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?

Yes!

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...

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...)

WOOD GRAIN

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

Bertumbuh

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

HELP A GOOD FRIEND

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: http://murderousvision1.bandcamp.com.

Check out this link for more information:

Stephen Petrus Benefit

NEW TANTRAMOON RELEASE HAS ARRIVED!

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: amandarosehowland3@gmail.com or message me on Facebook.

Here are links to two sample tracks from CUYAH LIVER:

"The Stone Giver" https://soundcloud.com/arhowland
"Woodgroan" http://amandarhowland.bandcamp.com

CUYAH LIVER BY AMANDA R HOWLAND

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.