Sunday, September 22, 2013

The Style of My Heart

I feel you few nearer than before, in gathering into my heart myself.
Each of you who nears is more friendly now than were so when farther away.
I like to be closer and closer to you from a safe distance. This is my way.
I am sad and silly after my furors of before, please pardon my hatefulness.
Please pardon what is said here, all of it, because it is not what I was now feeling most.
What I was feeling now most was beyond precious, making me to weep so.
It is simple being near to you, feeling your unknown as secure and safe.
Feeling your unknown as absolutely secure and safe, outside what I have now said.
I care if it is madness to feel this way, but such madness I will never relent.
I care if such madness is really not the normal way of life and each living being.
Maybe each too likes to be closer apart than before.
O, it is so lovely to me write like this, even if what I now have said is not what I feel most.
I feel most something else, maybe indeed you, but this writing still is sadly sweetness, almost tart with joy.
If it were colored otherwise than black and white, a yellow of many patterning yellows would be its heartful colorfulness.
And if you stay so nearing apart, more will come of me like this, in these colors maybe still too.
Yellow is heartful because fearful, agonized, trembling – yet also soft, comfy – as paralyzed, static.
Yellow is the heartful radiance of writing in nearness from afar.
Yellow writing is soft and static, because advanced upon with absolute otherness, with its fear.
Or whatever, I am draining the dregs.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Life Can Be so Sweet

Under the underway I above lift, outwards
Into the outway, inwardly,
Until it is so, then it is
So that it is.

Life can be so sweet, awwwwww.
It is so up into downway slurred, sloshed,
diagonaled, many ways, all not one,
until it is so, that the dragon is the sun.

Why ask when it is now so?
This is what is to be known, nothing more.

Truly, the fool is due, the fool is true.

Oh, you, silly me, I’d not forgotten backways
Of your emergencing always, through frontwards
displays of dominance, today, today, hooray!
Hooray you! You are true, you are known,
as you already knew, yes, you!

Thursday, August 22, 2013


-after K. Goldsmith

Pull the body in, extend. Look directly to
The front.
Don’t shake the body leftward and
With the back keeping straight.
Block both hands levelly
In front of the body.
Punch forward with the right hand.
Hold the left fist,
And put it on the joint of the right arm.
Look directly to the front.
It is called Seven-star in T-stance.
In order to make you understand easier,
We practice in the
In a moving coherent movement,
Which is called Hold Hands and Shrink
Body in T-stance.
Next we will demonstrate and explain
The another foot technique—
The left foot takes a step to the right.
Put it on the upper front of the right
Squat down.
 With the back straight.
Now let’s demonstrate completely
Next we will begin to demonstrate and explain

We would
Provide you with brief demonstration
Hold the fists beside the waist.
Snap the leg levelly forward.
Both legs practice in turns.
The manners of a snap kick and heel kick
Are the same.
But kick and snap are also quite

There are various of forms
In the Heel Kick.
While practicing,
You should not kick over the waist.
Other wushu schools in the society
May require that
You should kick over the head
Or even higher.
Now, we will practice
According to Shaolin’s leg technique.
Front Kick

Next we will demonstrate and explain
It requires both hands to
swing it back and forth.
This movement is called Twine and Wrap
Around Head.
While kicking to the left,
That means after the Twine and Wrap
Around Head on the right,
Turn the head left.
Kick at the same time.

Complete demonstration

Complete demonstration

If you kick high enough,
You can kick up to the bottom of the ears.
Let’s practice from the first step
That is to kick to the position of the waist
The Inside Kick.
()                             Inside Kick.
If you want to kick the right leg, move
The left leg first.
Stretch the left leg outward,
Then kick the right leg in an arc
From right to outward, then to inward.
Slap the right hand with the right foot.
It does not mean to slap the instep with
The right hand,
But to slap the right hand with right
Now let’s demonstrate completely

It begins with the preparing form
Block both arms outwards
With the height equal to the shoulders.
While kicking the right leg,
The right leg kick in an arc
From the left upward, then to
Downward, and the right.
Then slap the right hand with the right

15. Jump and Slap Foot

If you have never practiced
Jump and Slap Foot before,
You will feel daze when you watch me
Perform it,
And you don’t know where to start and
But actually, it is very simple.
If you divide it into step-by-step
It takes two and a half steps,
To finish the Jump and Slap Food.
We would first kick the right leg in

2013. Aug 22, 11:15pm DONE

If Influence were Health

                                                    “Influence is Influenza—an astral disease.
                                                      If influence were health, who could write a poem? Health is stasis.
                                                     Schizophrenia is bad poetry, for the schizophrenic has lost the strength of perverse,                                                              wilful, misprision.”
                                                                                –Harold Bloom

Poor Bloom. He got himself all twisted around in this quote. Let us help him!
Influence is a psychic disease, and the psychotic alone is the most perverse and wilful in her misprision. To imagine a schizophrenic who was not perverse and wilful in her misprisions is to imagine a normal person. That is, Bloom calls schizophrenia “bad poetry” only insofar as it said to lack what most defines itself: misprision. Bloomian misprision is a type of schizophrenia. The truly Bloomian reader of poetry is a schizophrenic, except for the above quoted disavowal. Bloomian criticism is schizophrenic, insofar as it misreads the text of cognition.  Misprision of life is schizophrenia. Schizophrenics lack nothing in perversity, or will, or misprision. A truly rigorous schizophrenic, or mispriser, such as myself, was only needed to expose this.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Poetry Changes Things

"The nations thronged around, and cried aloud,
As with one voice, 'Truth, liberty, and love!'
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from Heaven
Among them there was strife, deceit, and fear;
Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil.
This was the shadow of the truth I saw."

--Percy Shelley, Prometheus Unbound

It is fashionable among certain modern poets, such as the still highly admirable Charles Bernstein, to claim that "poetry changes nothing". I might venture that it has even acquired a jingle-like status among those whom it influences. The least rememberance of the implications of even the term *influence*, of which they all still parlay in, however, already begins to show, and already show quite well, that any poem of any poet once in existence may be read (or heard) by others, changing them all through this experience forever after. One is very much tempted from here to invoke Spinoza, whose conception of the affects in his Ethics appears liable to justify even the claim that even any event of mere thinking or cognition has immediate, going on infinite, ramifications for the world. Much less a poem, which is, among many otherwise ways of expressing it, an externalized memory of an inward condition by thought. Poems are just vastly influential externalizations of thought, perhaps much moreso than thought in-itself. I wish I did not even suspect the need to assuage others of the material reality of all the ideational elements of my expressions; thoughts are as corporeally real as poems or readers of poems are is my neurobiological stance. Any supposed deficiencies of this ontological gesture aside, for myself, at present, then, I desire further to impress you only with their ethical supplements. Poets express themselves to others as they are, they denude themselves to the caress of the other who faces them. Poetry changes things even just because it is an expression *from* one *to* others; the aspect of change registering in this "to and from" already quite apparently. The hands that turn a poem change the world as much as the hands that turn a screwdriver. Or the mouth that speaks a poem changes the world as much as a mouth that kisses you. No act, or behavior, or corporeal movement of the world is without consequence, in end.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Gayness is Alright
by Maxwell Clark

I am analyzing society on the scale of subnational formations. By subnational formation I mean any group of individuals whose collective socioeconomic potency as a group is most or rather moreso liable to affect the body politic as a force apart from the official nation-state level of governance. These distinctions are too sharp however, the real expresses them in mixtures. Judaism in Europe being a prime example of this potency of subnational groups to eventually express their might in the thoroughly, thoroughly imperialist gesture of nation-founding, perhaps at least as within our global modernity.

Thus to gayness, or the pursuit of gayness. As the body very much is scientifically observed to be sexed in the traditional biological sense, the expression of the gender of that irrevocably birth-sexed body may allow the opposite to appear within gender norms, also as subnational formations, as in the case of feminity (however anti-feminine or nihilistic it may be). One is born more or less irrevocably female or male, and all of the many facts of hermaphroditism acknowledged (as affirmations of my spectrum-dependent theses herein), but one may express oneself, in the infinity of expression (as thinking itself), anywhere along this spectrum in our so tiny and so unalterably hermeneutic little worlds of experience.

Hegel’s complexus of sensuousness and ideality, and the term “complexus” herein especially, as an at once analytic and almost organically motile framework for hanging together even more expressively loaded terms like phenomena and datum, or, perhaps, as phenomenology “in a nutshell” (as I laughingly, ridiculously dare to call it) --- yes, phenomenology itself thus transcends, because essentially located within its own complexus with all alone remind you, all transcedence.

And to transcend transcedence, this is post-fabricated origin of all group-formation: some become fully respected as friends and, more than less; the other others become all the same enemy. At the peak of subnational ascendence (as of yet), in achieving the highest laurels of equality with many otherwise ruling-nations, the transcendence of the avaristic narcissism (of the all-integrating complexus) once at work within the given group ascending, and ascending just so far as this transcendence blesses it perhaps, and thus the formation of a near-ultimate respect of otherness within the limits of the nation’s identitarian criteria is observed. Thus the euphoria of Nazism, within Germany’s Aryan born or also those tolerably-well expressing themselves (adopted) to be so, even if not so then at all behind their Aryan expression --- thus the remainder of Otherness within Nazism.

I apologize for my sovereigns, as these masters are all my slaves as a slave of the slave-group, and as surely as our master-slave dialogue is that of that Emerson-knighted term: Oversoul. If kings once ruled for lifetimes, that lifetime rule was justified by the effectively willing submission of his subjects. "The instinct of the people is right." (Emerson) That subnational groups did occassionally rather often run riot throughout feudal European formations of state, and far beyond, just as today, of course, it of course follows.

And so to the grandeur of my (ultramaterialist) ethical endnote: the abolishment of a sovereign is only affected by a new, or a newly more-powerful sovereign and their formation; expect nothing radically new from the statist hiero-formations of what is (as anarchic chaos). I love the appeasement of the state and its peoples, being as this state is one of soulful feeling as such, this is a good thing. And by soulful, I mean the absolute expressiveness wherein the alienation of one’s own private good from the private essence of others is maintained. Thank you.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

The Other as Capital: Cixous' Manhattan

The Other as Capital: Cixous' Manhattan
by Max Clark

"If the product of labour is alien to me, and confronts me as an alien power, to whom does it then belong?

To a being other than me.

Who is this being?

The gods?" --Marx

"The Other resembles God"


Capital is an other, or alienated being. Our relation to this other, moreover, is inextricable from our relations with all other others. In Cixous' Manhattan we find evidence of this particular other (hereon a capitalized Other) as the external compulsion of capital. Graphing the constellation of this conception of the Other with other uses of the term is not the task of this essay. Suffice it to note here that its massive overdetermination is perhaps the allure.

Cixous writes exactly what she doesn't want to, or what the opposite of her self wants. The "omnipotence-" with which she prefixes her "others" only underline this suggestion. Her literary production is a practice of abdication before the hegemony of the Other. A knowing abdication however; a critical abdication. Cixous, haunted by the force of manifold exteriorities, yet partially engulfs these ghostly absences in her surrender to them. The trace of the Other is manifest in obedience to its commands. To further abstract: the confession of our abdication before capitalist hegemony betrays a future sovereignty.

"Always I've done what I didn't want to do. Therefore I thought I have always given in to the other will, therefore I have always wanted to do what my unwill wanted to do." (20)

As we read Manhattan, Cixous declares she will not write Manhattan. The performative contradiction here is obvious, but precisely it alone unveils the external compulsion dictating her performance. Few authors raise to such a panoramic height this real tension in the production of literature. We write for the Other, or the Other writes in us, but no other rule exists here than that of external automatism of capital over against our internal self-determination. A writing for the Same, for the self -- as a monad internalizing its community, that is the negative limit implied, that is the latent end. But Cixous does not live as a communist, none of us today do, thus the prescience and practicality of her description of being dominated. Cixous's slavery is essentially all the proletariat's slavery. However enwreathed with prestige her labors are, she remains a voice of exploitation by the Other of her own reified production. Insofar as she produces literature, she too enjoys a merely animal existence, as a being guided by powers, or the "authorities-other", outside her own control.

Fleeing the book, through detours and circumlocutions, then is the only manner of accomplishing it. Cixous knows that no individual avoidance of the Other escapes the confines of its law. There is no non-relation to the Other, although the Other is the figure of non-relation. Non-relation is the relation to the Other. If Manhattan then reads like a montage or mosaic of notebook entries, arranged only tangentially around the theme of a memoir, it is because each part of it is a belabored and impossible escape or distraction from the details of the task at hand.

Yet Cixous never names capital as the Other. "You never know whom you obey when you act imperiously against your own will." (65) Not even the Other is known as such? The name capital is thus Cixous's greatest secret, secret perhaps even to herself. And a fearfully secret name, in as: "The Thing is dead yet the fear lives on." (54) Capital, the deathly thing-in-itself, whom Cixous pretty much ought also to recognize outside of her Heideggerian translation of it as Das Ding, is precisely her "almighty-other". Just as "the Other resembles God", the Other is actually capital. Yet Cixous never names capital as the Other. She ought to, but does not.

If ever there was a psychological resistance specific to capitalist society it is to name capital as such. Like God, or as indeed the true name of God, enunciating the word capital is a fearful exercise, ever chancing to invoke retribution. If Cixous ought to name capital, and the author has only stumbled across this ethical formulation accidentally (although ethics and political economy concern the same field of human experience), it is because this name is proper, and the proper name is an efflux of the practice of private property. Out of the field of all possible differential relations a private field and proper name are fixed, and this is the referential site of the ought. The ought assigned Cixous is not primarily an authorial intervention therefore. It instead follows inexorably from the referential logic of proper name -- no one being being responsible for producing the structure of this language and society.

Cixous ought to write capital where she does write other. But to determine capital as the proprietary name of the other, does this not presuppose something? Doesn't it privilege the Marxist family of determinations concerning the Other? Indeed it does. Betrayed, even, is the filiation of this author as a son of Marx. Serene indifference to all lines of inheritance is itself only a line of inheritance. Perhaps the ultimate act of indifference to this latter legacy is then to claim it, covetously. To claim an inheritance, and own its prior determinations, is this not presently inevitable then?


'Terrible event of a great perfection, leaving no room for any other occurrence.' (94)

Cixous abdicates her self-determination before the Other. The only choice is not to choose. (We are spiraling back around to the beginning of this text, sewing a new stitch in its knot.) Nothing more of substance is to be written. All that follows is an involuntary reiteration lashed out of this signatory by default of the all-permeating drive to calculable accumulations. Excessive scribbling, i.e. the production of literary surplus-value, has ever ruined literature from the beginning. The written word knows nothing but the yoke of superfluous effort. And still we conspire in our own imprisonment. It is a 'self-uncrowning-with-a-thought-to-self-recrowning'. (134) Capital subjugates us into prophesies of our own unbinding. It is its way, not ours, to project a way of our own.

To then abdicate before its dictatorship again, and we have done nothing else, the end of the Other, the involuntary determination of an otherwise than its Otherness, will mark an interminable trace of the Other within the body of this otherwise. An alternative to capitalist hegemony, nothing less than the dictatorship of the proletariat, cannot but displace, or 'preserve in negation', capitalist relations within itself. Otherness is thus the agent of novel totalities, much to the terror of 'otherwise' Neo-Kantian formalists. State capitalism will have inexorably inhabited all future socialism. Our future abdications will thus have been invariant. Socialism will not quit the 'great phantom-theme of the haunting without which there is no literature...' (66) Its text will have ever been produced against our will.

We will thus also remain as animals cowed before an Other. The absence, or absenting, of a human species-being will live on through its death agonies. 'Animal beasts in truth fossils revived by fear climbcrawl our sides in vain, we shall not climb out of this hellish funnel.' (137) No clambering from out 'this hellish funnel' of debased animality (which Cixous recognizes only peripherally -- literally on the 'sides' of her body), because an authentic becoming-human is achieved precisely through the Other-determined field of animality. Human species-being is, in truth, a universal animality, a speciesless-being -- thus too its great and manifold beauty. Schizophrenic 'becoming-animal' therefore parallaxes into an authentic 'becoming-human'.

'The room is full of invisible swine. A pack of grunts in the elevator... Let us enter delirium then.' (141)

Alluring as that entrance may yet be, perhaps we should instead dip into the young Marx's well once more:

'The positive expression "human" corresponds to the definite relations predominant at a certain stage of production and the way of satisfying needs determined by them, just as the negative expression "inhuman" corresponds to the attempt to negate these predominant relations and the way of satisfying needs prevailing under them without changing the existing mode of production...' (GI)

The obsidian-sharp prescience of the old Moor is indeed terrible. There is, once again, nothing more to be written after it but for the spurrings of the capitalist-Other. The question of the inhuman, among the great 'unthought' gifts of all contemporary theory, is at once among the most riven and raw confessions of resistance to capitalist social relations and the most pathetic of resignations before their omnipotence. Kafka, an author Cixous bluntly distances herself from in Manhattan (e.g. 'I've never wanted to be Kafka' [161]), is nonetheless the paradigmatic figure with regards to her zoolatrous rebellion. It matters nothing to the Other that Cixous does not want to be Kafka --it matters nothing that any of us would be so bigoted as to resist an intimate identification with him-- metamorphosis is material to the above determined absence of species-being. Even if metamorphoses are not revolutionary, this
excuses no one from the social regime generative of them.

The text of socialism will have been written against our will. As Orwell confessed to the world, we will remain animals. A damning proposition, indeed, perhaps even part false, if we allow that capitalism's immanent will to socialism is precisely our own (we animals) will to socialism. Freedom is the recognition of capitalist necessity, then, and much more so than most organized forms of Marxism care to admit. For the capitalist relations inhabiting all socialist organizations, even and especially the vanguardist species, are then not to be obscured or secreted behind massively fortified silences, or even a manufactured unconsciousness, but celebrated as part of the means for breaching another world.

The sum total of dialectical whirligigs running through this text, especially those grafted on in the ellipsis of reception, are utterly trilling by now, however, and the author has long since lost control of his word-machine.

A fatalist gesture is inexorable to reckoning the capitalist-Other's omnipotence. 'How do you explain the gesture that springs from the depths of your sleep?' (140) How else? A turn of fatalism into voluntarism is notorious in the Marxist literature furthermore. One becomes willed to will perhaps. This willed-will, in a classical negation of the negation, moreover, might become an independent will proper. Or, in presuming as given an utter obeisance to the externality of capital, the dialectical negation of an autonomous interiority is also generated. Reading Cixous, whose thought is pristinely rigid, even 'fissured from top to bottom' (159), for such slippages into the autonomous, assuming such a thing indeed happens, is the program of an entirely different text however. No more need truly be said in this regard, excepting for how capital flashes it whip against this scribbler.

Nothing need really be said at all, except for the fact that the capitalist-Other impels one to squawk out some bankable jibberish. This is the only point really worth making. Manhattan's lucidity in this regard precedes us. All yarns have heretofore spooled out off the stick of ruling-class bludgeons. Even Lenin's paper -- the very scaffolding of the vanguard party, it was and is a capitalist commodity. If in Marxism we therefore find a haunted bourgeoisie, in Leninism that haunted bourgeoisie is made manifest! No incoherence is evidenced herein with the most orthodox Marxist-Leninist statement one can make: capitalism is itself immanently anticapitalist.

Cixous: 'I write what comes, without explanation.' (48) How pleasant it would be to likewise conquer in this polemic without conception. The conception of a new order is precisely what we are compelled to however. Falling back on a somewhat questionable dialectic then, one that is perhaps still capable of being rigged for to uses however, it must be reiterated that a Platonic idea of communism does not nest its germs in the political-ideological 'superstructure' of capitalist society, waiting uncontaminated outside its vicissitudes only to be miraculously disseminated across the 'infrastructural' means of production. No. Orthodoxy states that communist metamorphoses in the means of production will have only been expressed, a posteriori, by political-ideological organizations. No working class seizure of the means of production, no authentically socialist socialist organization.

'Before the year was out I unmasked myself, I announced that for nothing in the world would I become a doctor, sick people scare me I say, I fear the exaltation of sick people, I fear bodies whose every orifice starts talking, who hear the voices of their organs, of their blood, of all the canals, arteries, streets, internal monuments. I don't need to be other others. My own others were just fine.' (162)

All our orifices talk here, always already. We hear the voices of our organs and the streets. We need to be other others. We need to be other Others. Cixous abdicates too much, in end, perhaps. Nothing she could do about it, such is our thesis. (Nothing but an externally infused avarice keeps us writing here.) Or perhaps it is in abdicating everything, not as though one had a choice in the matter, to exhaust oneself of autarkic resistances before the Other, that Cixous fails. Or perhaps tallying up her sins is of no interest here.

Cixous is a humbled author. Humility is a virtue, even for revolutionaries. It alone is the fount of all that foolish pride needed to overturn the established order. This is, of course, an echo of the dialectic of will outlined above. Salvaging religious doctrines for historical materialism is quite the trick-pony furthermore. Nothing absolutely wrong with it. Marx's expropriation of Catholic confession to revolutionary ends, evidenced in only a few lines of his early articles on the freedom of the press, deserves a book-length elaboration. But digressions such as this, as is suggested above, are again a characteristic trick of the scribal slave.

How to end?

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Footprints. Art Exhibit + Reading: 3/28/13

Footprints. Art Exhibit + Reading: Thursday, March 28th, 2013

@ Fellowship Place
441 Elm Street
New Haven, CT 06511

1-3pm, Art-room. Ask to sign in as a guest at the front gate with Denise, the receptionist.

Feat. the paintings of Maxwell Clark (possibly one other artist)

Readings by Desiree Branch and Maxwell Clark, fellows and poets.

Refreshments will be served.