of Maxwell Clark
Even I do not say certain words that bid too wildly at me.
If supreme candor were not ostracized, I know not what.
The beginning, as the end, are lies imposed by genetics and their program of mortality.
If I simply
something of sublime value,
I might begin by disposing of all nouns and verbs.
But I am not at all sublime unto myself, and therein is a phrase of uncertain affect.
The only lived certainty is that one's own life survives (“I'm not dead yet”).
How I chafe at the impositions of my linguistic usage, of my world.
I am born, not only to die, but to chafe and thrash against death.
No, I am infinities unto myself---already once long ago pre-originally inaugurated, and so forth.
The terror of creation. The confusion of otherwise discreet infinities, like as if stapled together.
Who is braver than the persuasive fool? Spiritual war only accretes intensity the longer it rends us.
Am I not that one spirit of my world that is? Merciless grace that there cannot be but others.
The soul is buried deep in what is, is what is, and to become a spirit it must fight beyond itself as such.
The jarring pertubations of political life infect everyone on a regularly scheduled basis.
Political life is the most unproductive spasming of the capital-world's otherwise utility-bound law.
There is nothing in my head, only a flow of behaviors fixated upon this text.
The clash of nothing against itself is already at too late a moment to adequately describe a cosmogony.
Who will forgo their own needs, absolutely, for the most infinitesmal glimmering of joy in another?
The racing of life towards nothing, as from nothing manifested.
I refer to myself, but where am I from?
The main delusion is that a non-delusional state can be attained.
My world needs me to do this, otherwise I would be otherwise.
The redemption of creation is not necessary, it is desired.
Does not desire overwhelm us everywhere in our sense-orientations.
This that I write, I would its affect take hold immediately first, then only after as archival media.
Would that the inherited ruses be torn away, except that the first inheritance is already a ruse, and it has not gone away.
I cannot do this for myself. True luxury and comfort are nowhere available but in teaching and sincerity.
The master of what is, is what is itself. A higher court than being is needed for justice, peace, and obedience.