Flippant paddlefish, mechanical keelboat, ambient roe
Who alluded to the explicit niche, inasmuch as articulating throbs flail the plucky palpitations, the syncretic tinkering of the predictable muscle mass fused in the vortex of unimagined fluid, drenched in the split niche, y'all.
It is difficult to impugn a dilapidated taboo, and it is precisely the flickering demolition of this alterity that my I is nothing but a crassly shuddered insinuation. Be that as it may, there is something incredibly sensual about the artificially inverted revulsion of nipple torture.
After I no longer am an I, after I no longer am I, after I no longer am, after my I no longer is, after my I no longer is an I, will I be, will I be an I, will I be at all, will I be an it, will my I be an it, will my I still be an I, will my I still be, will I still be, will I still be an I, will I still be my I, will my I still be mine, will my I finally be still.
The clenched language is shaded in the rinsed waste. The stupefying pinprick is resplendent. The spines of breathing are in the mist of corruption. The indelible light pricks the hypnotic shade where the dismembered stupor is worn away, lightly filtering my psalm thru your teeth.
Light velvet is punctured in the midst of night. The night is not a fringed fraction of breathing thorns, fierier shades of agitation decomposing flashy spurts of ordure too austere to be undeterrable, but two inches are a little too inadequate to enter into a startling arousal, so the shaded language is rinsed in the clenched waste.
Will I, who feel I am, who feel my I, who feel I am an I, will I finally feel my I as it is, or will I finally feel my I as it was, as I am, as if I am, as if I am an I, as if I am an it, as if I was when I was, as if I were, as if I never was.
I impugn nothing but yr toothy insinuations.
Light stings light. Lightly strung lights, streaming strings of light scheming decomposing stings, the limbs of sleep stupefying detached rays, light stinging the breath of platinum pleats analogously punctured.
Am I who my I feels I am, if I exist, if my I exists, if it is in existence, if it ever existed, if it will ever exist. Dismembered light stings velvet stupors, indelibly hypnotic light stings the shadows of headstones. What is platinum in the fire is all alone, the vaporized voice in the flames.
Light stings the austerity of blood stinging light that placates the placenta of discursive turbulence. What is devoid devours what is stiff. In the precise maelstrom of smoldering argumentation, what is indicated is a thorny night, which is indented in the charcoal. Charcoal night is breathing shrilly, undeterrable tongues hallucinating in the keyholes, perforating the dust of what mouths utter. What is dictated is within the quenched constriction of wrangling invective, what limns the glittering coterie.
My ego is tedious. Is my ego my ego. Is my ego tedious. My ego is not tedious. Is my ego tedious. My ego is tedious. Is my ego tedious. My ego is not tedious. Is my ego not tedious. My ego is not tedious. Is my ego tedious. My ego is not tedious. Is my ego tedious. My ego is a tedious ego. My ego is an ego. My ego is tedious. Is my ego an ego. My ego is not an ego. My ego is not an ego, but only if it is an ego is it an ego, if it is tedious. Is my ego an ego if it is not an ego. My ego is not an ego, but only if it is tedious. My ego is not tedious. Is my ego tedious. My ego is tedious, but not too tedious. My ego is not tedious. My ego is tedious. My ego is my ego. My ego is tedious. My ego is not tedious. It is tedious. What is tedious. What is tedious about my ego. Every ego is tedious. Not any ego is tedious. Anything but an ego is tedious. A tedious ego is tedious. Every ego is not tedious. I am tedious. Are you tedious. Your tedious ego is not tedious. My ego is not tedious. My ego is my ego. Your ego is not tedious. My ego is not very tedious. Whose ego is this. It is not my ego. My ego is not my ego. My ego is not too tedious. I am tedious. My ego is not mine. My ego is not your ego. My ego is not even yours. The totality of my ego is not mine. It is not totally mine. Is it tedious if it is not totally mine. Is it tedious. Is it too tedious. Is my tedious ego all mine. Is it only mine, or is it only mine in part. Is it only all mine, or only all mine in part. Is it only an ego. Is it only mine in part. My ego is only partially mine. Partially it is all mine if it is tedious in part. I am partial to my ego. I am partly partial to my partial ego. In part, it is all mine. My tedious ego is my ego. Is it my ego. Is my ego mine. My ego is mine. My ego, my tedious ego is tedious. It is not tedious. My ego is not tendentious. The tendons in my ego are not tendentious. I am not tendentious. My ego is not tediously tendentious. It is not tendentious. What is my ego up to. The tenderloin of my ego is not tender. It is far from tender. It is not far from being too tender. It is not tender at all. My ego is not tender in all or in part. My tender ego is not tedious or tender. My ego is not tender. My ego is not tedious.
What is stiff devours what is undeterrable, the breath of abraded thorns, breathing a tongue of fire out of breath in the shivering of sleep, tongues of fire indelibly perforated, tormented, undeterrable thorns of turbulence exactly dismembered, torridly ignited: flushed shivering ordure, fierier decomposing shadows perfervidly affected, decomposing breaths of fire, the breath of sleep is a shadow perforating my limbs, my limbs intertwined with your limbs. We are indelibly tormented, we are the blood in the hallucinating dust, shadowy voices, velvety headstones, effected denunciations, austere stupors, tongueless shadows, shadowless, headless, fiery.
Bio: 54 years old, born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, interested in mysticism, the 4th dimension of stillness, silence, the experience of timelessness; degrees from the Univ. of Pittsburgh and Johns Hopkins University, studying under John Ashbery, among others. Conscientious Objector during the Vietnam War. Came face to face with Jimmy Hoffa in Lewisburg Federal Prison (maximum security) on Oct. 1, 1970. Did most of my time in a prison camp called Allenwood with a bunch of Jehovah's Witnesses, a 2-star General, Carmine DeSapio, the ex-head of Tammany Hall, LBJ's sidekick, Bobby Baker, and a host of other interesting misfits. The camp was later made famous by convicts associated with Nixon's Watergate scandal. I rejected a Presidential Pardon from Gerald Ford.
I am bi-polar, obsessive-compulsive, possibly a lust-addict and food addict, and would have been dead or homeless years ago without the help of an angel whose name is HERTA; she possesses the body of a woman from Vienna, Austria, and is the HEART of the EARTH.
I have been published in MONKS POND (edited by Thomas Merton, 1968) in an issue that included Jack Kerouac and Louis Zukofsky while they were both still alive, Partisan Review, and more recently in Lost & Found Times, BlazeVox2, Wryting, Muse Apprentice Guild, and Idiolect.