These Sufferings of Absurdity

These Sufferings of Absurdity

of Maxwell Clark

As my friend (mi amigo) Eduardo Alvarez says so well: “we pain, we paint”. Or, as Helene Cixous elsewhere—and apparently independently—also discovered already in the title of her essay: ‘Paintings’. Pain-t[h]ings. Things of pain. The pain of things. How pained are things! We pain, so also are our paintings. Things pain us, so also we paint them. To paint is to express the pain of things. To impress pain into things. To pain of things. To objectify pain. To make static things tremble with our restless sufferings. To suffer things of expression. To suffer our creation(s). Creation is the suffering of things. The suffering of what is. Creation is the suffering of what is. What is only suffers its creation. To create what is one must suffer it. To suffer what is creates it. Suffering creates what is. To suffer creation is also its own aesthetic sensibility. Art is created suffering. Suffering is the sense of art. Art is only suffered aesthetically. Art is suffered to exist. Creation is suffered. To suffer creation is the aesthetic sense. Sensation is suffered. Creation is the sense of suffering. Suffering is the creation of sense. The aesthetic of suffering is creation unto itself. Creation suffers its aesthetic sensibility. Creation is the sense of suffering. The senses suffer creation. The creation(s) of the senses is suffering. Creation is to suffer the senses. To suffer creation is to be sensuous. Sensuousness creates suffering. Suffering is creation’s sense. To suffer creates sense. This sense is suffered as creativity itself. The creative sense is suffering. The sensitive suffer to create. Their sensitivity creates their suffering. Their suffering creates their sensation(s). Their sense of creation is suffering. Their creative sense is suffered. The sense of suffering is creation. Creation suffers its senses. The sense in suffering is its creation(s). Sense is suffered in creativity. To create sense is to suffer for it. To sense creation is to suffer for it. To suffer for making sense. To suffer making sense. To suffer makes sense. Sense is made suffering. Suffering makes sense. To make sense is to suffer. To suffer (is) made sense.

An Inconsistent and Unknowing Go at Soliciting Certain Responses From You

 by and of Maxwell Clark

I am rather unfamiliar with academia. I much prefer learning for myself, if you will---and if you will also pardon perhaps the naïveté of this affirmation I have just put forward ("I much prefer learning for myself..."), or its appearance as such thus far as this has gone. This, indeed, seems the only way I ever learn, that is, when I do so for myself; rather than for, or under, the rule of any ruling academic authorities. It seems, at least, that I must be involved in my own learning somehow for it actually to be mine at all. If I am not the one doing the learning, then who? Who learns for me if I do not learn for myself? My academic authorities? Fortunately, I no longer am privileged to any of that kind of person anymore. For, if my academic authorities are the ones learning, for me, rather than I learning for me, for myself, than I may very well doubt I am learning at all under such authorities as these. Or, how does one learn if not by oneself? One learns from others, of course, in teaching, of course. Thus, the interposition of academic authorities in between myself and my own learning, and, so, also, their own learning apart from mine, as authorities and/or learners unto themselves, finds its justification, or justice, in being done for me (if only maybe sometimes, in the best of circumstances), if you will, or as teaching. Who would ever deny this? Yet who also can defend that the teachers, then (and to stumble upon a more felicitous term here than "academic authorities"), somehow, do not interrupt, but substitute their learning---which is actually also embodied in -- or as -- themselves (or corporeally, then)---substitute it for my learning, as I am corporeally embodied in actuality as myself? I am not my others, much less the Other---I am myself alone. Yet, still, they (others) teach me. I cannot yet doubt this, or do not yet doubt this, except in the most the over-reconstrictedly (excuse), or orthodoxly Cartesian way---which is more on the register of fancy herein than conviction---I only protest that somehow, maybe---or, make that assuredly?---in some way I will never persuasively, much less really, know, how this said substitution (and this key term far more to be read in terms of embodiment than with that of knowledge, if only just for me) of the teacher for their student, is even possible, or desirable? Is teaching even assuredly so---as it is so far said above (as sort of a vaguely so far defined as a "substitution of embodiments", academic or otherwise)? Further, but also as a sort of aside---as it continues what was just before closed-off between the immediately foregoing parentheses ending the sentence before this---if teaching is delineated, as it were, and as so far as it is herein, on the register of the bodies which perform it, and, if this said (or tentatively-posed?) corporeality of teaching is further taken as a salient paradigm (if only insofar as it is so, or otherwise, for you, my dear audiences)---and, if perhaps then also only more or less---if this is then accepted to "function" (although my conviction is already waning at this somewhat awry term) "through" (or mayhap, rathermore, or also: "within", or "about", "by", "as", or "whatever else have you..."---prepositionally, but this is an almost absurdly pleonastic twist of that word---or, that is, more plainly, with especial regard to my preposition-use at the literary space defined as that immediately preceding this foregoing open-parenthesis) aforesaid and therein minimally contextualized, or not very ramified, name of "substitution"? Is this, my conceptuality, good enough? Or, does it hold good? And, then again, how do I further proceed with this abrupt introduction, or seemingly sudden foregrounding, of the ethical---in one among its core, if you will, or most signature terms: "good"? how? except as aggrieved, or apologetically, as guilty of what I have so far dared to fling out so hastily as I have in this---whatever it is (that it is). You, my audiences, I ask your forgiveness---whether in each uniquely individual reading of yours it is ever granted, or no; I can do no more than that, to ask it of you---and thereafter go on, if still very much uneasily aggrieved (perhaps even moreso in, or for, the deferral, or, more likely post-mortem delay, or again, wait, I must suffer for this thing I have so foolishly as such written here; as it is, before you, and so too almost necessarily before you may ever grant me my/its desired atonement). To go on then, I return to my afore self-interrogated terminologies (in brusque: "embodiment" and "substitution") and their deployments here-above in this text... and, then, I wonder: how does one go on addressing that other issue which had arisen just before this once before said (as once also before that too?) self-interrogation of my own usages, which was, but of course, as it nascent-emerged, again, from those other, even more anterior, thematic schemas I see and/or recall seeing coalesce within/as this work? Is it good, again---to deploy again that already (for me) troublesome word---whatever my somewhat strong inclination to disavow its use herein already---yes, that word which is also a signal or marker suggesting (or is it imposing?) an ethical register for this document and your receptions of it---is it, again, then, good that this writing cannot seem but to "implode" back in upon itself the moment it affirms anything? Why even affirm anything then, or as such, if I am simply going to recant each of any of those affirmations at some place in their afterwards? In order simply to recant it? That is, affirm for the sake of recantation? What then is the attraction of such ritualistic recantation to me? To slip then back into my ominous habit of affirmation, then, is it not that I emulate Plato's Socrates when he affirms in the Apology (and elsewhere, I believe) that his only knowledge is that he knows nothing. And, then, does recantation---which is, or is it "not", the same as negation? (I, then, maybe foolishly, as too abrupt, and so as ever and again, tend to suggest it is otherwise than identical with negation as above brought into issue)---lie like a seed, if you will, within the body, if you will, of each and---only thus---every affirmation? And is this writing not becoming but an incessant tissue of unanswered inquiries? Is not that then how to write something while still knowing nothing? By having no answers? Is questioning (even) a form of knowledge, put otherwise, and if only perhaps? Or, isn't questioning a form of the absence of knowledge? as then also its soliciting, or the calling forth of knowledge itself then too? A knowledge to come, then, and which, in the meanwhile, is again---if to mince one's words very precisely, or over-precisely, mayhaps---absent from its discourse?

A Teaching From About Stein

of Maxwell Clark

"If you don't understand what I am talking about then I am talking about nothing and it makes no difference, if you do then there's enough said."

—Gertrude Stein, Q.E.D.

If these letters that I have made written here just for this place alone were only good for what they looked like to anyone else and only that alone, then what can they be really good for? Not even much for looking at is what. The prettiest and most delicately loveliest bird-music of speaking out a new opening life and it up from under its long hushing-up is what she had written down so perfectly well and it is still very good. The special person whose very musical voice was that of whose I just said it was and she was just starting to come out into the opened places of outer-life and outer-world peoples is what she was and was making her doing so good and unlike so many others. She was ever and ever and ever again getting herself out of her closed-in small past and past lives that locked closed inside the inner-rooms and shut-up houses. And ever was she out-going and out loud gone again into the opens and outer places. Her voice had its own set of past lives to it too and it was now more than ever much surrounded too by outside living people who could hear it more than ever before. The way she wrote then was with her same older voice from that of her hushed-in past and so her voice told her how to. It was louder now and again also too. But maybe only her same older past voices or voice was written down also because it is also that she had also gone outside to the talk of the unlocked places and elsewhere open spots and open peoples a lot more than some others who had still been locked-in into their shut-up hushed insides. And she had learned out there out among the many more outside people there that she could speak more loudly to them like as she once did hushed to herself too—but now also to them and among them in this way louder as well. Going outer more and ever more outside to the outside places so much was how she learned to write for them her inside hushed voice and but also to speak it out very loudly. So she somehow by a new miracle and coincidence of life got herself somewhat very much quickly out of the locked-up hushed-up insides of her past and went out to its open places enough to just belong there too. Then this outside wanted to hear more about her older locked-in inside and its hushed life that had almost perfectly no outside. So because she belonged enough to the outside then and so then she just wrote down then whatever of her talk was still left hushed inside of herself from the old insides and also the hushed inside of all of her old ancestral past lives and so on and so then also a little somewhat including also all of the old hidden talk hidden hushed-in inside every locked private room and quiet shut-up house. And this is just what I do really hear when it was there before me after she wrote it down for us.

Puppy Dog

Oh how I love my puppy dog,

She is the best dog,

She is so cool,

I love her.

Terrorism is the New Normal

 of Maxwell Clark

The present-day mass-media seems to portray each and every (of the so many recent) radical Islamist acts of terrorism as “events”, or absolutely unique and unprecedented eruptions in historical time. This, of course, utterly obfuscates how, until the U.S.A. repatriates about half the globe back to itself, terrorism will now and maybe forever remain a normal everyday global occurrence, and this perhaps most especially in the few but virulently metastatic postindustrial enclaves of the world.

An Apology for My Late Unhappiness

of Maxwell Clark

Interstices warp, uncouth

As perilous grimes unearthly;

Moreso than the pillaging soot

Unavenged, trots mirthfully.

Forgo the elation of unspilt wagons,

So that demolished herons wisp octagonal;

Muck and divinities irradiated without spoons;

As these minuets haven’t anymore their young hammers.

Many are the holds of calx,

Which after tilled the murky quadratures;

Milling away the ashy wasps

Are these inhumanly fallow chronicles.

Jasper indexes, and whey,

And howevermuch is so today,

These yowling trinkets

Are my sepulchre.

Publications of wrinkly spittle, away!

People us: unbecoming, radial, diatomaceous—
These herein do flirt gargantuan

Upon our dethronements, amongst our elder copses.

Another kilo dissipates grumpiness with pliers

Unholy for wastrels of kittens in litter;

Never unbeholden these remarks too kooky for us,

Perhaps akin to snapping maws of eaglets.

Pleasure is jilted aright, alike burrowing

The paternal insolvency of giggling washbins,

Or forever trilling utterly the sickled chasms

That speed my gnashing flowers vaprous.

Mounted grates unsplashed with febrile

Meters, because of who tickles plush,

Because of horizontal extensions dulled

Downward above prayerful filigrees.

Much is wreathed askew for our truants,

More is belted apart, and renewing impoverishments

Are overgrown deathly as is most numbing,

As unsheathed powders query their ventricles.

Powers untilted succumb unto goat-herders

Dissuasion from apoplectic fluxes most errant;

The apples frill the junta of ibexes murex,

The yellowing of tridents relinquished.

Uphill redounds my whittled pouncers,

Downhill gashes bile, despite I, rattling perfumes

Of ganged inhalants, plus rushes of mendicant irreverence,

As so also heals the bumbles of rock piles.

Unfinished curvatures dilate, irrelevant

To these here builds of winking gorgons, that weld

Multiplicitous embargoes plashing, orotund

As numinous meteorite xeroxes.

Playful jitters the rash of twinklers,

Purple as mulch;

Mountainous clasps spike the placidness

Alike unto yielding hormones glow.

Magnanimous the retriever of gaiety;

Thusly milk the vipers, drain the coolants,

And dishevel our boomeranging adornments;

Alone so is the bilk most venemously arrayed.

Quarter this mossy sliver of gumption

Beside this receptacle of things unlike it,

Golden tackles align to the lineaments of porridge;

This so that numerous bounties may unwind.

Much is furrowed lava, and less is retractable;

Dented are the late mixtures, they abscond

With clearest pallors and hived ambidexterity,

As donkeys are again wont to suspend.

Plastic dendrites spool jolly as wood

Around and about this miniatured tar-pool;

Much more is the kooky monster-truck apt

And lashing-wholesome, as trite as bread.

Nevermore the sills of fruition sane,

Much less their pissing wanderlust upon nouns,

Because thankful perspires many a seahorse,

Many a truculent manifold of telometers.

Nearby a Glen’s Stream

of Maxwell Clark

                                                                            Acid carwash dousing fizz,

                                                                            Carols of ur-blackest markets,

                                                                            Sympathetic as a cauldron is sculptural.

                                                                            Garrisons, principalities, archives, names;

                                                                            Unforeseeable any shared visions;

                                                                            The rooster thus is not afraid.

Humanity is inhumane.

Unto the daylight I sink, alike of rocks into ocean’s suns,

Dropping hard, akin to unreal meteor-welds, august

Melts, horrendously obtuse rakes, oratorical,

and of flourishing about itself acidic; disarmed.

Resinous flanks defoliate wondrously atop this, herein

unclosing odiferously vacant meat-hooks, as of

unpretty unlockings diversified, spilt juts disarrayed,

deformations delayed; meddling.

Unpouring, then the cascades alight.

Noise-Makings

of Maxwell Clark

The blacks of Northern
America/ have contributed
The most value to its/ economic
Elaboration.
____________Black labors, i.e.
____________Black cultures/metabolisms
/Have ever been the most fecund/ here
Since the putrescent stench of chattel-ships/
First assaulted the/assumedly/a bit
Romanesque nostrils
____________Of/ my matrilineal patriarch
____________John Woolman.
And of latter days/many moons/since,
The supremacy
Of black eth(n)ologies/ecotechnics (((corporeal genericisms)))
Is their re-poeticization of popular-/folk noise-making.

waY uP!!!!!!!!!!

of Maxwell Clark

"Waaaaay up!

Way up then!

Waaaaay up!

Stay up then!"

---Popcaan

Inner light, extinguish thineself.
Outer chorus, uplift me.

Lift me up, oh,

Out so way-up-up-up high that, oh, oh, I transcend,
I transcendeth beyond any but the least few---the most alive.

Oh, then, likely nowise including you:

You, yes,
You,

That monstrously greater part
Of my reception,

Whose inane butchery of my art
Be, to me, but the most ruthless deception.

My worst banes: your hyper-cancerous profusions, oh!

Oh how viciously stigmatic be now your normalcy!
Oh how eerily brutalizing also your eternal mediocrity!

And, oh! oh! how undead be thou swarm's serial massives!

You; oh, you are the greater logic
And the most common reason
And the purely-most spread of lights
Ever goading me again to self-murder,
To doom, to wanton terrors and ugliest horrors,

Undead thus also as to delights.

4u

of Maxwell Clark

"All is in danger.

Are you a stranger?"

---French Montana

The is the.

This has this.

Overcurlings taper, hanging; gliding.

Forever was once already.

Thrust abnormally individual character into maws.

Alongside, facing---like

A point of resolution infinitely shatteredlyzz.

Above Audience: A Critique of Intentionality

of Maxwell Clark

"If you don't understand what I am talking about then I am talking about nothing and it makes no difference, if you do then there's enough said."

—Gertrude Stein, Q.E.D

Intentionality involves the ruse of creating for others not merely external traces of who you yourself are, as all of creation is also this, but moreover creating traces of oneself that seem to have forgotten, in their attention being focused upon their audiences instead, that traces of oneself is all that one can ever create. Intentionality degrades the glory of the signal expressed by oneself unto others precisely in this forgetting of oneself, of caring more for others than for oneself—as if one could give them something other than oneself, something more like them and less like me.

Intentionality is the desire to control one’s relation to others, is a normalization of the self at the expense of others. But already I witness these critically referenced to forms of intentionality writhing so delicately into delineation before me as supermassively bleak. There can be no intentional abolition of intention, as the very act of its abolition would thereby also reaffirm its own endurance. The most I may do is witness myself, as herein, performing an otherwise unintentional mode of social relation—witness myself making this testament to you.

                Intentionality isn’t even actual. In the absolute flow of creation, it doesn’t exist—the psyche is infinitely determined by its exteriority without exception. Intentionality signifies, not anything of reality, therefore, but rather its confusion in the psychic world.

Never Forever Again Once

of Maxwell Clark

Donating one’s own humanity to the wastes.

Then it was like this.

                Giving away our humanity because the world is so.

Pretty much so, yup.

                                I have no mouth to pee lazers of curly shapes.

Then I abstained from culling my everyday life for this.

Black is a night in somewhere.

Give up the trial of humanity, because pizza.

                Hope to win the pizza always.

This is not what it is enough. I must do what it is. It can only be done like this.

A bland lazer-beam of artichokes. DID YOU KNOW?

NO, I HAD NO IDEA. GOOD! THANK YOU. LET US GO NOW.

Then I said what I said.

Nobody can understand this that well because they are too busy masturbating.

I wash myself with waters that are a liquid of chemical combinations.

A system of transferences.

Did you know that this is what I said?

I need rules to tell me what to do.

A Funny Torture I Hallucinated the Other Day [Reconstructed from Elder Notebooks]

of Maxwell Clark

https://nongenreaudio.bandcamp.com/album/happy-pretty

Peering about panoptically is not not reconcilable with the schemata of Hegel’s weltgeist (?) INCARNATED as the stupid fresh mode or fasces of production translated across an intervallic extension of periods called history, rather than spacing.

Detailing the nameless.

Sleep, nameless love, it is so easy.

Hips jut pubis forward to search for my erection.

Hips roll pubis, gyrate, smother my big dick. My dick is so under-in the pubis-maw.

Poesy of absolute perfection.

Hips roll pubis and maw smother-over my big dick. The mystery is not happily unrecognized, needs realness, needs to feed off me more than I am. So many easy things to do.

The math of mind-gun poesy.

There is no need to write now. I must write now.

FUCK SEX.

“Matter is that which is indifferent to form.”

–Hegel’s Science of Logic (as quoted in Marx’s Grundrisse).

This is a poem about fucking nobody for years.

Thanks.

Omnilucent face, so small, because not everything, but everything alone. Measureless but small, like nothing else, except the exception. Everything concretion must begin with an abstraction; you count the possible meanings, like an estimation without number. The varmin are not elaborated upon sickly sweet.

Sloppy queer numbers of outer space.

“If in a sequence of things to be investigated there is something that our intellect cannot intuit well enough, we should pause there and not examine others that follow but, instead, we should refrain from doing fruitless work.”

–Descartes

Norman Rockwell and Andy Warhol.

Can you feel the love? The triangles?
What did I just spray?

I ain’t need no flex, but I gotta ball.

Will I complete the mystery of my flesh?

I love you so;

I want you to know,

I love you so;

Go as you will,

My secret still

Will be you;

Truly,

Max.

I Need to Do Better

I am so sad now that she has hurt me somehow,

O viperess, venomous one, sunk so into me somehow,

Somehow her voice’s tambor alone shakes me,

Somehow I have failed her; but how?!

How have I turned her so? if so?

How has she become someone so too near?

I wish I were alone, but leaving her:
It would hurt me more.

And are the base materials off-balance?

Methinks she doth rate herself over highly.

Highly over me you at least played moral tyrant,

Or so doth me heart feeleth most, but please forgive it.

A vexatious Muse are thee,

Amused by rending my heart with heartless monotones;

But I will not leave thee, not yet,

For there is still hope you may learn a better eloquence.

I am poisoned in the wells of me with her,

Forgive this tuneless drivel she makes me feel,

My ugliness is hers now too,

A waterless desert suction beam-node.

Selections from a 100 Leaf Composition Notebook

of Maxwell Clark

“What have you to help you hold in a single thought reality and justice?”

—Ch. Olson

Sometimes, when the wind is fine and pretty, wavy-like in the sun and in your stupid-happy grin about it all, and you’re listening to this “grammaphoneme” of Son House being repeated, but never in any technically rigorous sense until you rewind its coded extension (“candy-cane” or whatever else it’s called today, if you people “steal” speaking proper King James’s Engrish) and return to the passive wonders and high feeling of the audio “playing” your tympani so right and goodly. Charley Patton, God almighty (mode of production) was a whippersnapper, boy howdy, but he weren’t a murderer soundboy. Ninja Man, the greatest damnshitfuckshitwah vocalist of the digitalia Jamaica intercourses with big brudda, big poppa griot of the Purity-annized Nine-Square Cattle-Pen of Moses Christ, the Allahinator and Pika-Hegeomon of the Lost Boys [and Girls] [and...] Club of Amoriquenoa and Infinity, and Beyond! An important daughter of mine will someday read me back what I’ve prepared for her ink red ink, because she will read her nutrition to become a higher grunhilde (I don’t know what this means yet), a worserest ogre-trollomongicarle shnoozer than ever my step-father Getrude Stein. She will be more girly a man than my real father, Charles Bernstein, the first Jew to do Pound in the anal crevice/crevace (?!), crevace (assuredly by now?), instead of presenting their bumblehole to him doey-eyed and Bjork’dy like Allen Ginsberg and Louis Zukofsky (strains of a cat-fight in the alley wavy). It only matters that she reads this, because she knows my oceanic pockets of lucre (and candy-canes) can run it so rightfulsomenessly, even in the duende (duendelo de la espuma del infanta va a estar mas real y es la nausea del amor si mas gigante por buen salud de corazones neutrato [come se escribir con menos propiedad de la Catholicidad y (o) la Eucumenica del los y las Excummunicaos?? [sign of the Dao [==insert==]] English will be the language I oath to her estate of Furiously Amused Matriabsolution, a more Gravitational Sexuation of the Energetic Infinities I made pay attributes (homage, or incarnation) into wavy brittle dungeons and spawning holes of hallucinatory royalty and their indefinite and unlimited evolutionary genesis in darkly joyous light and its monadism of Sado-Masochism, or the love of direst punishments. She will know my madness enabled me to rule the poemathesis even of our otherwise alienated neighbors for a long while now, and she will riddler my odd perferctr rnrurmericality with unmentionably overgushingly ontomamaphonomomentolalalaandar drones alive with poematheisa, her conjugation of my neologismao undersugent and permealotomobilitized like girlish powedersr disarray across the nasally ridged muteness of tensions more discrete and swollen with a Waka Flakavellianism of thug bich pit-monstrosity and traumatic smoothness in my dumbfucky eye-thing and its anal fixations, resentment at the incontinence of my bowels; “psychotic bellows are full of shit” she affectionately administers me to my quote my classically psychopathic (schizopharma-kon?) vocalizations of myself to myself, the fullness of the godface pleroma in myself, as in each, the self before the stigmatic touch of the face, the eye-shoots shot back into “Total Divinity” (in its Futility of Being Said in a Totally Divine Way, but of a “Totally Divine” Sway and Juke) before and during the delayed update of the face as permanent futurity; the poem of the future is the face stomped on for all eternity, except with long breaks for paradise to blossomer-bloomy, yo, into the concussed trauma of sadness called the victimity of “more or less”, or “otherwise conditioned” magnitudes of victimhood in alien curvatures and their cyan-blooded familial“-airty” (“-a-writ/witty”) of Bobbitism and Kerriganhood hoodlumy: [...]. My daughter and her clan of spider-mares will wallow and thrash in the woozy  elevation and magical weight-loss secret of their satanically cynical protectorate of their life-world-womb-and-weft against the irrascible masculinity of the eternal war to make mom happy, and to display such a wit that her tummy is quickened and lifted with its rigors and rigidity (the way to the moon is a ballooning of melancholy into infinite sadness, which occasions the feminine belly to cheer up and gurgle with cooing flights of mind-sex uncoolness with leviathanatosis mama; but if mum is a mummy, “her brains pulled out her nostrils”, then those [....]

An Essay About Something

of Maxwell Clark

---Rothwell's Mary Shelley

What is an essay but a finding that only abruptly comes to an end?

                                                “These are not only gestures: they imply

                                                Complex relations with one another.”

                                                (J. Ashbery, ‘All Kinds of Caresses’, Houseboat Days)

Although I would not be anywhere else than here right now, so blessed am I, I am also somehow at a loss for how to accomplish this herein (now after) wherein I am myself.

“In Summa: domination of the passions, not their weakening or extirpation!— The greater the dominating power of a will, the more freedom the passions may be allowed.”

(Nietzsche, The Will to Power)

I haven’t the dominance over my instincts to let them run rampant at this moment (now lost).

Nevermind. Anywho....

Mindless Joy

I just can.

Because of so.

This has that way of it.

Do the joyfulness.

Do it like this too.

Then this is so good.

Happy now too.

A very pretty moment.

Such beauty.

And more.

4 + 4 = 8

9 x 12 = 108
9 - 7 = 2
12 / 9 = 1.333
6 x 3 = 18
99 - 63 = 36
12 + 3 = 15
55 x 2 = 110
34 / 7 = 4.857
23 x 23 = 529
20 + 4 = 24
7 x 11 = 77
65 - 9 = 56
2 + 3 = 5
1 + 89 = 90
45 / 45 = 1
370 - 90 = 280
5 x 5 = 25
77 / 9 = 8.555
9 x 3 = 27
88 / 5 = 17.6
7 - 6 = 1
73 + 3 = 76
23 - 9 = 14

Bluebells Kickout

of Maxwell Clark

Master crows unfan this peripheral thereby.

Balustrades mock unfunny.

Who, sacred Who, isn’t hearing this—regardless?

Master ocean sinks up and already flooding so pours.

Each around uncircles but perfectly.

Pray of incompleteness when utmost as is.

Slowly the uncoil hexatious beams stuporous vectors.

Not quite but absolute frails hallowed bubblegum and necrotic.

Missive is immorality bent upon rips of oath stump.

Power keys out friction wind.

Metal winning ogre yahoo.

Transpire exhumes flaccid pestilence rapists.

Anger go of molten honey amputation shady.

Tantrum never moreover peeking slightly apologies.

Code my natal freezes untoward or yucky novelistic gloriousness skin.

Trap cathedrals nowhere clapboard zones lonesome extensive.

Must unclasping border nucleus vital unjust.

Aspiration castle bowl apoplexia fountain rude safe.

Spirit sprint sprightly sprung springing spree.

About Eileen Tabios

of Maxwell Clark

Vaguely aware of Kierkegaard’s teachings on the obnoxious superfluity of book-reviewing, of how in the reading masses book-reviews lazily crowd out the more intensive and individual reading of their else merely attendant books, I offer a few remarks on Eileen Tabios. She is to me more of a vortex of transnational poetic societal relations, however fuzzily and ambiguously defined in their ever-shifting dimensions, than a poet unto herself. She curates the works of others exceedingly well. She reviews others books with such an easy command that it even sometimes astounds her reader. But for all of her glowing book-reviews, very many of which are deposited haphazardly into her own books, do her own books stand out with a like aura of serendipity when the reader is alone with them? Were I to ever answer this question, I would be stooping to the traditional forms of critical evaluation in the book-review canon. Instead, I leave the question hanging; the better to nag the otherwise ignorant of her corpus to answer for themselves.

Eileen Tabios is of a genius that is hard to pin down in any one textual space, otherwise put. Her genius is more of that incessantly collective barrage of her own rapid-fire of texts, their wondrously delicate shepherding of her ambient poetic world, in so many micrologically specific ways. I don't mean to go against Kierkegaard's grain re: book-reviewing much, but perhaps in the unique case of Tabios's most luscious critical preenings, that most brusque but highly attentive sensitivity they achieve as contexts to otherwise unread texts, therein something of goodness and justice accrues. Perhaps, just maybe, her reviews are better than the books upon which they anchor as references to? Doubtless, I again cannot answer my own questionings. But hanging questions, as superlative luxuries in a way, I indulge myself with them herein. Perhaps the art of reviewing books needn't deteriorate the value of what they review, perhaps book-reviews may indeed even ennoble their otherwise mediocre reference materials? If such were ever to be the case, then assuredly Eileen Tabios would be exemplary of it.

Dataset

of Maxwell Clark

Smug canopies iridescent crinkly,
This feeling of beauteous delicacy,
An elder faucet of blood,
Shingles in arrays, in jealousy.

Crackling Open the Nevermind

of Maxwell Clark

                                                                                                (((...)))

                                                                                                Just the asynchronous face

                                                                                                Of my elsewhere forgotten

                                                                                                Saying; not this Said

                                                                                                It left (as) herein.

Zoom.

Flat? the indiscrete focal sequences/Unfold in irregular juts.

This is a description of my senses.

                Remodel extravagances of a

                Chipping jut—illimitable but

                Textural; timbral inter-stutters

(Or more or less)
(Of lessening).

                Then genres.

A report on the justice of slavery:

“A march for good jobs”.

Any jut is whereof.

                                                                                                I doubt I think:
                                                                                                Therefore I just am.

                Ger tzedek,

                As still it goes on outside this.

Forget more and more, so but forgive too rarely.

Death if butt hangs out.

To comment on what I am doing.

                Little smooths and dirt.

(((I, of you, sing, to you, my truth: you.)))

Then, after that, comes then the next, which is set-in after what was before it. The adoption of a more critical and rigorous approach. I may also elicit opprobrium from my audience. Cower awhile, and weep, trembling/Of your foolishness, so divinely pretty....

                                                                                                Pity—for being so alive.

                                                                                                Pump the move.

That the personalization of nature (animism).

                                                                                                An apology.

Be (as I fear)?

Consoling observance of the rituals of the dead.

Glory but disintegrates the body into cancers of light....

                Little matter if it doesn’t work out.

                I say this because I like (you) to[o].

Good, now again; then do that; yes, alright!@

An inept critique of inconsistent sets of data.

  

The wisdom taught by love is the impossibility of learning better.

                                                Perfect sentence stop.

                                                The Good of homeless psychotics.

                                                To teach the youth.

What I have not signed herein is most myself,

As if you might follow the spacings of these marks

Backwards into time.

                My blackness.

                A lapsed Quakerism.

                Love names us.

                                                This mission is important.

                                                A poem that does not teach

                                                Is never learned.

                                                Nor combat what does not to me exist.

There is no slavery if death is preferable.

                                                The attunement of sweet accents.

                                                How it is done.

The area looks secure.

Barbaric reality on the ground as well.

                Earth-canon.

The intensification of sensory experience into a qualitatively distinct (abnormal) experience.

A phenomenology of capitalism indeed.

The figures of logic require practices.

                Dodeccahedral inter-isolation.

                                                                                                The tenses

                                                                                                Of history.

Incessant revision to grandiose essay.

                Auto-cannibalization.

Burial mound as dwelling.

All peoples will migrate again.

Already the terrain becomes much less foggy.

                Peaceful demonstrations demonstrate

                The potential for organized violence.

                                                                                                Encyclopedic

                                                                                                Unconsciousness.

                Our bodies are like bells.