Thursday, July 30, 2015

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 [....]

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