 25 years had passed. Chrissy told her the truth: all pretzels are soaked in a saline solution overnight. No waste. Potty had said that was disgusting and walked off. She wore a grey raincoat and heels. 

She came back the next day. She said her name was Patsy, but people call her Potty. Chrissy asked why and Potty said that was a rude thing to ask: could she not smell the faint incontinence? Chrissy felt so shitty about it. But Potty said there were no hard feelings and would she like to go with her to a special place on her break?


Potty took Chrissy to the photo machine and pulled her inside. She took out a small metal cylinder she called a cracker, and another metal thing, and a groovy balloon. They did whip-its in the photo booth. 

Chrissy's lips went numb. Before her eyes was an endless escalator, and the steps buzzed electric words that went by too quickly for her to understand. But she felt sweet and knew she'd been there before, that this was the space from which we all spring. 

She hugged Potty, whose smell was dried urine, but also clean hands and gummy hairspray. With her ears ringing, Chrissy said to Potty, "I hope you don't mind I don't get many pop culture references."
And Potty held her close, saying, "Darling, I could not care less about that Popeye shit."
And they've been friends since.

Now, just as Chrissy is getting worried, she sees Potty a tiny ways off, cruising by the river's edge, lips painted good mood red, her coat weighted on one side. Hopefully with a bottle and not hammers like last time.

To be continued...

Monday, January 20, 2014

Burning Hands 1

Chrissy waits for Potty down by the bank of the Cuyahoga, but it's cold. Potty's bringing the bottle. So, it's a rotten way to be. Out in the cold---the grass is frozen and Chrissy's hands are getting hard and her fading magenta ponytail is frozen like the grass. But there is no where else to go today.

Chrissy's just come from her boyfriend's place---he lives in a condo just up the way. She showered. He only lets her stay the night---come day, she's out. Chrissy stands just past a concrete wall, where the trees are coming back through cracked concrete things, the roads, and all these other things down in the flats overgrown with moss and tough winter weeds. Potty lives down here somewhere in a tent. She won't take Chrissy there---it' in a secret place, veiled from the roads. Potty says they're going to get some money today. That would be ok---Chrissy doesn't like her boyfriend. She'd like to get a room somewhere instead. Somewhere she can sit in the daytime and not have to touch old vinegar-reeking skin.

The river isn't frozen now. As it moves, Chrissy feels a cold wind coming out of it. If Potty doesn't get here soon to warm her up with vodka, Chrissy will spin spit and scream just to get some heat.

(To be continued...)

Monday, January 13, 2014


moths winged in gold
in the room facing east
with the curtains in gold

and the ceiling was closer
crabapple tree cut down  now
and the floor was wood moving
half the tree is underground
spreading like your veins
your eyes spread the water – tree veined fire

hands aging and reaching and working and holding
my eyes pressed from the world very world
jasmine on my palms sticking on the atm
power-lines powerless and other nameless flowers
growing feather leaves
on the bird dead in the driveway insides open bare
nickel wires
blue hair feathers our teeth grow like hair but slower
skin soft scales for touching

another gift from reptiles – the inner ear bones from their jaw bones
touching and listening
my lover's hair is from the moon his skin is from the sun (his eyes are from inside me)
the sun is in Corona, lemon pulp and dead gold, and we want it clear
not diffused into white, the sun's awful white
we crave it when it's too everywhere

wood grain in the island bar full of white people
the ceiling low
the mushrooms inside us wanted the wood grain

black winter tree just to bud the next day reached slow for the moon
the moon looked down at the water
and all us things made from the water
back when the moon was closer and we were all water
lifting the moon was closer and spinning faster
we crave the moon the water the woodgrain

we tore the brown paper bag
rough and rubbed it into leather
we craved the strange in weather
in the straight sky blind back
strange cancer strikes up mold
even molds can't contain bulbs and breaks and pink livers
and even mold can't breath under bleach rain
all the flecks one duty moan dirty flecks
the city and the cuntree tree

bladder bleeds electronics hard drone stagger
bleating like a ghost
bleeding like a goat

hold the cup liver bang houses
band houses to the Erie
the sun was awful
the sun was diffused and made our arms cold
(we shut it out we craved it)
on a white planet wet and awful

legs like trees like legs like wings (moths golden moths in gold)
the world is alive
for who knows what
magic is real
running around like beetles like ants come in
gra saoirse gra
like windows like nettles like pods come in
we shut our eyes as we craved it
we crave it waves in the wood

Cara Benda Bertumbuh
Cara Bertumbuh

waves – green wood – straight sky (we wanted it) 

Wednesday, January 8, 2014


My dear friend Stephen Petrus, whose interview appeared on this blog a couple months back, lost his home early this morning in a fire. He's in good spirits and glad to be alive, but he lost everything: 20 years worth of recordings, films, all his gear, his clothes, every material possession. He said he wants to encourage everyone to make sure they have working smoke detectors. Stephen, aka Murderous Vision, is one of the warmest, kindest, funniest people I've known, and he's always ready to give and help anyone.

There is a Facebook group dedicated to gathering donations and sharing updates on his situation. The site includes information about several benefit shows, and how people can donate to his Paypal, or use a fundraising site a friend created. Another option would be to go directly to his Bandcamp page and buy downloads of his great music:

Check out this link for more information:

Stephen Petrus Benefit

Monday, January 6, 2014


Well, not brand new.

My new solo release CUYAH LIVER (Tantramoon 03) came out on August 6, 2013, the day before my child was born. The first tiny batch of 13 are gone, but a new batch of 20 has arrived - hit me up if you want one: or message me on Facebook.

Here are links to two sample tracks from CUYAH LIVER:

"The Stone Giver"


I also have some copies left of Dead Peasant Insurance RITUALS OF THE IRON AGE (Tantramoon 01).

The Howland/Lombardo EXALTATION HEAT (Tantramoon 02, tape) is very nearly out of print - but I may be able to scrounge one up if you'd like.