I'm sure it's just my willful isolation. Walking down
Leavitt road with an expensive coffee-maker under my
arm, the Lemonheads write a song called "The Turnpike
Down." I would have, for you, in time. To sit
cross-legged in a buzzing dusk, not reading at all.

It's amazing that these skinny black branches in
February assuage such ululating bundles of snow, and
that the inside of every house in Lorain, Ohio (the
myDoom worm) grows a lining of oil-puckered old men
restlessy sleeping off every satiation of hiera rchy.
Byte Verifier turns suddenly, suddenly swims off in
the direction of My Computer, but Norton sees him,
nets him in her fur-shocked net, where he bounces and
troubles the surety of Quarantine. "Isn't Allah a
certain idea of revenge? Or is that your god?"
Persecution ensues.

Throw salt to get a better grip. A wind almost
midnight floods the black parking lot with soft hands.


Your body aches with such precision.

"When I partition, eroding endures yellow as an ivy
ventilating." There were these beautiful bleached
rings of ice.

"O, I said, I was fidgeting because she brushed
against me."

"Stings glint magnificent finger abbies across these
consequences now expediting."

Guesswork.

"Unravelling web logic. Sexing pert buttons that drip
down your fingers like smoke."



=====


This is as useful as a doll.–Gertrude Stein

Poem of the Day: http://www.lewislacook.com/POD

associate editor, _sidereality

http://www.sidereality.com/

——–

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html












__________________________________
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Stung my eyes with smoke. Clinging to a hung of coral,
muddy, numb. That's me in the back among black
bandages, heated by my own decomposition. "They don't
remember my name there, but you push that yellow light
like slush through my cells, and now goddamnit it's
raining posies across my dick!" Tying it off, foaming
as the mouth moistens with moth thumbs. Om. Or saviors
too almost lose sullen followers to those wars of
sodden farmers at mulch with the chum. In early
thirteenth century Nova Scotia, serfs under rule spray
basic furrows with fish heads. They grew into moss the
way asimuth peppered your epigrams with a
condescending salt. I know you like this; you like it
in you. You're still leaving your footprints there, to
stale in snow so dark David Rounds has to fight to
read. Instead, I walk out to the old field, on ice
warm and still blushing, and almost tumble right into
the gash a new school left. "And here, where I learned
an early erasure, on Oberlin Avenue fat and acne'd and
in a black t-shirt, now churned under and gaping, now
these snow-laced walks are no part of me, now seperate
and objective like similes geld drives and lanes and
courts aching to be in New England." With a book of
xerox poems under my arm, taking them to John's
because there's a tinfoil fold of four hits of acid
between Chris Franke. "And the dead too curl their
toes in a frost they can't feel; they testify to your
dissolution, the way it ululates like telephones and
sacrament, the way they cascade unquiet through
tangled dreams; all the bubbles popping when they hit
the surface, bathwater brown. " You're going to blow.
At this moment, to preserve memory, this handhead
machine is rubbing its own boards with small doses of
charge. Are Sam and Mindy electric, as in what spark
of his makes her laugh? I fall low like buildings
growling to keep the houses in the suburbs busy. "A
link taster." You have to draw harder on joints. I
crack as I stand. Half an hour to go, and still ogling
the support of space empathizing around me. What a
shame. That hole in the street by the cemetary scares
me. She believes that the dead will return to feed on
us. Tearing apart warm strips of fried chicken;
breading crackles, and you hear in the room that salty
smack of nutrition. "Shesleeps off a sex hunger for
guns and rum. With a xerox book of prachment under
your arm. You just happen to know the arcs and
endearments of such shallow composition, as well as
mock wool when churches force mean annuals astride a
mop's throat. As she negotiates satiation, the
comforter rasps against unshaved legs. It is warm,
raw. A pride of harm. " Being an adult means not
killing those that hurt you. Tell yourself you'll
start again. Less selection tempts keeping an open
mind about bandaged gag reflections furnished athwart
rows of surplus cornice eventually. Towels. Lots
simmering beneath immersed and desperate sunshine. You
reel your hand there. Does play have a face? Her
clitoris sifts down your throat. Took and takes it, is
is is. I am a test-toyfor inanimate objects that fuck.

=====


This is as useful as a doll.–Gertrude Stein

Poem of the Day: http://www.lewislacook.com/POD

Sidereality: http://www.sidereality.com/

——–

http://www.lewislacook.com/

Stamen Pistol: http://stamenpistol.blogspot.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html













\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
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We've printed code examples in mongrel type. This
virus promises sentience.

Have you ever met Kern?

Orange is one way. Imagine walking on fluoresence
until the soles of your feet are blue. It could even
be warm, provided providence divides. The jets sound
smooth thoroughly of head velour with munificence. A
fat girl with glasses cruising drama is relative.
Talent latent in natal coral. My native thrift of
button onyx used to love poetry for it's own sake;
now, thinking about it in success means don't think
about it going through. You're as perforated as any
blue duct.

The conduit is never empty. The conduit is always full
of echoes. The conduit fattens that way. At 3:03pm I
have yet to make my bed. March 17, 2004.

Why, in George Romero's Dead movies, is there always a
black protagonist, and what sort of racism and
self-loathing lessen sequential cordial enema maturing
grill fist sour lulled? Dumb mud announced fissures
lichen touristy taps in wall fondle corners but sure,
and you were there too, didn't you wonder at that
sex-smeared sky and those icicles that reflected our
faces? Put your raw hand over it, feel it breathe. The
themes enumerate to the thread of sutured gospels. In
our next tutorial, Colin Moock imam am meant about
consumes, mustard-tardy in the fiscal eclipse.

A fatal cell. 3:42 pm, March 17, 2004.

FREDDY O .COLLAZO: Pasty with corpses glow in sight of
trails of nouns snowing woods.

JOANN REUSE: I don't have any relatives buried there.

FREDDY O. COLLAZO: I believe we should have a standing
army.

JOSHUA LEWIS: Why?

FREDDY O. COLLAZO: Because then we could save on
chairs.

JOANN REUSE: Sunshine butters along black sprite
reflected torrid gray t-shirt or pod cars of mustard
trucks just slut wet where ice fingers dribbled to
hollow rubber falls.

MICHAEL J. KAPALIN: Sunshine butters along.

(Don't take it personally when the day ripens enough
for cars to stop toggled before you, sapping through
steel leaks the eggshell tranquil lilt of your
morning)

MICHAEL J. KAPALIN: I prefer a perforated silence.

SHARON BRADLEY: With a window cracked. In the deep
pocket of a stout wood pipe. Along the kissable
flames. Beneath us.

JOSHUA LEWIS: You're using us less as icons.

JOANN REUSE: Fingering our faces as braille in order
to situate.

MALINDA BENDER: Swallow.

SHEILA MURPHY: Blue light topography on frames slit
mats aside so wine string growling alto erodes. Doors
upon vent porcelain and silent vestibules boomerang
sing flurry of acclimates foyer. Pissing verbs apple
cat recitation or bit filler axiom ruddy if boat
reverb. Then bool inert. Tunnel broad leaves velvet in
subcutaneous sour like caving on views nods. If balls
revert. Vents corpulent width of pork dews. Assailant
moon.

MALINDA BENDER: Verruckt.

MALINDA BENDER: That cat numb to maintain a cushion of
civic duty to God and rippled like an honest tail.

MATT SULESKI: It certainly has warmed up last few
days.

LEWIS LACOOK: Rich cardboard sky, ripped and shuffled
like the blossum of a collage.

JOSHUA LEWIS: Stainless steel sky so tears slide off.

ALAN SONDHEIM: This is the flower of the mysteriously
swollen finger, Nikuko.

SHARON BRADLEY: I want you to stick around because I
need a reason to.

AZURE CARTER: It's wild and talks about nothing but
its mine.

SYD BARRETT: Trees flame off flat beams impossibly
moved out, gorgeous. Not seriously. Tame meat is day
relationship contact, maybe twice a year, other people
gray spiked couple, started this story. On those days
your head crowded with alkali. Checker parquet
crumpled like film tin doors as taped voices coif palm
north like app alias Beirut. The saw of the music
reverberates a sea and mouth throughput the store. In
that mirror I frown with short hair. Eating. Cigarette
birds dawn wishbone topiaries if hard-won smoke
flickers in curling off every motion. A jutting is
tooth pullinge sanguin across a breath. Your mouth
might make gestures for someone else. Your thoughts
already do, faraway lamps blackout sunrise milk hollow
votive with a dense and the feral cogs.

FRANZ KAFKA: Now eat, nigger.





=====


***************************************************************************

This is as useful as a doll.–Gertrude Stein

http://www.lewislacook.com/

Stamen Pistol: http://stamenpistol.blogspot.com/

Poem of the Day: http://www.lewislacook.com/POD

Sidereality: http://www.sidereality.com/



tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html














__________________________________
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In America, everyone is an exception. A sack of
restlessness aside the nose, where I rubbed blue and
fuscia laughter at you out from amorphous roaming. I
think it must be very hard to use words. Breaks the
solids down to rude cinders, and then the cinders down
to rooms smoke. Stoplights gauze light that came
ever-after its own compulsion smoothed along the sides
by blank feet. A bandaged hand closes dappled white
gumbo turning unexpected curbs until she daydreams is
thinking of shining pear boots off in glib aroused
punctuality and where the streets started sunning lke
salt the onion. On ion, on flow, er. Crystal slippage
of ongoing rain. Phonemes at temperature dropoff in
pale howling zooms erase sales of working class to
exclude jump teeth off jags that fashionable. Black is
one of 256 web-safe colors. April is the cruelest
fool, bleeding bump scrolls said boo I could kill him,
heart attacks, ambient viral tragedian vent, through
which a velour lust settles over month-long the
quarter hour. Hard caper purring respite. Pulling
shade belly arc of trans-fat assumption, thus sulks,
wash of background and travel noise when the school
lures swim machete vases chafed by nerves and
volumnizing gels. Gives me the vapors, it does. I'll
just mix these dirty tracks down.

Two each.

(sun ((love)to)
came(festive)(solutions)(frail(like))too((much
of)scales)(gnarled)
(listen)soon)I((like)(you)rippling(coupled))accusations(spaces(lips))the
rough(just(red))just up(louder)breath
((coil)communication)(barely)to((specialist)walls)
(argument)breath(sit here)(touching)between(how (a
doll)you think(resplendent, adjured)
me)functions(usually)blended into focus(the hilarity
(slim)of standing up on (all over)the bus)shiny gray
soft(soiling)ware(cracked open in (as spatial as)a
catchecism of breezes)

Or catch this schism; silk limbs abandoned, prehensil
mists enveloping the classless mail, desktops rowdy
dirty with punctures anonymously swell.

Oh well.

A lily almost sour with dry lips or pent on powder.

One bicuspid impotent the other warning and adores
this sandy fundamental.

An any as into.



=====


***************************************************************************

This is as useful as a doll.–Gertrude Stein

http://www.lewislacook.com/

Stamen Pistol: http://stamenpistol.blogspot.com/

Poem of the Day: http://www.lewislacook.com/POD

Sidereality: http://www.sidereality.com/



tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html














__________________________________
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Yahoo! Tax Center - File online by April 15th
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