Stone Age HAA The Holy MAA

Stone Age HAA The Holy MAA

Writing - Noise - Magic

Tuesday, July 24, 2012



11213 Detroit Ave, Cleveland, Ohio 44102



Tuesday, June 5, 2012

the ok vastness

of Duende power.
Power turning, living in wheels,
chakras, yantra, pujas, mantra -----
the seed breaks open - the tree
things fall apart
the Oak
look deep inside your bread to the grain to the seed to the worm
and look inside your lover's eyes - into the the seed of the soul inside
Durga says, look into me to understand your true nature and be free
invoke! invoke often!
seek out the true ecstasy
over false oblivion
blunted stunted
earn the ecstasy of true all-at-once-ness
burn the white fear clear away
is a slow burn paradox
the strength to savor the banal, the pain even
burns the white fear
clear away
faith is nothing-lost-ness
love is namaste
wheels spinning the dove and lion paired,
the lover and the dancer paired,
both honesty and compassion bared.

in the Malay language,
the only word that rhymes with sakti
is bakti
sakti is magic, enchanted and enchantment
bakti is devotion.


Monday, June 4, 2012


I walk past houses and I feel hit with things - maybe they are the subtle energies of the beings inside, or dreams of the past, or maybe just rapid association. The city I live in is full of doubles built in the thirties - streets from here to up Athens Avenue past Marlowe and Belle, Mars to Carabel Avenue and beyond.

I am still and the houses move past me - a street with little stubby trees, exposed and Lego built fifties fast. Then dense lush oaks, the temperature drops, and I feel the forties, the fever of the fence and the things inside the fence. Then I come to a street two miles away that looks identical to my street. The west side was built so fast - these cities built so fast. Like they knew our country would be begin de-industrializing by 1960, and they wanted to get folks lined up for the last and most massive American thrusts into the production machine.

I walk past and I ask the houses what's inside. Like strangers as lovers I wonder in passing what it feels like to be inside.

I walk past a yellow and brown double and feel bad parties and overhead lights and what am I remembering - is it the memory of the house or a memory from a past life or just from my earliest childhood?

I always dream of houses. I've been through all kinds of structures, and I'm ignorant, I don't know what things are called. Once in a dream, I sipped soup in a split level as the sun went down and felt gut level regret. I met my grandmother again in a vast ring shaped house and introduced her to my new husband, and we showed her our moonstone wedding rings and she gave me a crown. More, though, I lucid dream into the house I grew up in, or places with walls soft from mold or flickers in the corners or heavy with the Murphy's oil soap smell of still old death.

In walking and in dreaming, I'm hit with otherness breathing in houses.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Cultivaata 1

petting animal in order to
what kind of ice water in order to (no corpse)
burn the white fear clear away is a slow burn paradox
white part of the eyes gets in the blood is it
nothing lost
there's other eyes in those stones and
eyes in those, too
waving stupid grass
but it's green in order to
gasperate ah - the
the ok vastness of duende power
feel ah

Tuesday, May 29, 2012


Names that veil Name drifting over vast unlined lands: vrka lupus lobo vuk loup vlk ulfur vilkas drifting with the animals, taboo to say the true name until it's lost to the lands - call me by my true names. Serigala. Cicadas sits in a vinegar sitz bath drinking herself sick over and over again until her bones change into wood rotten wood. Not even the fondest soldiers can burn that rotting wood. I'll do a slow burn paradox and crack Cicadas out of the tree. I can do. This heat rash necklace is only the beginning. Wolf is not wolf but a veil for only the beginning.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Roman J Leyva Interview

Here is the second in my series of interviews with artists who use words, sound and images. I asked Roman J Leyva, AKA Plague Mother, how these forms interact in his creative process, what experiences have recently inspired him and if he would share a few lines.

"I've always found myself particularly vulnerable to words and visual art. They tend to create emotion within me. My choices and explorations in music, on the other hand, is more often a reflection of my emotions. So, oftentimes if I am writing or working on music, I am meditating on words and images that inspire something in me.

I have to say, the past year was a very tumultuous one, personally. I dealt with a great deal of loss and frustration. As my works are often outlets for negativity more so than positivity, this showed through, I'm sure.

'I've got glass in my foot. How'd it get there in my cement shoes?'"

Thanks so much Roman J!

Friday, April 6, 2012

Shooting Children

Driving dawn is wider did I remembered
what in my headgrasp died
up against skull clanging
waking waking waking dry.

Sunrise spread out over Cleveland like a Mother.

Here is a song – builds a well – welling chest – Here.

Here is this life
this life never so close so sweet
so close to the end of America.
O’ shell America.

Bridges coming down.
Water sitting empty.
And sudden March heat
exposes how dirty the air
dirty the air how dirty the air has become.
And never new again, not even in sudden spring.
Shame on us shame in our lungs shame the dirty air.

O’ Sweet Earth MAA – men are shooting children on your shaved body.
Florida – France – Afghanistan
Sweet Earth MAA – men are shooting children on your shaved body. 

Thursday, March 29, 2012


I recently asked questions to several of my fellows who both write and play music. I asked them to relate how words, music and visual art interact in their creative processes, and I asked them what recent experiences have most recently stoked the desire inside them to flare out into art. Finally, I asked them to share some lines.

Here are the answers from TOM ORANGE - wild musician and poet.

"Music has been central to me for most of my life. Words came later, and visual art later still. And most often I've experienced the mutual reinforcement of these interests through friends and colleagues in my/our various creative endeavors. For example, when I started writing poetry seriously, not only were most of my poet friends big music fans like me, but it seemed they knew a lot more about visual art than I did, so I felt I had some catching up to do in this area.

Specific interactions within creative processes themselves are a little trickier to pin down. I've never been that interested in, say, writing a poem about or inspired by a painting. A lot of my poetry, though, uses other writing as a starting point. I've never been terribly good at 'inspiration' to fill a blank page with language 'inside' me. I can't quite explain it, but some poems and poets, when I encounter them, trigger in me an immediate need to pick up pen and paper and literally start using their words in my own way: I start with their words and rearrange them, modify them and add to them in a kind of improvisation. If the process sustains itself long enough, I can end up with a chapbook's worth of poems.

For a while in my writing I was trying to do the kinds of things I was hearing in the music I was discovering and obsessing about at the time. But since giving up writing and focusing most of my creative energies on music, I've found I can now do some of the things I was hearing in the music myself. So language now seems very oblique, indirect and mediated. And more than a little beside the point.

I should also add that I've never been that interested in realistic representations of the world through art: I want art that makes new worlds and new things that we've never experienced before. Clark Coolidge, the poet I wrote my dissertation about, says it best: 'I want everything to come together. / And then I want it to all go away, / leaving behind one thing that was never / in the pile to begin with. / The world is not enough. I want something / else to appear.'

I am continually inspired and quite frequently blown away by the creative talents of my friends in the local experimental music scene here. When I was more active in poetry, I'd go to readings occasionally that were so good I felt I could throw away my pens and paper, quit writing poetry and be completely fine with it knowing that someone else was doing work that good. Likewise with the music scene today. As I often tell folks, I know I've seen a good set when what I'm hearing and seeing makes me want to start, like, five new bands, or otherwise gives me ideas for stuff I can try myself. And then there are also those occasional shows that, again, make me think I should just sell my gear and live happily knowing that such music exists courtesy of someone else!

Here's an excerpt from a 21-part serial poem, written through the kind of process described above:
first source the seed then sunk, a safe built taste to trunk or heave, pressed against and folded in turns, a table widened out of flat draft sought first, joining traces in filament burst, troughed particular, engines a dust"
Thanks so much, Tom! Soon, more thoughts from Mitchell Ribis, Jose Luna, Roman J Leyva and more!


The Cleveland State University Poetry Center is hosting the reading this Tuesday April 4th at 7:30 in Student Center 313/315 on the CSU campus. Smith is the author of new CSUPC book I Live in a Hut and the founder of OH NO magazine. Harvey was the judge who selected Smith's book for the CSUPC 2011 First Book Prize. She is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Modern Life (Graywolf, 2007). As well as being a contributing editor to jubilat, Meatpaper and BOMB, she teaches poetry at Sarah Lawrence University.

Matthea Harvey is also the author of The Little General and the Giant Snowflake (Tin House Books, 2009), illustrated by Elizabeth Zechel. Just yesterday, this book caught my eye. I'm interning at the CSUPC, and we've been so busy processing manuscripts and mailing out books, but I was startled by this children's book that was ordered to have at the upcoming reading. It's very strange and very intelligent. The book playfully explores the conflict between realism and imagination employing lemmings and various kinds of snowflakes.

S.E. Smith's I Live in a Hut also uses play to cut to the core. The words prance and strike. The cover illustration is itself a poem - a mysterious round void overwhelms yellow woods, giving the impression that while you are looking into your life and smiling, something something something is standing just in front of you, waiting to gobble you up. She writes of "Vertical Lakes" and "Enormous Sleeping Women" who reappear in the book as mountains and move.  

This event is free and open to the public. For more information, email