Circuituitous, I found myself at the plainspeak
of poetry (a morning daubed
in klavierspiel, which slowly poured
in bamboo down the table, and which I
found for myself finally
after years of painful financing
at the simple stitch of poetry) and no-one
was home: I knocked at that door
and its mouth for a month of hurting
ruptures until they're smooth again

and in which we fell in love (where
the scandalously minimal animus of poetry

and it's sniffling anus also acknowledge
THE FALL, when grandaddies learned to talk
through the sides of their mouths, evoking a new
and exciting way to burn fat and
killed my brother the new god). I came to

under you,
(does the heat make the machine slow?) and
passively regressed into the lax waters
and laconic frieze of
pure poetry.

7/3/02



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http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook


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