One danger of skin will be that it harden to ceramics.
Then
glaze, like all erotica, will seem terminal. Lakey
Teasdale
spinning one on the wheel, which will be electric;
eyes the same
color as morning drenching everything, even my balls
as I wake
up, swallow three caps of gingko saint john's, swallow
coffee and
a cigarette as if I had religion foaming at the mouth
between us.
With Mez watching my genes re-code, I wanted water to
cling to
the railing again like stalagtite mirrors, inverting
seeing gray
in the sky means it's aged just this much.
I sat down forcefully, examining the prose as if
it too were
a fungus beneath my nails. On days like that I would
thank God
for the vegetative life, but God never says you're
welcome; she
just snores on and on; and I rise against her dreams,
the whole
house drowned to the rictus of a pinprick; I just mow
through the
dark with arms in search of coffee.
Indeed, Lawrence Upton vocalizes. Seismic
pentameter, she
moans, the syringe halfway through her spine, singing
like night
skidding to closure on the runway drenched with
morning colors,
an artificiality of typoo that disenthralls gauge set
to weigh in
at whatever breath thickens on the windows; winter,
like John M.
Bennett's spacious bathroom, has spurs all up and down
the
eyelets of the shower curtain. This serves to protect
the
subjunctive from caverns spanning days of sitting and
reading the
Koran, searching for fresh-mown coffee in the dark of
blood-words
on Old Testament rice-paper, good for rolling through
with all
the drunkenness of now fully up, not dressed but
seeking August
Highland; Alan Sondheim mimics Alan Sondheim, I tell
Nikuko, who
Julu-foams between us like spirituality without
doctrine. I
staggered all through the lightning house trying on
each beauty I
crossed.

=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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