A fan turns its head and coughs. Implied by a wall of
leaves
(tapestry), insects garble rusty peaks of noise
through a grate
in the woods. Matchstick bamboo blinds. She won't go
for the
oriental. My head, as heavy as. Net Art News. Salvia
Divinorum is
not a marijuana substitue. My desk is next to a door,
blocking
it. Neural nets. Wave your arms encrusted with blooms.
I break
apart the cries of birds, sucking the static in the
middle of
dymanic waveform editing. Everything in the same
directory.
Lately, letting my nails grow long: unable to typw
properly or
play the guitsar. Ply the mouse properties. In ECMA
scripting
standards, a function is both a datatype and an
object. Is this
boring? God, it feels so good in you. There they go
again. Who
said what to whom (criticism). As for those of us who
love to be
astonished, the coffee drinkers answered ecstatically.
I am
unable to join the poetics list at Buffalo. And who
reading this
doesn't have a professional background (claims
department)?
Everybody poops. My degree as a continuum.
Koder@postpicasso.com.
Chrysanthemums. Sand will make glass wedded to salt as
a talcum
for flint tinctures. Sunshine shins itself on
furniture dispersed
while shunning office decorum as a fine way to wind
down the
alley singing purple ropeburns across her wrists while
I try to
explain bitwise programming and fail. And the birds
cry tasty
flagrant nostril sonograms. Another graceful segue
into robotics
reveals the last biblical umbilical chord arpeggiated
like a
grill of saddlesore dalliance. Melting clocks into
appointments.
Avoid panic buying. I need a job, Fat Albert sez.
Every day I
pray to the good lord that I might not be a genius.
Instead,
desktop support passes sap in the wreck room of our
lascivious
and somewhat leaky hearts. An executable image is one
you can
kill. I, for one, don't love Raymond. I desire him,
sure, but
only in the abstract: saber-toothed phone jacks
knifing power
failure honorary mention notaries. I tend to conduct
all business
via fiber optics. Do you like it when the words are
assymmetrical
like that? There's a gap in pagan nagging. Cloudy
navels. Come
sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me. Fan
turns on
and cops out. Well, everything's faster these days, as
much as I
fear her disappointment, the more I hafta get my butt
in gear.
This is not the same thing. Who says Yassar Arafat? I
spent days
as a child waiting for some figment of the space
station to rain
o'er me. Well, everyone's fatter. Better chance of
getting hit.
That one just drones, like sighing through a neutron
mask. I want
to fill space, but am empty. Neural gnats.

=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/




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