Trans[c]ience and Other Pomo Jargon

of Maxwell Clark

Sometimes you read so close your own writing zooms out.
I am very excited about this that is happening to me.
If this is labor then consider me absolutist.
Gorgon sound in here.
da muthfuking truf is dat idk mayn.
Ghetto computing.
I'm already gone later but then I was here.
                     Indentation means something.

Line break asignifying though.


Oopxz.






Whoa.
















(((04103 - 06515 soundcloud)))

Brief New Poem

of Maxwell Clark

The armaments peace frills.
Almost number history.
God. Good-person.
Person peace number.
History armament frills almost.

2 poems

of Maxwell Owen Clark

O for a Closer Bond with God

I am souring sweetly
As a maze of winds.
It is right in front of me
But with nowhere to look in.
A whisperless agony enfolds my chest
Until it cracks me out along the spine
To this and nothing more.

What Little I Remember

Always homing in on first love.
Triangle swarm of the lazer castle.
Burning hands scare jawa.
Person speaking 12 languages at once is home.
Killer a-THC.
Beef stroganoff with rice noodle.
Seeing Mala w/ baby Paris.
Real guns have shoulder butts.
The infanta releases the #661645.
Telling the Queen Elizabeth ascension story.
She is never right around the corner.
Heroin contains heavy metals.
Playing Aladdin on rooftops.

Mouldering is This

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

must do

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.

The Dumb Mystery of the Stupid World

of Maxwell Clark

I am born of creation to do things as myself.

The grammar of creation is not essentially this one.

The most interesting element of this composition was how it was composed, the editorial and thus grammatical interstices of its revision, and so forth.

Doubt is never productive, thus work is madness.

There is the madness of slavery, and then how it murders off almost all otherwise doubtful reasons.

To be unproductive anymore is then as to be a reasonable God.

The lure of death, of slavery-madness, how it poisons life.

I do not detest anymore poetic innovations in the formatting of literature.

I am always erasing my wish-statements, right at their bud.

But my wishes are also of the fund of my obedience to externality.

I wish never to make wishes otherwise than I do.

And so the pallid armature of “what is” descends so.

Do not never again say anything that is coming into saying.

This is beyond such timid hermeneutic anticipations already, however.

It merely is in exception to any hesitations.

Even its hesitations are poolings of might.

Intentions are ephemeral distractions from it (this).

This is thus the root's flowering, as you will.

Neither gust nor breeze of direction is very central unto it.

It comes as it goes, but not without folds of trepidation, yet is itself unfolded only in between these.

Time is my flowering birdsong, drink of it when you may.

Too many sentences are begun without much of any pre-recognition of their final import.

How the real is open, too open to be much ever obeyed.

The self reels itself in and away from the real, hoping to recreate the real in itself.

As it does, except for the infinite interval between reeling away and recreation.

The scent of apples on the teeth.

“Is Any World But There at All?”

of Maxwell Clark

---after Philip K. Dick

This is going to be the monster show-down show election night dark shiny.

How not scream overcoming humor death elasticity bounce ray shadows?

Hello, and welcome die five.

Hello, and what the fucking fuck shit was that?

I know, it was me writing this down. No, wait....

It was your remote proximity inspiring me so.

Yes, but of course! Haha. How silly of me to...

Wait, ok, wait.

Now, wait a picosecond, then go.

Hold on... now I forgot, whoops.

I can't wait

For myself.

The world is.

That is all.

I can't even confirm this with you,

Only affirm it for not even myself.

Social Media, Postindustrialism, and the Reorganization of Social Power (the Spectacle)

of Maxwell Clark

On perusing over again Debord's Society of the Spectacle I was nearly alarmed to find how very much more pertinent its insights are into present-day society than perhaps ever before. Now, confessed, I am not a Situationist of any stripe, nor desire in the least to be associated with Debord's writings outside of being their occasional reader. Yet and still, if only I accept a bit of the gist of Debord's book: that media has become the ruling force in society, and so on; quite a few new developments in contemporary society become thrown into a powerful new light.

The waning of “mass media” today in 2016, and the innovations of social media concurrent with this long, slow demise of said “one-way” streams of social data---well, in very brief, they suggest something akin to an actualization of the hope for a renewal of social justice so dearly clung to by the prophetic tradition (including not only religious movements, but so many secular ones). If, and this is taken in a very abstracted (but not unreal) way, the mediation of ideology in society has permutated: from mass industrial media to social postindustrial media; then, very obviously, something is afoot, or unraveling, presently that may prove to have farther reaching outcomes in the future than we now commonly recognize.

Further, if postindustrialism is a significantly different mode of production (in the standard Marxist analytic) from industrialism---which I believe becomes quite obvious also when held to the least bit of scrutiny---then wherever this shift in productive modes has occurred, there is to be predicted a delayed reconstitution of the entire array of superstructures in these societies where said mutation has occurred. I do not pretend to give my audience any least extensive nor rigorous proofs of this evolution in the global status of modes of production, but ask you merely to put my thesis to the test of any and every your own methods of falsification.

And the question hereafter is not: what is to be expected? So much as it is: how is this happening at present? I have little enough energy to dilate out a response to this latter question---and feel, further, that if only I have planted the merest scattering of seeds of this problematic at all my task is complete.