hot alignment of elements Poems 9/2/00—10/26/01 Lewis LaCook POEMS Lewis LaCook 9/2/00--9/26/00

IF MONET COULD PAINT THE PLAY OF LIGHT ON YOUR LOVELIFE...

Are you tired of waiting at home for that Girl to call you, the one Who mentioned slightly that you were the one More than any other she'd like to Hang out with? Try an angry Early morning call.

Tired yet of being The last to know it's all Over and done with, while Eclectic on the bedroom pyre where You're burning away all your Hopes that it'll turn out Right, someone will love you surely With your curly hair and bright blue Eyes? Try burning holes in your arm With your cigarettes, and early morning anger.

Or could you burrow into, nestle into, yourself One last time, where even the silhouette Of THAT'S insecure, as if Impressionism weren't so Dead after All?

9/2/00

CATCH A FALLING STAR AND PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET

In a little comparment by the side of your bed Hidden well by turbulent sheets and vacant aroma Is a pocket of air you call Your Breath, and worship Religiously, with no small sense of regularity.

Some men don't even know it's there. You, though, Warrior with your emotions, discovered it long ago While still a child, punctured in a huddle with Blankies you listened as it slept in the most awful

And complicated piece of your bed, and knew it was Someone close to you. It's at times like this you Hear your father die over and over again, each

Fist in your heart clenching with memory.

9/3/00

DRIVING CRYING

The moist portion of our day that's Covered up that former humidity that

Made just bathing a sad rumor of force Used to strip the land of its resistence To waste has once again drenched our statuary

With the tears that Law waters those Untrusting flowers with, salty turns.

9/4/00

M & M

In the morning a darkened bass punctures Subwoofer eardrums, pounding the frustration From the grit and the gravel and the pavement. "I don't know what else to do," it says, "All I got is concrete and circuitry and Things gone wrong and fear of women," Which is all understandable. But it's Not like you're starving for anything but Faith, and it's at least ten degrees Cooler outside than it was, blasphemously Sunny, so birds too bob up and down To the beat of your fed-uppity box. 9/5/00

PROMETHEUS AND CYBERPORN

When you drop that volcano glow And its orangeade sprawl aquiver with rust Swims around my body like its own mottled air, I break the studs in the walls with my clenched And gritty expulsions, imploding At taper to the dead-eyed bottom of a stare.

And when your lava abrupts into a spire Of thoughtful venusfreak slenders and partially Degenerate ecstasy, The candles in your bathroom that lick across The clean water of your hips slowly withdrawing Rise from their beds of vague krill, deluded By spinning lovewords wording lovely in finish giggles.

This is where building is always tragically invested. The only thing I'll remember of these gothic cathedrals Is the warm perusal of history stoned, an atonement For all the unity that inundates our cursory camp.

9/5-6/00

SUNFUCKER

Let's try to look at this rationally, shall we? A blindspot inhabits the quatrains with comfort, More wet bed than the average bear can snake. The voices in the other room skyrocket, grounded;

They refer to things, or maybe things refer To them. I'm not quite sure, can't Remember it exactly; everyone was talking at once, And one coy girl in black whose eyes I'd had

On and off for days was pulling colored scarves From her pores, which I could notwithstanding Hear, Notwithstanding. Like going to a class You haven't studied for builds character, so, you, Majestic and indefatigable in your own Quiet way, can no longer visualize content Strictly on the basis of where it's at you'd like to

Ball. He's developed the saving grace of not looking back. Once I seperate intention from act, or courage, the Theaters unionize without the proper permit. I Don't want to talk about it right now. There's a good

Chance we'll end up winding back and forth over zephyrs Thorned, sideways and vertical, mastering our abbatoir At the same time he pulls that days-old knot of cash From his wallet and throws it before the clerk, trembling

At the hole in the scenery the word "clerk" leaves. Luckily, in this case the clerk is our old friend Cacaphony, which means "Dirty Sound" in most romance Languages. The Marquis concurs. In fact, the Viscomte

Has drawn up a contract in which both parties, if Pliable, would be granted sovereign rights to rubber Lovin', as well as water fountain privileges. Because Sometimes I'm just done and wiping my chin and walkin'

Down the hall and something lucious in a wide-leg Bounces by, and I'm floored, dude, really. Eileen Had these drawstring pants...but we won't get into That. Just remember, putting new arms and legs on

Your dolls after a while becomes disheartening, Re- Moving that precious cargo just to the left of your Chest proves useful in the harder sciences; is There any room in Mathematics for romance? I once had

A girl who said she had me. The pimple Is also shaped Like a nipple. Early on today I finally figured Out that I want to

Fuck The Sun, which would make me A sunfucker. Thank you.

9/6/00

THE MCPOEM for Tiffany...because i can be a royal asshole sometimes...

I wake up with a scratchy throat on the morning Of the eighth, and Slump over coffee and cigarettes in the beatbox Sun. I wake up with Inflamed medulla and dissonant framing in the Afternoon of the eighth And no-one tells me when I'm wrong anymore (except Dana). Shortly later I tire Of attacking my surroundings with the scalpel Of solitude, and morph to A febrile communist leaning supple into pubes.

Such difficult drives, all unlovely gravelled, Lullingly overgrown. Does Alan Sondheim of Brooklyn New York already hate this poem Because it loves narrative and also loves The tones that narrative leaves on the tongue, Somewhat (in the McPoem) like the shadow pit a lover leaves Long after your bed is cold to him, when The Censor takes over, swinging thick black lines Of musk over your choicest parts? I always try Not to be seen because I don't always try To be seen. That's one way to do it. And yet THAT doesn't solve the problem either, only Gives you time to think about it (you know How I feel about this). But that has nothing to do with you,

Who are beautiful and young and rising above your priors (Your parents) which was probably easier for me to do Because they'd been transparent for a very long time before I felt the first fingered breezes of what would later Disassemble me in their resemblences. We've both got a

Long way to go. I apologize. Language falls apart.

9/8/00

PORTRAIT OF LADY D What is more mortally serene Than this seriously dimmed light of Summer's ashes, rounding out

The leaves' screaming into Rust's bitter colors? Ophelia afloat In a raft of pure and porous hair

Fills like a patent balloon or empty socket The very margins of your fingers, trailing Into elliptic water. You forget

What you were going to say, which I wouldn't Have heard anyway over the curl of the harvest moon In the baroque waves of your body rippling

To accept this speech. Time must be allowed To bend somewhere, so that in the Greek the Bull's horns inflame the sky with a Schoenberg

Static. Tom's models are modal in his Scuffed jargon; mine, too, though You are the only one that, purring, sees

Lilith in the crystalline peripheries Of your bedtime aphasia. I'm stuttering These sutures of texture rapacious with

Beginning. Long lines lead to Digits swimming in an orifice where Starlight's cropped into torrid mobile

Angles (it's like climbing Pyramids step by step and hushed Gushing of plentitude, blending

With cigarettes what ciggarets Suggest). If I were to draw A cariacture of you from words

Cooly translucent on diaphonous tablets, You would be Athena of the light brigade, the Sorely touselled woman picking up her over-

Turned groceries in the street. If I'm to Be here for a while, I'll Listen through your skin for the devil's coat of arms.

9/8/00

PRACTICING RESTAURANT

We were going to record the crickets at dawn Rilling into crepescule And you were going to sing a seed-pop Three-chord Voice-track for me to pillow with Keys, Each one unlocking the rush of the lavalamp Warming up.

Instead we went to dinner. It was after midnight. Instead we went to dinner. Not much was open.

Walking across the parking lot was the same parking lot We'd always walked across, but things are different now. She's finally started to be nice to me, and everyone Remembers my name there. I know you. We worked the barter out to where

An eighth of weed would get us five Oxytabs, and at least Two of those can get you Morphine. He has the death of his Father's privately stashed. I pivot

In the pilot's chair and am always amazed That such life lurks around me. Computer programs are little men in machines

Acting for us from scripts we've just enabled-- Skirts serious mental issues. The whole first volume In the palm of your hand. The rest of you, Adding up architecture until I'm happy with my new Erotic support group. You must nonetheless forget about Craft. Survey says, "The round shoulders of ink cries

Persist in fleshy cauls." It's practicing.

9/11/00 INTERNET TEXT for Alan Sondheim

Sometimes, in the course of human events, when

It's possible to wake alone into a press of After the rains came down, I'm not so bad.

If I daydream about hard electricity, mashed Into guitars that strip paint from lucent doors, And you walk in on us, so vacant so Fragrant with the linger of everything I gave up to become this humble animal,

I expect to be addressed with respect, and hope The slide of your dark smock on down The perilous hours of your body's rendition. I've heard these songs before; robot

Dreamgirl with quietude of implosion Soldering in the travesty and abounding Of your hair; I don't believe the computer trees

Are lovelier than you, and if they seem so From the outside, lift slowly the lid Of your tin box nipping at your heels, swoonful,

Soothing abuse substituted for business tutorials.

It's easier to imagine what doesn't happen. Easy to banish sleep without the anchor of body.

9/11/00

AND ON SOME DAYS HUMIDITY CRASHES MY HAIR

Probably.

Ibis siblings, Blissful verbiage blooms.

The petals on the bicycle are what Make the bicycle move. File transfer Over planet Napster returned results In binary seed. It's a yes-or-no

Question, but it always never implies Total inclusion. "I've got a pinto." "Pinto?" Some of the class KURT Have not called as of yet. Wax unwinds from the bottom heat

Light and swirling, last night almost Groaning to watch such roundsoft swimming Brush against such softround gnarling That it was skin, and not a brain on top. "Beautiful weather," Dana says. Connie In the same dress she was wearing ten

Years ago, smelling sweetly of smoothness I used to sleep in. No-one gets to bed Before the bowl's cashed. Better to be primitive, To sleep on these hardnesses of stars contorting Like the river of the tongue around clouds melting Remembers the first day of snow. There always seems to be Extra light in the air that day. Perhaps I don't go after Angela because her girlfriend scares me? Perhaps I am Of the class of things scared by a terrible wounding. "Wax labyrinth of birds rilled to a finish by steam." The empty rhizome curled like a launchpad sex, Grinding chilled diamonds into 's eyes. "Lookit

The big dork in the blue shirt," Sarah says; I'm Afraid lighting her cigarette close to her lips Because I haven't clipped my nails.

9/11/00

ERROR IS THE LIVING EXPRESSION OF SELF

I.

"No man can own anything in Her," it says. In the skin I borrowed from eternity,

Vapors of longing purr on the floors

Of your father's house. I've just been Renting my citizenship all these years, And now,

Uneven in the awful ramparts,

I stand neck-deep in the news.

II.

It tells me, "There is no sin To the perfect mind;" and then,

It militarizes what is unfamiliar

To it. I don't recognize current events, but I sit in this business filtering it in: Smudged freshman pane. Your father's hands

Struggle with a child-resistent cap. I long To be a gas Rather than this visibility of lying still.

III.

It curls and breathes with Tongue, "The epitomy of intelligence Is Self destruction," pushing further Through my ear and into those whorls That bracket the mind as an artful fluid,

Reportage abed in the fast of your father's Mouth; it disperses

Just where your fingers graze it, finding fit For the interruptions I bungle; sunning my

Skin, overdue In the revelation of its brimful waves.

9/12/00 GOOD MORNING!!!

Light flutters through blinds The house in its dips of shade Wide awake like owls

9/13/00

CIGARETTES

Almost gagging on Smoke strictly reasons with the Death of breathing fire

9/12/00

THE SEDUCTION OF LADYBIRD JOHNSON

I learn to speak stone and grass in the morning. I learn to tell time to stop sifting. I learn to mask my movements under halo of verbs. It gets harder to burn in the atmosphere.

It drizzles patience on a cold-ashed grill. It drizzles phonemes born to a perfection of still. It drizzles post-prefix as a sign of tides. You never undress in the arms of the state.

You quell with your mouth the clatter of night. You quell and you rage through the faces you climb. You quell in the limp of a part-time darught. I learn to speak distance in the eye of your embrace.

9/13/00

SKETCH: SITTING NEXT TO HER

She's soft; she yields to Entering of such rains that Emanate; drenched sun

9/13/00 SORORITY GIRLS

The things you do that make the light purr Around you have little effect on me. Low-cut blouses, highwater slacks, Tight black leather or spandex, all Fall through me like the echoes of a sweet

Beginning that conversed itself to bitter death. I'm not supposed to be looking for Beauty anyway; this millenium the blond Innocence we once invoked to drive The motorcycle thugs into the deserts out of town

Is tying off and shooting up and sucking cock To get what it wants. Marlon Brando, Too, forgets the years that coat his Bones with memory shuddering like a Combustion that burns through every inch of

His hard soul; almost alone on his island where Spring is as ashy and indistinct as Sitcoms, he dances to a razorwire laughtrack Wholly his own, one that I can't hear.

"Beauty for sale; storewide reductions."

9/13/00

WHEN I WEAR MAKEUP

I am sitting on my knees taking a bath in your eyes. You can't know what power this gives me. The dams,

Distended brick, ballooning with all I hold back; Quiet boys who keep mostly to themselves

Are building hydrogen bombs in their bedrooms. I download the upgrade like a mushroom's sooty

Bulb: lighting nothing, eating light. Waves sin Down my chin in drips of sine and sawtooth station Celebrates its own nihilist Christmas party, hats And noisemakers, the sound of one grain of confetti

Cooked in a spoon and pushed below the skin, sicks Itself on me, makes me nod during intermission, just

As your story was starting to get good. I'm on My knees lapping the honey they covered over Joseph

Beuys' eyes, stroking the bunny in the store mumbling Pictures, picturing the storm and its hot fascination

With me creased and naked, pushed to ridges thinking Vagina flush with benzedrine. Never to venture to

Tonguing the salt of birth off of your eyes: John Cage Maiming hatred in a gorgeously florid hug on the world.

I am capable of pacifying your every intention, if, Null and soft, barely amplified, you tend toward

The artificial. I am soldering hymns to the muse To the heels of my feet, who is too profound

To touch without a parry; to scar without night sky Somewhere else right now; that belle that drags my foots.

9/14/00

THE HORROR OF AMERICAN CHEESE

"Can't...get out of bed..." --The Charlatans

I wake up at half-past noon, the sun is singing And the birds shine through thickened feathers like Women walking like moons, like silk, and I eat. What am I eating? I think it's a sandwich, Spicy salami and the horror of American cheese.

I have a headache, it's eating all my thoughts. Poor thoughts, so young and promising, I almost Take my pills with tears in my eyes, three gingko And a Centrum, and then I'm thinking about Music or something, and it's all right again. I have to shower because I stink and I stand

Slathered in my own grease, so I avoid my friendlier Roommates and undress slowly in the bathroom in front Of the mirror; how strange, without glasses or clothes. I imagine undressing for a girl; it doesn't matter Which one, it's always Her, and She begs me

To towel off quickly, run gel through my hair, Brush my teeth, and smoke a bong to write a

Poem.

The poem sucks, but I don't care. There's music in the room and angels Encased in the slits of light The venetian blinds let in. So what If they don't want to talk to me?

When I go to work there's My ex-girlfriend calling me a "Crack monster" and giving me a Backrub because my boss isn't in So I have to play Daddy today. Her fingers push the stress out From beneath my skin, and She's a cappucino color, so I buy one at Arabica, dazed By the voices shining through Thickened clutter and walking Like women walking like moons All over me. The cashier's Blue eyes blond lips hurt me Somehow. I drink it alone.

I like to smoke my cigarettes standing By the front doors of the student center. Up rolls this girl who used to dance In my bed, smiling, with her bark-brown hair Electrified and wonderful. She sits and Smokes with me, asks me how the Poem's going. I tell her at this point I'm so fucked-up I'm probably just phoning it in.

When she leaves there's this Homeless guy I like to talk to. No-one can take anything away From him because he has Nothing. We understand each other Perfectly.

9/15/00

REMOVING THE CONSONANT

I haven't done laundry for weeks, and A curl of scrawled odor sifts Slowly through the pile of clothes Before the closet door, searching for Something to wear to make it look Like me.

I've ceased to care what ripples I leave On your face, or the face you make when You've just swallowed my day. When not on The clock I strip down to scrubbed pink Flesh and plunge into myself, plugging my Nose against the scent of this depth That refuses to terminate in solid ground.

I find some paradise there: Free-fall into garlands of glyphic perfumes. I write with my body on clouds of soap that, Moving slowly over the face of the hyacinth mist,

Devour each dance as if I were sinking.

9/16/00

*I'VE NOTICED THAT I DON'T LIKE TALKING TO PEOPLE ANYMORE

I don't belong To life no more-- You can take your Women and laughin'

Somewheres else, mister-- It's the season for Fucked-up moods. 9/17/00

WHY

It's because I'm so small--and know it-- Inside this scrambled universe.

Because all of my light is nothing to you.

Because when you're hurt, I stop And hold you to myself to keep From spilling out. Because when I'm hurt, no-one's kissing me.

Because I keep my sunny side up. I keep my sunny side up real good.

9/17/00

DO YOU SMELL SOMETHING BURNING?

In an extreme case of lately mornings Get me down, she tortures me with The very skin of affection. Not That I'm innocent, by any stretch;

It's like watching some live Chattering Thing crawl from the deflation of A scribbled-out body of quiet Still life. She torments me with Lollipops and asphalt lamps,

Nothing I can see could take me away from My pills. And at the very least we are A type of flame that eats its bedding,

Encased in our sporting Vicious joy (watering the clocks)

Like she doesn't Care whether I Come back. 9/18/00

*SOME ROMANTIC PRESSURE

All Women are Grinding my spine to null squints.. No Sunshine Sanctities are Parsing the dictation To furthered naps. Some Acid is Gracelessly forthcoming. Some Windows are not For thorough seeing.

All Clouds are shaped like my Unseasonable jacket, flapping With flesh wounds ahurl and athwart. No Assembly is Optional. Some Breasts are Burning through Their shirts and winking at me. Some Bronze thighs are not Likely to Think me through.

All Stars are Romantic pressure. No Points are Given for Early expiration. Some Women are Grinding my skull To a nozzled font. Some Sunshine is not Particularly hungry.

All Cars are of the class of objects Containing an ex-lover and her new-found Friend. No Bitterness is A good defense. Some Sleepers are Touching the thunderheads To their hot bronze breasts. Some Mothers are not Following milk.

All Ego is Corrupt. No-one but me can participate. Some Women are Mothering new weather from An improperly-scanned phernome hint. Some Chemicals are not Blending with The walls enough for you to worry.

All Healing takes place in Absolute Silence, Finishing your weight with a stripe Of property-ownership. No Women are Finding your body Flowing through their skin As the day constricts. Some of You are Here. Some of You are not Waiting to get there.

9/18/00

*THE EXCELLENT HYGIENE OF THE DAMNED

"Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers." --Keats 'Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil'

Today I went to the laundromat To wash my clothes and stare at Girls. It was fabulous! The churns! Some wet and vibrating world in there Revolving and frothing and sudsing the Submarine windows! A girl with small Purple underwear skinnied in a silent Curl smoking a cigarette; tiny tattoo Of japanese glyph in the small of her back. She was my favorite, she looked so pissed off. Next to her the snackbar attendent

Who also had to vacuum the shop, traded Some eyes with me between byzantine ringlets And a mouth that trembled with thought. So serene, in this garden of shuddering Machines! I almost forgot to read the Horoscopes--but when I did, under Your sign it said

That you would fall into like/love With someone this week, and that has Nothing to do with me--

I stared at the floor, wondering What the contorted and thrown away Straw wrappers were doing tonight.

9/18/00 *PLANKTON

Lavalamp is Clean Round Flow is Broken into yellow Planets as soft as Her kissing my arms before I'm finally nailed down.

These Soft Bodies Touching each other in Passing fall apart as They flow up or down In passing touching Each other up or down are Always falling together when The light's switched off.

That smaller globe will Dance suspended in Suspicious Waters Clean and Round will Not need the shadows of Larger worlds gathering her Geometry to One Dark Point.

Like her kissing my Arms my muscles to make me Stand like a man in Suspicious Waters a Larger World bleeding itself in Reticent tendrils to Scoop any feeling it can from The Sea.

These Waves Work their ways On me as I Clean and Round Up and Down prowl the waters For The Only Food I Know 9/19/00

*LOVE

The circle of the last of milk in an empty glass Puckers up to the smoothness of a lateral moon. My lips, my throat, my belly Took it; gorgeous heads of Poisonous flowers. The quarter hour beads with A dew so rich it weighs down the air,

And I breathe in an empty room but for music Swinging its sweetly goldenhaired way across The windows. When was the age Of wonder, how did I miss it? The source of my superhuman powers resides in A code for sleep with its eyes

Wide open, staring you down. I don't mind The way an empty glass of milk wraps the room Around itself, as if in copies It could keep itself warm. As Crazy as it sounds, I'm in love with the world: It never returned my call.

9/19/00

*SO...WHAT SORTS OF BOOKS DO YOUR BREASTS LIKE TO READ?

I'm getting bored sitting around with you Talking about my dick. The hills are alive

With the sound of music sitting around Talking about my dick. Though the night

Slips cold-crowded hands beneath my shirt, It still sits around talking about my dick.

The leaves corrode with this new dip in Plaintive temperature, in deathless homage

To my dick. I wish my dick could take My German test for me! IT wouldn't subside, Could never practice coyness by calling itself "Der Schwanz." My dick has read Nietsche

And Schopenhaur, Foucalt And Derrida. When my dick

Sits around talking about itself, It uses my pronoun, "I." I'm feeling

Stifled sitting here with you talking About my dick. Haven't you read the papers?

9/20/00

THE TRYING TO GET OUT OF BED SONG

Beautiful days rain over the abandoned Flats, introducing bas-relief Into the flathead tribes who thrive there. Beautiful days have me thinking I'm beautiful,

Just because I stared down the one that Everyone wants. Today I am not Embarassed that I don't know the answer; In fact, I want to shout in the streets, Raging, foaming, sputtering, "I do NOT have

The answer." Beautiful days are steadily Running out of weed, with A hook-up on the way. There's goldgirl Ashley mouthing conjugations auf Deutsch. To a testtube room where televisions play.

My people are amazed. They know their place. Beautiful days, for all beings tremble in fear.

9/20/00

"...I can't discipline myself to follow the single thread. There is no single road leading off. A road does not just start but it does lead. How it leads, all over, never finished..." --Clark Coolidge THE CRYSTAL TEXT

PUSHING OUT FOR THE SMOOTH BELLY

Kurt, squat ex- Wrestler, don't Like to take orders from No women. The screen- Saver my roomates use For the computer in the Living room

Oils all icons with gold lame Nipples. I have named these

Out of conquest.

9/21/00

BEGGING THESE SMALL ANGELS TO LICK MY BODY AWAY

When silence drips through the doorways Insistently, like a virus bleaching all It touches with someone's insanity of Stains, and the houses you used to sit in Have caved-in around you, pushing vacantly At your flesh just pricked clean by the rain,

Shut up. Don't chew with your mouth full. Sit up straight. You're flying in lanes where

Your life has dwindled to this, to this: Saturday night in a pair of cut-off shorts, Lava lamp interjecting, transgressing,

Beads of pouty nothing. You feel full-face First in the tufteds of the goddess, the Rain was just a sacramental orb to endure your Gradual becoming, like Dad's; strained deaths Are hard to finish off here, what with the Tables burning and the fingers cross and Your mother praying for it to snow in all The more beautiful places we see on the Television; and I don't smoke it, she's Probably at Judy's and what does it

Matter, you'll sit here anyway, passing your Corkscrew from one hand to the other, planning out Ways to gently suicide from all the vagrant life around you.

It's hard on the streets of Kent. You're either Fucked-up or you're fucking, not finding widely Used words to haunt the mural you're making, and Listening fluently for frequencies where moon- Rusted loons noodle on your downward trend. Sometimes you punch the cards.

Sometimes they punch you. That's how it got to be That your past fizzled out in reheasal. We

Tried to make it work, but You were busy making eyes at Brian, because he's blind you know. Wes sends his best wishes. Leslie wires the office even during lunch. I have a feeling this suite is bugged, though, From the looks of things, wax melts in here At even the same temperature as it does in the Morning here, which convinces me maybe invisibility

Is the best you can hope for. While you're waiting, You decide that freckles bomb a mysterious loan.

In other words, blemishes meld with dirt. This is questionable practice. What harmony Is absolutely unhealable, baby? The dry

Running grid of ground that guitars are, as They wind through your vertebrae, thinking They will never catch up with you, so that The leaves at the very margins whither, and Yon what she wanted was the collapse of Space between our bodies as she explained Egypt to us, those Jew eyes not brown or blue But clouding up with empty blessings, the Clench of fleshed hot hunger walking Extravagently through your veins, they Only kill their mothers, biting The pits from their breasts confusing Brokeness for a celestial gasp. I almost do not smoke it, roughly. "I'm so completely unhealable, baby," she Says, ruffling her throat. The goddess grants A white sear, a shear of motion in towns Of pendulous decay; you only kill your Lovers with a hot tongue enjambed

On the window as you close it to The howl of cold clutching something In its mouth like a body a gift.

These things are not easy for any of us. Wes hasn't left the house for days; his

Shadow wanes on the carpet at his father's feet. You don't seem to care, or you didn't hear.

9/24/00

HITS

It feels like egg and fist in my head. Traffic, however, whispers like sentient waves. I stand on a bank with arms outstretched, Coins dotted with eyes fluttering from my

Pits. Hair's terms are the body's nebulous grooves, How cars fit in smolder once the crosshairs are Launched through my belly. Throughout. And you

So lovely my hands burn away. The photographers. Each of us has his own record. Music Can't be controlled by emotions, even though Both of us are moving through the stairwells

Blinded by copper winds, burnished to the quick, And I'll erase you slowly, play death At that threshold where stars were placed to maim.

The solution is hits. Lots of hits. Slimming down of glassy bags, maybe. The traffic rises and the traffic quells. In between you're burning me up.

9/24/00 VIRUS LOGIC translated from the French by Lewis LaCook

Virus logic isn't hard to understand. You breeze into the host and take up residence. The stars weave themselves into the tissue of clouds, wearing down the darkness with their tiny sharp lights. I can almost see her getting into her car to leave. I'm wearing a long white shirt and blue grid pants. You cannot see this. A virus will spin through its host sugars that hiss with electricity, wearing down a long white shirt with tiny sharp lights. They're like teeth up there, trailing over the back of her neck. You cannot see this.

"You're so much healthier than you were Last month," she says. "There's a new Calm about you." "I don't get too Worried about being abandoned." Sure,

Virus logic's confusing as hell. You rise from the host, your knees scuffed and your mouth tasting of cinder. The darkness wraps itself around the stars; I can definitely see her getting into her car to leave. The night wind trickles over my bare chest, lighting little fires in my skin. I'll let you watch. The virus will shrivel when the body finds it, like a cool hand of wind on a bare chest in flames. It's like rubber, that matter (space), they say, like nudging into empty sheets after smoking too much. Maybe I'll let you watch.

9/25/00 note--VIRUS LOGIC is one of a long series of poems written by the late nineteenth century French poet Ferdinand de Pissoir as exercises in an experimental form he called the "Abbatoir." An "Abbatoir" is based losely on the Japanese haibun; it consists of two prose passages sandwhiching a rhymed quatrain. The rhyme scheme for the quatrain is ABBA, and it marks the transition from the first prose paragraph to the second by zooming in on a bit of human activity that focuses the "theme" of the poem. The second prose paragraph mirrors the first sentence-by-sentence, striving either to convey the opposite sense of its precursor or to improvise on it. Ferdinand de Pissoir died in 1893, when Stephane Mallarme stepped on him on his way to the bathroom. He was, despite popular conception, not the original author of "Dancing Queen." THE SUBJECT SHOWS SYMPTOMS OF SEVERE CAFFEINE ADDICTION

Sullen weather. Walk to the mailbox. Heavy particles filtered by water, Running out. My ear hurts. Bursting. Sound is another room. He amuses Himself with wavefiles. Sultry Leather. Are you only Trying to win her Affections? This is not a game Show. Our host. Greasy. Our Host. Lady of the hazelnut Eyes. When can I have your Forgiveness? He amuses himself In the other room. File "Landscape-dot-exe" cannot be Found. I laid it on The desktop, where the Bitter cup of coffee beans. Does my head hurt! Solvent.

Tether.

9/25/00

YEAH, EILEEN

Eyes as sapped rims sagging. As sagging as imminent Collapse. My breathing Paddles upstream against crags

Laughing their garbled forms of Foam; triumphant, I suppose. Some will not wish to talk, claiming Hurt, hurling maim, naming

Your wrongs oblivious to Their own. I will not think of them.

Instead, this broad face you made love to, As warm as bliss itself, a whole petalled earth In which to blaze joy like a loose joint Knocked askew by running backwards all our Lives. Athwart the loveliness Of holding you to me to recognize myself, Starry cracks in the tone of our affections. Yeah, Eileen, I'd do it again;

Again and again if you wanted me to, as long as You don't mind the blood. And seeing is Itself a bruise, some untoward discoloration,

Hammering us in daybreak's dusky penetrations.

9/26/00

POEMS 2.5 Lewis LaCook 9/17/00--

THIS PROGRAM HAS PERFORMED AN ILLEGAL OPERATION

Oh, we lost our connection To the server once again. This is that banishment motif You and I discussed over the phone. I'm waking later and later each Day, just after dreaming about you,

"Hooking up" with someone else. I wake with a little cry on those days: Static with the voice of my mind.

9/17/00

GODZILLA VERSUS THE FLAMING MOUTH

You stop biting your nails after you leave. Now you can scratch the elderly flesh From the maddening windows of lottery cards. That Berrigan, he says all sorts of crazy things. I like to play in the ashes you left. They are Lovely: warm and fuzzy. In a querulous voice I Intone the ways your love was like Vicodin, after

The world's greatest armchair brain surgeon Got a hold of me in his cruel chair. I like

To bite myself out of bad dreams. I wish you Could hear it. Do you think the very invisible Edges of corners tucked-in is beautiful? You'd

Like my sister, she moves like all dark things;

Slow and stoned.

9/17/00

MORNING SONG

She's still asleep when I leave for work. Heat

Hangs in the bedroom to Nest her shivering frame. She's still asleep when

The door opens in a belly- Shirt and I have to go to

Work. When I was Trying to wake you I

Wanted to kiss you. Did you know that?

9/17/00

POEMS 3 9/26/00-- Lewis LaCook TRICKS OF THE CAMERA

I made a promise to the schema Of winds that I would do this. Watch the pretty streaks of traffic In time-elapsed film forge lines Softly jazzy in a fast tin tomb.

I made no promises to the class Of objects called "people" That I would stick around long enough To see this world quite thoroughly fall

Apart. Clouds boil and foam in Between swiftly pressured frames, Saltily dizzy in what amounts to An airplane hangar. I'm flying, Ma;

Far above the cheapness of the plains, Purple mountains translucent With corporations gurgling Beneath my icy wings. Spring thaw is Only remembered; I can't touch the ground.

9/26/00

JUST GO ABOUT YOUR DAY...GRADUALLY

Afloat among The eyes Punctured Leak gasoline And radiowaves

"Didn't I tell you You looked nice today?"

Afloat among The midst Of Artificial heat To put another Face On it Beautiful, your Cinnamon Tongue Flipping Over your Teeth

"To put another face on it"

I can Feel The continents Digress Into beaches Littered with Swelling,

And am Coated With Afloat, among

The reeds of your musical Hair (reading Dante reading Bosch), learning finally

To forgive them both

9/27/00

GANGLAND AUTUMN

Leaves slip into Their owm blood.

Monarch butterflies Gun their fathers

Down.

9/27/00

THESPIAN WRECKAGE Listen as I feel through the phone Pretty shitty about our break-up, Smeared on everyone we Know. I smoke and I smoke and I Don't get much higher, while

The straights are setting their internal clocks By the sitcoms that they watch. I don't have The attention span for dysfunction That I used to. I don't like to do the same Thing every day. Both of us fucked up, both of

Us, so it's time to stop screaming at you and Get on with it. Today's standing-room Only, and everyone's moving in time.

9/27/00

APOCALYPSE

Yes,

Beauty finally Came down off her mountain To look around for us

But we'd gone out For a movie.

9/27/00

DREAD

The mouth seizes on the errant body And it's all over again, Norma Jean Though the heat in the room is working And the pain in the room is not working And the loveliness of pills accepts Its particular and self-indulgent pastime As if it's any easier to have pat and Popular answers in front of mixed crowds Who don't even believe in that, wherefore There was vicious disagreement in their ranks The older gentleman a sly and beautious chimp In the chatroom marked potsmoking cellist I met Rachel Owlglass I met Lemon Yellow Daisy (Though they are white) and he is very comfortably Bourgeois with his dictionary poetry Sitting on his knees on the thumbs of the harpist Are exploited for my own works what Resistence through the better graces could We have politely insisted was a better way

It gets to ice-cold on heartbroken techno tonight Just like it must have done last night to her Dancing and learning to bellydance and she is Crazy with some need or strength to be embraced As I break myself of the habit of the unknowable Which is an intellectual poetry in which the world Unravels in bitter fulcrum peels that confuse the tongue Out of its shock at knowing that Muslim men Will sometimes masterbate in front of unveiled women As everyone mutters about poetry or something even Fishing on the Susquehanna is sequential in mosques Of silenced supplication muffled doses of the Pure religion that meaning is as we Lapse into and out of the thunder of prophetic voice To a much more casual and if you can picture it bluejeans And holy sweaters in this close autumn doldrum merge That trickles like its listening lists like it Needs a dictionary to hold itself together through Prayer and predation partitioning and quotidian As I jazz a late lurking spume of muds and gristles With God or Dr. Frankenstein or Cecil B. DeMille looking On, awesomely impressed with the drapery and dread

9/28/00

PEPSI AND DEXEDRINE for Tyler-lee

So we were late getting to the poetry reading where The funny man delivered his funny poems in a Seinfeld Strut. We're smashed anyway; what a long wood floor. Both of us have cleaned this floor before, so We were late looking for things that hadn't Been cleaned. The funny man delivered his funny poems To us, they were sitcom-clean, we're wasted On weed and pills, you licking your long blond Lips and me in a torn vinyl coat, makes me Look like a cop that just got shot by some Nefarious dealer, the kind I hung with In Lorain; trading crack for foodstamps.

We're late, Tyler, we've got to go. My mom did eventually leave him for beating me. Are you sure you don't want more to eat? In the meantime some of us are dead, some just Dying; maybe we shouldn't say too much, make a Scene showing up late whacked out of our minds. The funny poems the funny man needs to send Must be inflatable: soft borders to absrob the knocks;

Spongy kneecaps for when the mob busts in, gats Tattling on us to death, who never endlessly snaps The switches off obvious erotic saplings; how they Ooze. We should probably get going soon. The elevators Are filling with us.

Hurry up, please, it's time.

9/29/00

VERBS IN THE CITY

Do your eyes wake to you in surprise To find your body stretched with its Cinammon-and-milk metaphor untied?

I wake to my eyes watching me Bolt from nervous sheets To type out another day's resume.

You're a skinny column of Vocabulary words when you Stretch like that--conjugations.

All to find the correct ending for Waking all alone in the Big city. All alone.

9/29/00 SLEEPING THROUGH YOUR PARTY

Sometimes I wish I could just Erase myself at will and then Only for a short time. I sleep Instead of party, and I read As another way to get high. At the university they call me Mad--mad, I say! I should invest in a large amount of this weed.

Who's writing these poems, I'll wonder When I do, that keep carpeting my floor In metaphor? The symbol for solid ground And other happy things Is lacking in my work. Instead of sleeping, I restlessly prowl the town, on the lookout For a pretty young thing like you. Like poetry? You'll love my Imaginary friend Dante, he's been Translated so many times across Such lexical distances that He'll let you do whatever you want. Just request "A large amount of this weed," and he,

In his own indomitable, almost angelic way Pretends he didn't hear. What's a pretty young thing like you Doing to herself to read lines like this? I hope you appreciate how I party in my sleep.

The stones and the stars: Not used to being laughed at.

This is where we taste the pressure of our Roles shrivelling, and can finally perform "Be."

9/30/00

ALL THE SKIES I REMEMBER I'm trying very hard not to fall in love. I can't, I won't, I shouldn't fall in love. Of what use is it to me to fall in love? The sky, nostalgic with clouds, is it in love?

I can't, I musn't, I definitely shouldn't fall in love. Though I know you're beautiful, and your shyness drives me crazy. I want to look at you all day long as you lick your lips, pout past countryclub life, ask

"Of what use is it to me if I fall in love?" I'll still have to take my German test, and pay rent. Though I know you're beautiful, when you talk flowers unfurl. I'll still need to vacuum.

The sky, blatant with area, airs, is it in love? And does anyone love it back? Every time I look I see it up there, alone, beyond just anyone's touch. Maybe I should talk to it.

10/2/00

DEAD HORSES

This morning chills drowsy buttons On the shrieking clock. All my poems

Are about waking up and washing your Face with radiator blooms. "Fall deep

In love in the underworld," Iggy says, Re Raw Power--I wouldn't know, though;

I'm in the service of the sluggish Trees, contemplating this chromatic

Slide into autumn, translating The secrets soil tells

For you. All of your dreams Are about every skin you

Could ever need, completely dented By slivers of seconds rapped off

As I flog these hours Into better dead horses for you.

10/2/00

SCRAMBLED EGGS

There are monkeys in the living room Gouging their eyes out over professional

Wrestling. I feel so very lucky to be here

This evening, safely lodged in my citadel Of dust. I'm trying very hard to go So much further than my body is a Page, and I'm sending it to you

Via Usenet; with your mouth widely Forced into a screen at the Sgraffiti of passionate scar tissue I'm quite evidently destined To become,

You're so photogenic, so searingly Cold to the touch. My hands have been Beating down your door for A very long time, but I don't care, I Need the exercise, so inept

At being myself that I murmur Gently at whoever crosses The walk; "Don't Get hit!" you cry, but

You're always too far away For me to hear, so I blunder Out into traffic and find myself Afloat and tumescent in the waters

You've ribboned around the doors. No wonder they didn't see the exit. Those two, dressing Exactly like that (alike), every morning, Until even their breathing sympathizes Between them: you suck, I'll blow,

Let the whole goddamned world rot if it

Wants to. I think you left the pizza out Overnight. There'll be no breakfast today.

10/2/00

HERBIVORES

Someone wanders off and gets killed by the end. The erotics of nose-picking: phlange and astors. Look, I know I'm pretty grungy right now, but I'd like to get your phone number just in case I ever grow spine enough to ask you. Sometimes someone forgets what house he's waking up in. Let's talk to that mysterious jewess with the complicated obsidian curls and poisonously redred lips: galore. I've got a lot of guy friends. It's so nice of you to hold doors open for everyone (not just the sexually explicit) carrying plastic hampers into Laundry 101. Such a nice blue sky it's barely there today; it's everywhere I want to be. I want you, too. Fit nicely into my grooming.

Pearls clean amid slick hair. Not knowing where I end and nature is. Yellow nails; resin on hands.

10/3/00

NAMELESSNESS IS STICKY bending over me to write on the wall. Do you feel the tug of the moon on the hairs on the back of your neck? Innocence is tasteless, leaves a mouth acrid with datural acrylics, fish-smooth and as nameless as each sticky night you pull through your ruffled hair; colors of rusting sunset, autumn; I am no longer his place in the room, and am walking slowly like shutterspeed's depthcharge's pushing at balloons in my limbs, floating. Trowels sop up elastic mistrials of mosaic-colored light. Possibly sophistic. Bending over the wall to write on me. You can ask but I think my answer's embedded in the trees. The moon got up there somehow. I don't tell him how I got my place in the room. While we're arguing as lovingly and feral as namelessness is sticky, daytime labored off secondly the cornered hours that reason with the dark. Logic bends over questioning the corners of pages until he writes his answer in the form of a hook chemically lacing quills through cursor alleys of when I take my glasses off shadows with teeth lull me to dinner. I'm foaming at the mouth because I am in love. Love is good. Dog

10/4/00

MATING CALL

You are very beautiful. You are very handsome. Would you like to help me act in a completely self-destructive manner in order to frustrate my own hard-earned goals? You have a lot of hands tonight. You fill quite lovingly with the transient ache of pure beauty. See you later?

10/4/00

PUSSY HEADACHE

Time to headache this way again. You're such a pussy, almost drained Full frappucino. Sit in your assigned Seat though the night kudzu takes You over. Cough up cigarettes. Count:

One two three four five. And then one More, again. Pussy headache was his Name almost. Assigned us seals, so We couldn't leave the cough. Halfway Almost completely empty. Kudzu tongue

10/4/00 FLIRTING

The printer has teeth, grinds. The bong, iced and wheezy, likes to Translate by computer into French.

Talk to me with your white breasts And cinammon sprinkles. I have

A reputation among The Girls. "He's cute, but fundamentally Psychotic." Share your latte

With me; wrap your tongue around A prick-cold spoon.

10/4/00

DANCE TO NOTHING

Sometimes I just stare at them in awe. One minute you're writing in your room, alone, next minute the power goes out (the lights snuff, down, in, jerks) and the house warps with sinister rustling. So surfacely self-assured, each has buffeted and individually surpassed preconception. Darkness pools and erases suddenly; there's also the quivering lip of relief as your body's absorbed in its maw, as if suddenly things like being in your room writing alone are unimportant, all the furniture in the house has disappeared, the house itself is only a concept, and each step is possibly a dance to nothing. And because of this you can't approach them brashly; if you must show your appreciation, you do it by glance, posture, scent; a quiet language in which they are precisely eloquent.

Unknowing the void Traced its dips and sulcuses Flooding all risked space

10/5/00

COMPUTER VIRUS Trying to sleep, late at night, The trees are too bright, sex Has this way of climbing, tests Your bed, sighing upset that You are alone.

10/5/00

THE RETARDED ROCKSTAR HAIKU

Capsule. Nymphette.

Professional development.

10/5/00

INTIMACY a dog barks far from flesh next door, nesting & even then m flesh carbs & smarts & swarthy s did you pass the meat test? k did you past the test set? u dip you paused a set taste? l dib ow parceled taste sat? k i in glasses, complimentary smudge g . What did you come here to get? I can only listen to traffic friday nights, in what condition do you expect? I can't help it you o drive me crazy. in u your bedroom where c you never let on h I prob bably sh o u d more, but what's l e the point? d have expect that's intim acy for you--&

10/5/00

WATER AND ITS SHAPE

New bulbs push the walls further in. The gypsygirl with liquid eyes passes and actually speaks, but once again it's another language so remote in its velocity it can only spin outside my body; I savor its hum on my flesh...Shadows leave gorgeous welts in your eyes. I stumble out of sleep, creaking with the long-dead echoes of rooms not yet built. The lavender behind the solemn seepage of muscled clouds doubtlessly means rain will continue to invade the city. You move in bars of spout, naked but for droplet silhouettes, and the lawns move with you as you speak. A liquid girl with Roman eyes pours an intimate language on a raft of leaves. After the deluge, Europe dripping with ripples; mirrors.

Water and its shape Can eat the soul off your face. Give skin to the sky.

10/6/00

ELOCUTION

Radiation...raised skin...... meant spit brown structure on...... the...glass...

Means of...milky web...air curbs...... of what i catapault...cinammon hips... i don't mean to be...rude...... pardon the eloquence...of your body deep inside me...like the sea itself...good back...

...until i Glow...electroquent...... locomotion...Meaning When You Walk by...

10/7/00 A MONTH

Night sears away that solemn scar tissue, Leaving only cool nerves unquivering in Mid-air. Alone, I move people through a Falling building, regardless of their Moods. My head hurts, and I Want to go home. Night seals us in And under thickening glacier-glass we Spoof our own silhouettes. So starved For each other to look at each other we Burst. I accept a strange anaesthetic.

You don't know how good it is to be numb. You're allowed to walk above ground, and Sing your squeaky-clean through serious Halls. Those knots of clotted barbed wire Are not your memories, and knowing this Allows you to levitate without fear. At The source of the glassine river, night Uncrannies brambles until nothing you can Send will ever get through. But you go on Explaining distance to me; frail, antiseptic.

How clean was it that night? I'd heard Of fire, how it nervously quenched all The sin. I move a falling building Until it's just above my head. Night Listens for me until I reach the front Door, until I push the key in. Once inside, I'm coated with lips, regardless of my Mood. My head hurts and I need to go Home. I'm going to finally burst from Starving; the moon hides for days.

10/8/00

OCTOBER DIRGE

I watch the rain slit my window In silver lacerations, and I can't Quite crawl through those jagged Gills 10/8/00 .

ING OFF

"Fundamentally perfect wisdom has no tree. Nor has the bright mirror any stand. Buddha-nature is forever clear and pure. Where is there any dust?" --Hui-neng

There's no Buddha in MY zen; just creamy mind: A dip in smoothness is not there, at all. She's looking great again, or maybe that's just my mind, its perfectly clear skin glowing with what we take to be permanence, which is not there, not there at all; in the living room blowing up cars. I must learn not to stop, unlearn classical harmony. There's a new way your voice tilts on my name; mind, its fervent axes, grinds rain into snow which is later on in the evening, mind and only mind, only that part of the day's not there at all; what day is it? I don't believe we've met.

Objects, turbulence, Aborted humming stains on My bed; someone's jump

10/9/00

FAT MAN WAKES IN POLLUTION

Cough and her mind coughs, Making you cough. Turning

Out of his bed in the morning Moves the whole room. Days:

Colder, brighter, less still.

10/9/00

SNOTTY WHITE ACTIVISM Dude, I mean power to the people, with piercings;

The vegan people. If I'm busted at the convention, will Daddy bail me out?

10/9/00

RADIATOR

Heat reels lurid circulars.

Recurrence of a radiator pings. Thingness, she says.

Thinly. I am in my clothes.

You are in my clothes.

10/9/00

LIVING NEXT DOOR

I lift the "blinds" to let more tree into the room, even though cars and their hurtful stripes brush ice into a likeness of her.

I load the dishwasher with spattered clicks, then I smoke it out of my "brain" again. I try to build a snowgirl as pert and crystal as what I'm thinking. Wider windows.

"The temperature has left the room"

10/9/00 FUN WITH VOWELS

I want to play those games too, even though such terrible weather presses down our cardboard house of cards. Free tongues clucking ankhs

Into petty air's thin flesh, until my tail disappears in my mouth. I win.

10/9/00

CARGO

Coca-cola in the half-liter bottle can be squeezed when knocked back. Like ketchup, only lighter, and no vegetables, please. Imagine those minute strands of wax swimming the lamp alive.

10/9/00

DOWSING FOR THE GODDESS

Some say if he whittles long enough at the consonants, until continents peek from the cracks in the glacial thaw of his mind, he will eventually trace her shadow over the haze of his room.

10/9/00

THE PAST, BARELY DRESSED

You know how your body stings and sinks. I feel ice flower on the air in my room when I wake up. She drops by to tease you from time to time. I stung her, sure; when she left my bed I inserted a briar, a thorn, lodged hanging in her hide pulsing dizzy poison, and now when I wake up in the morning I swim in smears somewhere just below the surface of memory. You think of this bed as a glacier creeping with such calm hunger over the gardens of the world. Frost is a proof for subliminal passion; it runs in crystal veins and crackles through what blushed warmth, until its slower motion stills chaos, until confusion is like glass that can be dropped, shattered. The opposite of pollen is the smoke her breath leaves on the weather... Walking to school a few days ago I could see that the bees were slowing down; one clutched the blacktop, in danger of weaving to someone's tire treads, sluggish and muddied and unable to rouse from the ground. Your wings are too thin to keep winter in the background. I can see through them when you block my stare.

10/10/00

BRIAN MISCHER RIDES THE NIGHT TRAIN!

No, Brian, I don't need a ride to work. This book is new; they remixed it from original masters.

A notebook with a wine cover: dawdling; drawing; dodging cars

10/10/00

PAINTING NUMBER ONE for Tyler

You are the color of milk, of peaches, the color of sun rusting stalled in auntumn leaves; you are the same color wind is when it pierces rain, sends it shrivelling straight into my face as I play dodgeball with postcapitalism with snow rushing my ears, the very same color a word is before it's born in the mouth, lulls you with the taste of ashes and doves breaking loose from a thicket of bloody hearts; you are the colors in all the bruises I forget when I'm high, and every color a computer's pixels can't fake; this color that is your color is the color of nothing dull, mornings so lucid they ache, lake nights so wasted and vacant the knots that comprise me can't even resonate (so rare), the creamy middle of every twinkie so tortured it radiates an electric fuel an anger magnet an ether ellipsis so lucid it makes me ache; this color you are which is your color is the color of laughter licking limitless idling fissures that corrode the care-worn surface of the moon.

Skipping over pains of the ground before you to test a figure there

10/11/00

THEFT; RUFFLED

Frills that space where objects intend spikes as neccessary

Trapping indelible car alarm sleeps through

10/11/00

BONG TRAINING

I like that perhaps erupts under cinder carpet because I have a lighter trains it

10/11/00

DEMO THE WINDOW

Light frosts leaves so hot this room is viewed in ego image editing software licensed to perpetuate mum serrations

10/11/00

WHAT POETS THROW AWAY

The wastebasket not the garbage can blows up hot air balloon with last cigarette's carton of winstons' fully-sucked cocacola

10/11/00

PHIL SPECTOR'S INFAMOUS WALL OF SOUND

Preacher Chuck says drugs are bad. That's why I'm out here; arms crossed, quivering, vibrant with weed and speed. One unshaven kid roller- blades around the scripture-spout, mumbling a white-clutched harmonica. "The bible says beware of false prophets, too!" the fat girl with glasses next to me murmurs. "You're a false prophet! You're a false prophet!" Everyone's talking over each other, and that makes a noise like angels gagging on alienation. This is the first time I've ever ganged up on Chuck; usually I stand in my corner zonked thinking up logic against all this hate, sardonic gut-twist to my lips. But today I saw a man dump a boy out of his chair, kick him out of his way, and then bellow about the courtesy of his god. And though mob thought is one strait I as a rule never manage, today, watching you nervously walk by with your new boyfriend while I smile sickly alone, standing with these children who so badly want to make the world right they've made love more popular than jesus, something gives. "What do YOU do in your spare time, Chuck?" one boy asks. "He masterbates all night to gay porn!" I yawp.

And then we laugh.

10/13/00

ABANDONMENT

I do not spring out of bed after sleeping the last of my days wide. I do not need to twist the heat on in this room, though moving through it to get to the bathroom's like its own ragged baptism in ice. It is not even similar to my capacity for love now with everyone gone but me and my bitterness, which hasn't really detached from me as a character in its own right. "The main thing's not to be so down on yourself," she says, plucking chunks of rose-colored glass from my still and snowbound form. But I'm not venting this; bluest anguish slicking a path out the door for my bitterness to slip on so she can't follow me out into freshly mown air

10/13/00

GLUE IN DIRT

Glue in dirt makes of a funnel pustule glass; coming undone at the freckles. I lick ice because I'm fragile. Another loom's thread blues on her stomach, rancid with pills; the lining of our oxygen regrets that spurt of holy foot.

The tomahawk miscellany is squamous with dormant folders. She burrows into rubbed debit cards to upload my purpose; love is a wind gone purple and squeamish. I indent with gourds my pent marble finally out of storage.

10/13/00

GIFTED ***published, THE HOLD, November 2000

This poem embeds deception with photographs of mansized actual sleep.

Your punishment is to "do" "reaching for piano" symptoms in pain. Oh, you'll think, to be flying hidden, dumb to religion, frail and abandoned as this negative lamp! This malfunction downsizes you with electric dimebags for the hobbyist. Badger me with your porous fountains.

To be carbon is to be following the danger. A suffix smokes neon christmas; a clearence on an october bonus of mundane account

10/14/00

CONDITIONS

I wake up annoyed. The toilet sheds its skin. The dishes crumble to mold, dust. Even the sun is dirty, and no, I don't have time to clean it.

10/14/00

MY TASTE IN BOOKS

Science fiction is too normal for me. Who needs galactic empires, phallic weaponry, blind hero-worship, when leaves burn off trees?

10/15/00

CLEAN FLOWER

I deal with anguish by getting stoned and staying stoned for as long as it takes. That way, pain blooms in slow- motion, spitting petals in the vacuum.

I sit alone, in trampled gardens, bathing in swollen scent.

10/15/00

MEAN DROP expands in water. Today is a fullness around the bowels, meaning you must drop? He forgets to eat, but does not forgive. Whatever previously wanted a mask for this section. On the toolbar, select "Dilate edges." He is unparticularly cleanliness appended. That means you drop down the halls trailing your echoed chain? Showers dredge up worms to seethe on the sidewalk, you had been lying previous to this unaware of your descent into sleep. The borders of his wakefulness are at play. Do you mean he drops down a steep hill? Left skin to sing it dry upon the earth.

Moments, the pits of complete erasure; turning into another

10/15/00

FAILING THE PEOPLE AROUND

I like that you're reading me slowly, and find my newer work more accessible than my book. This one thinks he's elite because he's in a fraternity, and his father owns things. I wake after very little sleep; I feel great, even though temporarily out of coffee.

I would like not to think I'm elite. You've gotten enough sleep, okay? I don't understand your newer work, much less your book. Do we always need to be so beautiful, so terrible, we thunder through our days roaring at the people around us, who fail us in their own particular ways?

10/16/00

I KNOW HOW SERIAL KILLERS GET OFF

Look kids! It's Uncle Happypants and his calliope zoo! I see him in the trees paining and panning and panting for color: decadence of this mellowing autumn. Did you know his favorite shade is clear, and his favorite song is traffic rubbing sky the wrong way? It ruffles and arches its transparent back at his every moldering pat; I see him in the trees as I'm walking to class. Tiny shoestrings umbilical his mouth.

10/16/00

THE NEON MONK'S ASTROLOGY PAGE

Was Ted fooling himself about pills? Am I too old to chase girls, kiss them, make them cry,

"Will Petros and Jarred ever grow beyond the most obvious machismo which they can't sustain anyway, being fat, lazy, and quite too dim?"

Is Tyler-lee Murphy timelessly beautiful? Can Dave ever ease into the waters beyond his anger, recognize trembling in every being, that wants love like light or water or food? Does Brian Mischer know god? How did Marjory get so crazy? Are you the one to talk, sitting stoned in your neon monk's cell, translating different shades of your brain into these fabulous new hyper-joyous colors?

10/17/00

MY PLANS AFTER GRADUATION

Now that my inspiration's been outsourced, and Spirit craves what Spirit craves, more food, or sex, or even honesty for once; now that R.A. Salvatore is "making money," and therefore more important than me if you measure it that way, and Jarred does; now that all the women have waned, taking to themselves their commonlaw counterparts, too stupid to stand out in a crowd; now that "Lewis LaCook" is finally dead, short-circuiting on pills and unmanageable emotions; what's left but to smoke a bowl, sigh, and write another hundred goddamned books?

10/18/00

PONDS

This puddle's color, soap-shackled, raining tastefully marijuana rounded down and smoldering, burrows tufts of sunning velcro, shirttail soup, paddle collars and Dad's tacklebox. Running through the baleful vapors, an ember insults by consultation.

Birds. 10/20/00

CODE FOR THE END OF OCTOBER

Lawnmowers and weed-whackers purr into floppy mists of october uppity-touched.

Yesterday the reporter wanted to know just how we throb onward, burning air around us; welded shut. It's all data today; weed- whackers and lawnmowers: each to its own code.

10/21/00

THE SWAN, ITS SINGING; ITS MIRROR-TWIN IN THE WATER for Tyler-lee

You are a slender jet of flame moving over the face of the river.

When it smiles you warm the banks with your hair, a lava of electric wind. But it smiles for just a few seconds; her face flows, her face floods. It never sits comfortably beneath its name.

You flicker, lick the shoulders, sloping; pour through my cracks.

10/21/00

ACTING: OUT AND UP I.

Kent's lovely weather hurts my forehead so that I'm not about to die, but weeping, speaking German is sexy to Tyler-lee (who is sexy) trying to wake up to a headache of pills. It won't work. Can I play my guitar for you? This bud is kind indeed, and is for you, though I don't at all believe you were ill, after all, though lovely and reflective as hell, yes! Sexy. You so slim and militant of urgency; you so light of ugliness, made of pure laughter that jostles the dead leaves free

10/21/00

II.

Strip the trees down to winter's bare essentials: food, shape, perfume, dump. All I want in life's a little bit of love to take the pain away, but I try not to think of where the pain goes when I don't feel it, hopefully Cuyahoga Falls. Slim and militant of urgency, you negotiate with the terrorists who hijacked my heart and made love to Cuba all over me. I woke up today playing basketball with Fidel, who knows how to jump (being Communist) and how to score (your freckles whole notes in what time).

10/21/00

III.

Common time it ain't. Nor will we waltz our Tyler-lee off the starboard, which controls the mothership in my dreams. I'm appealing at third remove. Indirectly, I woke up today playing shuffleboard with Fatima, made love all over her (to keep her warm in such hurtful Kent weather), taught her to tongue red sugar 'til it bursts. ?If I go crazy then will you still call me superman? Your freckles make me want to drop my figleaf, again and again. I notice your small hands' almost opaque nails, keep wishing you'd hang me on your wall

10/21/00

RA

Writing sex in French for you, full of less cigarettes than I want or need. For Petros, toast is something you have with cheese, or eggs, and the silence of vulnerable bodies just awake. He plays video games all day long, unable by being crippled to French his way out into the open.

With my tongue I roll the sun across the sky. I know that other end.

10/23/00

PRECIPITATION

She'll think lovely all day long, even if it rains, and her first peek at the balcony is of wood darker than this weather she bought. She'll look for true love. The men in her living room rot delicately, slowly, eaten by their lust for flicker. She won't pick up after them anymore, no matter how many unidentifiable odors seep through her walls. It's more likely to rain inside. The house won't talk to itself, or even her: wet spot in the center of her head. He slipped and died.

10/24/00

WOKE UP JUST IN TIME FOR

Have to be faster than or greater than; unequal. Have a headache that won't go to sleep. Make the coffee; fistful of pills, flung back with a bitter stream.

10/25/00

BEE STUNG BY COLD DIP OF WEATHER DYING ON BLACKTOP

In an ornate garden of triangular blossoms, I spread you in long slow flames over my chest. I bury myself in your skin, so slightly brushed slim with freckles that where my lips graze has depth, plain over plain. I paint you arched with my mouth until you quiver in my voice. Feed me from your old channels. Fields billow as you clench in the valleys I spin. Petals anguish under auburn rain.

10/25/00

MOROCCAN HANGOVER You pull up out of dreaming your laundry through the coin washers of your mother's apartment, and relax on the surface for a while. Everything blurs, even the shadows on the ceiling you thought were carved by your stepfather to shame you into being a man. The pictures are of human things: confidence, leadership, integrity, but you can't see them through this washing of your sense of sight. A huge silence explodes through the house, sweet relief of no bodies at all to bump into, and no-one, it seems, knows you're here. This moment is a hinge, and if you turn one way you fall from the nicotine- stamped sheets into class, work, and love for your fellow man. Turning the other way, sleep swallows you whole, and you lie in your dishonest bed, dreaming of never being touched again more gently than this.

10/27/00

SOME EXTRA SPACE

Christmas lights, almost deliberate, amble in patterns you can pick out stoned. The purr of red and green fanning cystalline across a smoke- mellowed wall softens guitars and synthesizers, mixers and stereos, blank shadows that you dip into sometimes when the light moans. An age-yellowed lava lamp donated by a homeless man spills pinholes of needlelight from a gold base. Inside it, smoky-yellow snails slide against each other, warming fetal fluid peppered with decay.

The sheets have been twisted off your bed. Last night a girl who didn't want you sat there in a short and breathless dress, un- tangling her moods. Now your pillows slump, worn and corroded; lace with holes never designed to sleep.

10/27/00

PERSEPHONE

Dark colors recede: that's color theory. Only what's bright shrills above the crust. Dark colors hide themselves at the bottom of the glass, so quiet in their soaking up you would almost miss them, unless you're in tune. These days I have to skim over the crop so much to watch this wait for growth I pitch myself too far above, to forget my breath. Dark colors are best for winter; they catch and hold all heat and light. This must be why I stop here, just to look at you, warm myself to these secrets you've gathered in the glass of your cubicle. In winter ripe god- desses retract these dull petals to sleep..

10/30/00

POEMS 5 Lewis LaCook 2/9/01--3/2/01

THE GARBAGETRUCK? for Renee

My weather report for you is doubtful; the garbagetruck fuels this pre-dawn February thaw, sliding over paved hills as if vapor were the taste of heat in your mouth. Even love wears a jacket in this business of looking up the page to severe gusts. Yes, Sheila says language is not only the flesh of it.

No cars ever turn down this street;

I live here without you, and can't testify to hands like lace.

2/9/01

PRICKLY HEAT

Water always reflects up to you sized on a smaller bus with camera clouds wrinkle your logic. And.

The chubby lesbians want to fuck you because you smell like old spice. Watching a lipstick nun glam her hair unruly rouge at the gum-smack grocerystore, think about the sun amid mole-spattered shoulderblades; grunt-smell of swollen sheets.

The streets are full of rashes of clouds.

As she guides you through her.

2/9/01 HOW TO COPE WITH STRESS

Oh no, it's seven-o-five and work begins with a walk thru the dark!

The Dandy Warhols play brightly in a slow room, and no-one here has the "heroin blues." No baby, they really wouldn't look very good on you.

Quit your job, and hang out with me!

2/9/01

BOOK/MOBILE

Headache the swoon dove voids doorbells and telephone chinks, making it harder and harder to wake in skins of day squandered by one sentence after another pulling the train on the CD-writer. My baby so far away right now here has gone to the store in town. I pop pills to relive the pressure.

The flashing light on the answering machine means that the light is not steady, not that anything ever is, except all.

This makes reading fundamental.

2/10/01 SCORE

Waiting for the man waiting by the phone to: a) pick up the phone waiting for someone to call to suck the quiet from the borders of an expectation of her voice inside-out with a slick white tongue infecting tanks he emits on the path to come to her, or b) breastfed by smoky pipeline on the couch waiting for that man to call so he'll drop his bills off in a house where walls lark with venusfly whose work looks with veracity for good or medium quality: remote,

2/10/01

WHAT PLANET DID SUN RA CLAIM TO BE FROM? for Renee

Round as a spurt of moon; sparks everywhere, like a halo of teeth needing lip to suck; like endless caress as serious rapture eventually figures out how you're made not to maim or depress me; over the bed's conduction you plunge. Under the bed's confession I trace cold ballrooms for cancer dancers; an ingenious negligence with sleep has not supplanted my ravenous variety of deeds to donate to our body (when it is our body), emptied of the bother of nations tantalizing runs of mattress into matterhorn satire.

Lewis thinks of her nipples in code. It's all he can do not to sweat ivory knuckled under nothing at all could ever pry her irridescent. On the way down, angels angular and avenged in lovetalk read coarse books on how to stab themselves errorless; Renee, you cinder like a red star, drives amaranth to thistle in a matter of horn so planting themselves across the caucus that her back becomes in amorous works and how; I'm shivering in the thrill of my room in my head for you. Space in my heart.

2/11/01

MT DAD

It's morning, waiting for you to call//sausage crumbles into slick pan black. Stirring it leaves gold trails of grease in the pan. Rich boys next door bump the music of the poor (words to a beat) over their hard-earned Tonkatruckz//it's mourning, waiting for you to call, not-cold in not-fighting it, they can all go to hell if they want to, safe and here and faster and harder than they. My Dad is Dead, so I inherit the airy plains.

2/11/01

BEAUTIFUL=CATHODE.EATING.DIRECTORY.TREE

In my dreams I never see I liken music to amateur webpages. I'm awkward in public, not more or less sure about placing the hands.

Never mind that. I'll go into work early. Overall, music and clicking-onto push fl(a)esh to one side of the screen, and I notice this could be walking to work with me, offline or granular, like mucous tendrils template lonely from your nose when you get blown. Dining hauls me so emphasized from the glitch,

2/11/01 PORTRAIT OF RENEE V

The thirteenth floor elevators are a blooz band(this is the last winter I will ever walk through(my sexy dork girlfriend this weekend. Like a butterfly's secret closet)I am watching the sky become a pink-ribbed desert)injected with utopian rhetoric. The guitar amazes consistently(our days boil down to this(her eyes are never shy to me. Her hands are a span of hives)almost suffocating in the transparency of roads)and the fact that this was conceived with "primitive" technology is impressive

2/11/01

CARFAX ABBEY

Wanting you is a religion. Got home, read the postings, ate a peanutbutter sandwhich. In the doctor's eyes, all behaviors are a disorder. I was waiting until black night calcified, and by the moon- oval in the vapors of the atmosphere under my eyes shall know no sleeping, it's time to call you. I have a slight headache and dumbly I want to get stoned. Waiting for you ,urgently comma smoking, is an almost exact science. You answered while redecorating, there are walls around both of us we see into by coloring. Warping me is an occurence, not weather. I want to lick your pussy off.

The boys wash regularly in cobalt bleedings high on integrated circuits, logical operators, ecstasy before the last instant message of calling you; I'd wait for you for ever, more, or I'd already been here a long time, dreaming- rowing you, roaming you, is a privilege as not being harmed in filling you is fit. Went energized to work got haunted by those still lives running themselves on hints. Suddenly I shouldn't distrust what comes more than chiaroscuro or was always quite patiently the underpainting flying through the wreckage of whorls that behaviour thinks fractal, "Carfax Abbey," where the wind hinges on that sigh of finishing. That dispersal evens everything. You put in some shelves. In silence as you're going to the bathroom I'm climaxed in a giggle: no seams at all running between me and you; eventually it all comes even, or else nothing

2/12/01

DID TIMOTHY LEARY INVENT LSD?

No weed: none, though I pick up the pipe, I twist the pipe apart, I peer inside the pipe; no weed. Someone laughs in another room, he's boring and sweet: he has no weed. The corporations don't need to plant a chip in his brain, because shiny things consume him. I pick up the corporation, I twist the corporation apart, I peer inside the corporation: nothing human there. Hordes of my adoring fans block the exits.

2/12/01

THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE

Searching for your belly among the reeds, how can I invent language today? It's too early to mow them down, and their wombs coma my comma with karma and artlessness. Over and over, my hands slip through the lush soot, touring your belly, Catholic- livid at my own stuttering need: to pour every stiff inch of you through me, like co-authoring the sieve, or french-kissing tingles; my hands through your belly so summer-itchy, so Mayday-hammering. The hem urges words through rods to divine this nativity; gestalt it from the ground up; rub me here, you say, and my hands germinate. Enjoy yourself. Take as many showers as you need. Puncuation friendships near-death collaborations, the ones you step out into homes made of nothing but light at all. Are you sledding your hands down my belt, buttoning in reverse? Why does space limber up when you walk by? I am always either looking forward to the next line or great! Couldn't be better? Yourself? Lewis worries too much about the stickiness all over his wall. Your belly fell into his monkeyhands, and now there's hell to pay. Ordinarily, I don't mind granting small loans. Reverbations in real time could bother me.

2/13/01

RENEE,

If I grow old listening to floes crack in the sky, and you are there, enjoying my senility (won't it ever come down?), please throw your robe unchillingly around me. If I get scared butting up against myself to let all and everything go, even myself, and can ingest anything stronger than our minds, note the endearing drool snuggling off my lower lip, akimbo, and think off the years that puckered like deserts without you. But if I grow old, and we are apart, one side of the ocean to another, nap awhile to the sound of my name going from one lip to the other; sleep light.

2/13/01

VALENTINE'S DAY, 2001

I.

Mostly I just sit around the waning fire, yellowing in its stroke. In my life of tawdry vixens with shrill voices (domestic), you are some glorious import; exotic, with legs sturdy stoic and beautiful enough every minute to feed me on my way to nights in Dictionaryland, where angels tease mountains to conjugate promiscuously. I never knew a lovesickness that wouldn't kill. Nothing in this town crackles smart as you. Even the sky gets blue when you're not here!

II.

Kindred dervish, red and not-severe, rev into me skywise, idling, like an engine sputters beneath all you see, and somehow you know that slices of fruit in memory on a table are not a picture of everything you could ever laugh about

III

Won't you sit awhile with me, cherry-blossom, in the punkrock fire of yellowing bristles, lingering tingles, missionary diction, like our love is this close to the sky, curls under the telephone lines that domesticate this town, because otherwise I would be so remote?

Meshed, we could catch what fireflies infect one another with, in months not known for their kindness, finally emitting the light we've been charged with for years.

2/14/01

SECONDFLOOR DOCK

Rain goosebumps with fat sound; black spindle trees scroll out bandwidths of bronchial puff; those who walk this weather do it face-down, hunched over their own hush of enduring. The second- floor dock's darkened-soaked, skimming the legs of this fragile wind suddenly brushed with deadened rawness; and on it all automatic streetlights blue on, beamed: reflecting themselves across blacktop in white lines.

2/14/01

BEDREST SONATA

Okay, coping mechanisms, chemical me a row of scarlet chairs dripping down Loop road uner infinite duress. Shade me, umbrella radius, with a dash of intimate calibrations: from cold to without your touch, from caul to born blind sinking into room, moon a respectible bedrest sonata forlorn at nine-o-five in the PM dawn: can barely move, so paralyzed by the cobalt points of pure bliss: thin rivers apart.

2/14/01 HOARSELESS CHARIOTS

Most who ride the busses aren't white: riders from countries that don't worship the automobile. Ten at night the lights inside are on, tarting the colors--blue candycanes around ash and asphalt, while rain runs her stupefied fingers over the windows, rushing and beading the city outside. Korean and slang, South African english (peaked apartheid in beaming mouths) uncurl sequestered lives like relaxing wet fists. If you tickle the palm will silence mix with the road?

2/14/01

WHAT ALPHABET SOUP IS

Money names us something other than artsyfartsy, trapdoor party, rude rubber funeral renewal; money stakes something other than just being on us much like we catlike geography. Slit yule pupils lipid in dipthong knots prove vorpal laps around the squinting larvae dangerous; to draw a hole over art's caffeinated tars is to start namby-pamby from the scratch up. Our own ecstasy is propeller-retardent, not flames tepid with lechery chill on down until frozen ill pillows wallop an airport snowglobe solfege, but bitterly in Spanish.

Alphabet soup is as entropy teleports more rope.

Rather, think of our retreat as theater for ether. I sit down to ponder ordering forms doomed to morbidly bore aerobores in Fluffhead's skin, who complain loudly to you, except you're too orange to hoax us yet, drying anabolically beneath a live decongestant sun. Run, you silly bastards! She's got gray eyes...

2/15/01

TOTAL ENGAGEMENT

Read your old poem-mags outta order. In nihilism, does anyone ever wake up to jujube sun, ice-cream breezes, utter zephyr in the veins? My moody baby- angel was displaced while talking to phone lunch, so I had to get ready for her visit.

Pretend nothing means. Nothing. Poem-mags run down my walls like ivy-mice, in tides empathizing with commodes flush with skins partially ripped, wake and bake daily; are you gonna own me? Why won't I mind? Reasons to get off my ass and arrange logic arguments with reasons to witness by keystroke total latent closure to "the wilderness." I happen to glance the loneliness of pure beauty on her lips, and graze there, against her, like nothing means meaning like being mean to morphemes. Silly boy, she says. You're just what I need.

2/15/01

BLOWING

Theaters everywhere are trying too. You ever-so-preciously fall asleep when calls live out the grasping medallion demons entertaining nails across the surface of vision. Funny is preferred. Tomorrow she injures the growth with preventative sugery. Diagnosis: snow's freezing reign on immunity's parade; rapid-fir trees on round obstacles seltzer my big shoes, I murmur nothing-sweeter-than into your milkjug neck:

What, you expected life's flesh to be all unriddled? Tomorrow we'll kiss again; lure our flat bodies into full-puff life again; smoke cigarettes maybe not pushed by grief into furry teats, rough at the basics. Theaters everywhere are pretty enough to help. I like mine with extra noise. You, peering over your glasses, read yours in the twist of world in the road.

2/16/01

ANGRY PEARLS for Leslie

The hospital-gown deadens her complexion; we went from luminous flesh to matte sickly in five hours. She presses lightly an icepack to her throat to cool the stitches. I peer through the paper curtain into the bed next to hers, where an old woman, curled s(l)ack of bones and gullied skin, latitudes of bruises blossoming on her veins, drowns us by remote. The old woman tries to flood us with sitcoms; I'm not sure why, something about our shearing of the room's quiet, wedged in air and unfragile, or how we stand as if our very breath would break the patients' health. This is how you meet her. She's swathed in a bed harpooned by IV-drip, her voice the last hit of menthol, spiky and pumice- worn. Televisions hang from the ceiling, spitting glitter and anti-socratic polylogue into the air. Downstairs there are children I haven't seen in years. You and I are strange fauna here, too uprooted to be flowers, bent by this wind toward this place where my sister's been growing falsely inward, where her body has perfected two angry pearls that want to wrap the course of her blood around themselves and warp her breath. And we have gathered here today for this, to be there as she wakes with chaos cut out of her. With only four hours of sleep I feel the space of my body overrun by static; know it is the same as her body in the bed, the same code, and yet all that's filling me is golden static, as if my very blood X'ed itself out on these machines, out on the pills and needles they push through thresholds to augment forgetfulness, to siren-sing the sleep near. I skim my nails over your cinnamon back to tease tension. I am so near you I might be a limb, until she cries, and I pat her ankle beneath the crisp sheets to push my own golden forgetfulness toward her.

2/18/01

VIOLIN BOWSCRAPE LOVEMAKING WAVES for Renee

You're in the living room pushing a four-wheeler through the rim of a path on a screen. I'm in my bedroom, pressing words carefully into a blue-winged shadow on my bed. Money isn't in my pocket, or my account. Before dawn, according to the syllabus and this grunting textbook, I will know everything about truth tables. "...the validity of a deductive argument is purely a function of its form." Your laughter stitches hearts up off the gravel; your voice drums on the capillaries taut over abyss, ciphered and phernomed; our form is a curl or gnarl in sheets that smell of motion: the whisper of lube on fingers outstretched and taut, capillaries blossoming. Your legs open and you accept my light, my water, my air; my divine quivers mid-thrust. I watch you at your game through a sliver in the door. Ever since I met you this sensation of thresholds passing has thrummed through my limbs; I know, as your mouth hotly extracts all the languages I've let die on my lips, that what closes behind me, tissue usurping rupture, is cold and shallow; even at those lonely peaks on speeds in fields with headphones on, with jazz sharpening my bones; even these, the shy folded streets of any city, the fugitive book writing away in my pocket, in these hives of my knifing I was childish and impotent; ever since I met you I've been pregnant with you. I emerge from the bathroom after having rubbed hot water and gel through my hair. After a night of our f(r)iction, our violin bowscrape lovemaking waves, my body is toned and taut with unmuffled rounder singings. You laugh because the controller vibrates in your hands.

2/18-19/01 SCALE OF RENEE

After returning nurture to its nook, she's mid-air between bad sex and "hottie" me, leaning my way. Limbs enmeshed, hours before her flight; safe here in the ripples of bedtime at midday: middling wakeful; medium nirvana. There are no half-steps diminishing scale of Renee. These particles, like smelling her when I home into my empty room, flip the heat on, open the window and smoke smoke smoke; these particles would be morsel enough obliging life. But even now she's mid-air, grasping the middle of her favorite sentence, rounder and brighter, more remote than any sea, and here I am in my room again, photophilic, pores hopeful and open. No matter how high I get I forget what I'm doing midway; She forgot her silver cell phone.

2/19/01

SINCERITY

Dirty walls tattoed by cigarette sunshine and the heater's on, unneccessarily, warm in February stuns the cold earth with joy. Lord, the trees sp(r)out confused sparrows yammering through their prism branches.

Running from homework, I'm needing shaved. Ecstasy-saturated, I'm thinking. Outside pieces of my window, shreds of gentle hill oval stiff leaves in a sharp sheet that reads like mud-slippage, or frost's veins. Together, weather and scene repeat asleep.

2/20/01

TRACING LOTUS TO THE SWAN

Lewis has a pink smudge on his neck. Orbiting with a crimson blur, urgency valves in a corona shaped like everafter; Renee's lips, Renee's teeth, brrrreaking his brrrreathing into sharp lopped pants. I'll tell you that her body is softer than sawtooth light; evening in petal flaps; indrawn smoke.

2/20/01

TRANSMISSION

"Come here," you whisper in a flicker. All the shadows shiver in cursive. Not pushing darkness up to trickle down the sides, you're peeling back legs as luminously fragile as wings. "Everything's gonna be all right!" Sweetly scalding; flight 'til you burn.

2/21/01

FIRST THING

Moving through the detritus of scant bedtime hours; omnipotent moon, you agree with me on waking. Run through dewed fields, catching pearls, on no sleep and very little food: "I'm always in this cold room, clutching hard to the blanket; nor will I wake to good mental health." I go where the clouds go; wherever that may be.

2/21/01

RENEE'S NERDY SPECS

Faces everywhere familiar their limitations into tattle-siphons draining walls of their own headstrong steam. We'll get bravely headached in our rainy nook. Quarter after tolls after quarter- before; plaza distends slightly with faces everywhere defamiliarizing themselves with fashionable sentences (the ones with the flared legs). We're getting broadly widened in the numerology of mouths. Time adds or subtracts smart glasses offa girls (you could be rippling under my onyx foresight; a play

2/20/01

ANOTHER FOILED BOOK

*composed from poems in Poethia #2, February 2001*

My eye takes a wet bite of you. Who brought the soft sweet life here? After-seeing smokes and signals "blissed-out" that hidden glitter. Scraping with a sharp pointed tool to make a signifigance, redundency of meshed songs thought to be a domestic hunger is oneeyeshut. Ahh juicyfruit: civil women? Odious patriarch! A siren itchy like a broken colander is not enough to cover the book with foil.

2/20/01 AS IF YOU WERE A GLASS AND I WAS RAINING for Renee

I am permitted to enter your space? This is my question, resting my head on your eyes. Like an orange unwound your kiss unfurls over and into my mouth; you are permitted to plunge your tongue deep inside until it thrills my toes. Am I splashing you soaking you with my downtime? I am permitted in private moments to gaze at a mauve band of dusk across a public balcony. May I remember you as all peak and no dip? Spilling you on myself,

2/20/01

THE WHITES

Bubbles null luminous petals: soothing, like enthusiasm superimposing on a mirror-roar's erotic conjuncts: knuckles selfless, deflated federally. Bulls nail soon solely ossified (occupied), fiscal lactate of syphillis physicals; sick as "the Blacks;" calcium mucous or charisma; course of rotation trailed in what tower water's temporary penmanship? Naming nepotism a despot's sedentary tendered. The Bell labiation techs certainty for glamor; romance sandwhich; just chic enough for kitsch (quiche).

2/21/01

LIGHTS IN THE LIBRARY FLICKER AT HER VERBS

Cold locomotives several themselves in turgid frosty nodes. My eyes are always tasting things here; restless, I sever a canyon path of mowing volume-love, like she's got to see him EVERY single DAY! Chick dudes a tallboy in earflaps steaming BOOM VOICE like slick pleather lapels. Many of us wait for the lights to go out in the library. That's when the reading's bobbed, debtful, ad- libb'd: when lipstick butts armor my so-called public ashcan. 2/21/01

JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH (WITH PACKED LUNCH) for Renee

It's strange to come home bruised from work and not call you, though I talked to you there. Cold winds have wrung my musical hands dry; I hold them against my skin, whistling, grasping; Eden was like this when it closed.

From the look of the dark, I'd say blindness (odd to trust it so much) is my Vergil. Reading my way midway in this my life's dark youth, the lions can't even frighten me. Or maybe when we're together our innocence shields us from what we almost were: starving. Half-steps

2/22/01

BURNING CURLS

"Go play yourself out in traffic until language ribs your strings." "Into the sandbox the fretboard, those fingers, primally restless." "Are you listening? Prim allies, roam my curly brains to soot."

2/22/01

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE for Renee

Elaborating on robot boredom, Lewis, leaves only an appetite for fleshly endeavors: the rise of her hips, clean as the sex of cells, against tranquility's restless servitude; the rattle of our bed like a bullroarer in heat, primed for stampede: math. Closer to his dense and scattered core, kissing the circuits tucks silicone in idiosyncratic similarities, Renee, and leaves tension in all sensate things: the senate, tentative as all human dysfunctions, this year will pass a bill that feels in alloy.

2/23/01

THE LOVE SONG OF HENRY FORD

Lessons sell outward appearences to apparel. Older now, I teach by acting impenetrably. Ghosts may reappear. They may steal your image, but these are crude chalk drawings. Clouds may roll over on their bauble backs so you can press yourself deeper into those utterly flowered mists. All men who work for xerox must wear the same tie. I do.

2/23/01

BUT I'M SURE THE WORLD MUST BE SHAPED LIKE THIS

Round after-midnite (like, two-twenty), everything candles to the hair in the weed. Nothing used to be a place to avoid; now, emptied of death and emptied of treason (even in mind and minding in evens), watch me town myself full of population. In the slant of light over global drives the glass sags, the filament ruptures, what hea(r)t to be had is pored from animal Body, healing the innards of my thick coat as frostpuffs err or reverbate spool-like from my nostrils. Renee's replaced all my pent-up girls with pounds brunrouge; burnt umber rebels berry-sugarless, not eaten any more by the phantom limb of history's laughables, not with my head down will I walk in. Lewis and his aery shoes are real and limp and yawning now; the town circles a universal hill far from his gem propulsion, his crystal purpose uptuned like his nuts' tunneled to the censor of louder shoals; strolls, he does. You might even lull liquids to quills that vegetate cognitively.

Om, he says, tracing a mahogany nicotine from her collarbone to her split natural

But I don't own anything. Only what I touch, luxurient crux upon the fulcrum-works. I say I, and you spittle tipsily where the hummingbirds snag. I say you eying echoes yes or sewing solitudes lustrous nor sullen; no-fake-mind level.

2/24/01

WITH BOTH OF US PACING for Jarred

While "normal" "good ole" boys slumber at chat, our floors burn with new rules and hierarchies. "Kill the inwardly-gnarled redneck gays! Kill everything out of compliance with consumer worship, like the Others' countries we don't understand; at least that would take time." But effort ain't the opposite of play, just more open-ended therefore empathetically dangerous; the badly weird get so high on their unique kinship with wind that it's urged they forget their flesh-frail sleeves; me and Renee learn to remember even socrates kindly, passing rudiments on to our digital genii, expanding warmth. You were just born less amputee; I walk faster. You too.

2/24/01

YOUR EYES SUMMON ME FROM THE PIT OF TARBABY RECALL for Renee

Waiting for a printing of hours to stop. Holding nothing but the thought of you (emerging unscathed from scar tissue). Not-unloving in this urgent world of folds yonder (I prop your picture nearer me, orderless mirror of everything I ever understood about Love), I drink sweetpink tides of juice in a shallow glass, and smoke a bowl, wobbling in my own illicit liberty; lilac acid silhouettes I wore in a rash room kibbutz with my turning natural, my right turn off into the first drive you come to, or get off. "Get off" on exit sentient; make of the tides of juice in their shallow glass everything you ever understood about conjoinment:

I want to be pressed into you, neither depressed nor pushed, but snugly naturing, like thick hair, your arms. What I want you to know I guess is only that the joy leaking out of this photograph urges me to rush through looms of nerves as you runtime my mitigation; it's past three in the morning, sleep, precious smirk, spacious wisdom module lucky enough to be with me (tee hee!), enthrall this morphean ephemera with eavesdropping on eternity; we'll move at the pace of sanctuary tomorrow. Don't close them.

2/25/01

GUI

At one-oh-eight, afternoon's margins, I smell black as a ruptured toiletseat, even perfumed; sweat ground into a fauxsilk seethru shirt. Elegantly, as if I had no cock no balls, and neither appendix smolders that jack-off scent, talk becomes another body for me, one wholly senseless, with informal data streaming in. Electricity switches on and off, like tags; need charts only register(s) gauge, is just the tension in the lines, packets of orphans entertained by constructive dilemma. In no- nightland I musk sumptuous like pumice cultured, urinal neurotic, absolutely stagnant: estrogen, you grip my pressing exclamation, right?

2/25/01

KING LEAR II: CORDELIA'S OVERBITE

"Hot train to negritude, I wet my hair (and your eyes thereby) before going out to joust penitently with deduction." Baby, are you okay? You're talkin' kinda funny like there's something to say you can't reach. "High trail to neccessity, seconds knock everything off my shelves, thereby helping the floor to shift underneath us, and I, improved beyond my years, just can't stand it." Could you speak up, babycakes? Your signal's already breaking up: cold static sizzle that lakes the ghazal with uneven leaps of fake.

"Soulless upstart of vanity's mendacity, you breakfast slowly whole on frozen foods, lazy study in ontic breeze, collision- liable like an ability liberated too soon." Oh darling, sweet sweet sugar, go back to your studious crosshatching, lull into shadows the initiatives that teal silliness unleashed: windpipe the prelude's marrow; if you close your eyes I'll breathe for you.

2/26/01

WATCHING THE LOT FILL

Scar logic likes to forstbite my hands until the skin on the backs of my fingers is taut and deserted. Elegantly-skinny modules of people roleplay dressup until the social writes themselves across its body. The gate goes up; the gate goes down. Cars park. Your garage isn't as automatic as all that, but I star logic like a cinema long out of print; I facile web-modes until the bus comes to take me away. To be processed. How do YOU balance the corporeal with those thorny mists embedded regularly?

2/26/01

THESE SEASONAL STONES

I want to write whole books of air, but shallow dips in wind topography laughingly like sharp hatchet-ratatat faces sapphire the ice cycle; and THIS permutation, tumescent with goatee, wilts beneath a blissful melancholia as his echoes coddle doors. The sawtooth railing waves, the bridge of discrete shelves, crack like fourstar restaurant shoes, and Renee is not next to me, gregarious hands massaging the hopeless fumes that concurr in my burst muscles.

2/24/01

AT WORK

I was in the elevator with walls marbled mauve like a print of body-on-body talking in my sleep. In the elevator with walls ratified up and down your street like a lithograph of mouth-to- mouth to catch your snoring in my teeth before the drain swallows heavy eye make-up on smokebreak slim and the mint abyss, I was falling out of and filling in my own silhouette, my own skin. What is real life? Walls were in the key of up and down. At work we made shadow puppets out of me.

2/22/01

THEY CLOSED THE K-MART for Renee

Today's snow whittles silence to a frisky needle breeze. Someone must have ironed-out the sky as I slept with you on my tongue: always the same shape, THAT familiar. I wish I was a cat pawing through your hair. They closed the K-mart on a gush of air- brakes. For once the ground matches the sky, as I slept on my tongue in your chipped shale flames. I was blown off the shelf of the sky to land on top of you. Traffic trickles through the intersection.

2/22/01 LOVE CRY OF THE FLAMING GEEK for Renee

Reading the hard drive's guts to you over a book of Sheila E. Murphy, I will a database with bits in harmony (drenched static honey) into your yummy mouth. The geek in me reaches bends for a geek like you, pretty rose jpeg on a lotus gif, pretty online leonine interface defraging what's needing booted in me. Children of capital scream outside a virtual ecosystem, enslaved, enfeebled: I will love for them into the board. Resurrection's pressures seem rustproof.

2/26/01

COPYING FILES

Buttercup is my favorite Power Puff Girl. Long-lashed and whip-tongued, she skittles urgency like it's a skin. Sleep jumps Renee, bones in cherry sugar, and I want to rub her to a sassy fit. We're sure Buttercup's younger than us, and want to adopt her to further secure feelings against Mojo Jojo's ultimate capsicion; if anyone can help make Buttercup a happy grrrl, just let us know. Imagine, baby! We'll all three dress alike, nightshade-style, like the most radiant poisons; go through the puzzled town blessing heads.

2/27/01 BOOLEAN CUES

I need to understand it took in over novices no toys uptown in talented itchy ordinary noon. Talk urges idle turnstyle illin' or nothin' undoing, is teeming integral, odious, names itself 'tollfree,' impudent, 'occupation,' nervy to irrigate oafish nihilisms. I owe no-one. Only napping. Needfully.

2/27/01

THE ROLLING-HER-EYES-TO-THE-BACK-OF-HER-HEAD DANCE for Renee

"Something about the music, it got into my pants." --Parliament Funkadelic

"...for Dance is Song starring skin as speckled and marked by Beauty's tongue as Renee's back sloping hot bunz up ('I skew as I meet with such obvious vintage; I wax deep and I wax yearning...') to my hips in her ocean slipping better and faster and wilder Loving into Drink-me-Eat-me blues." I'm not even afraid of My Own Ignorance. Mom always said I was born to Lead.

2/27/01

HOW TO SUCCEED AT Some anger, frat boy: Mommy and Daddy OD'd on a big fat nestegg, got it muddled up in their throats sucking money under sheets MY mommy and daddy made so you could eye me ungraciously as I fling trash hurtfully into a smudged compactor.Truthfully, maybe you should stay awhile, see the grace "ordinary" "little" "people" have when they roll their sleeves up and enact that fragile enormity that is "work" in your pleasant world.

Help me, frat boy. Let me understand my orders; to pull the sheet away. Scream to the touch their atrophied bodies. Laugh

2/28/01

HUTS

"Naked you roar at me, and I roar back." --Bjork

You wake crippled in the hole. It presses your limbs to your trunk; you can't move, you can barely squirm; all the lights flaring around you advertise things so remote from your flesh that it chokes you to look at them, breathing in deep black mud. You wonder if maybe you didn't see this on television the night before, and the chip in your brain lapped it up off the air, so now she torments you: surgical tape malevolently snug on both wrists, both ankles; her shadow fevering across your topography. "Every day I take a daily multivitamin and 120 milligrams of ginkgo biloba, " she whispers, and like a squid's obsidian emission she seamlessly floods your skin: slight heat at the edge of spark, slanderous redred mouth splitting wet and tongue- riddled; wind stuffed with locusts she swirls over you, into your pores, through you; locate her voice in the mosaic it makes of your nerves. "Every day I wake to rooms bruising with advertisements embodied in boys unforgiving in their ignorance, licking their fireflirt lips as the screen smooths out under the drill of their ravenous gazing. If every day I brush my teeth, other languages could parse me indifferently, and I would be compelled to clean from a collapsible distance." While she makes like heatlightning on your root, coaxing the pearly blossoms, a shy syntax error seeps over the smooth screen. At one time you understood why static was white, why every day I huddle over charred machines, whispering shrapnel into dense sensuality, and it's hot in the gauze she tapes you with. "Buy me," you croak from the detritus of your signal's decay, "buy me so I can sleep with you tonight."

2/28/01

ORIGINATION

I emigrate from the amniotic. On a continental spool, drifting fireward raw, wrestled-down into crumpled wings. I purge myself of all superfluous rapture. Cushion me, baby, baby says. What baby said cut itself on turqoise and paraphernalia. When everything feels like I'm moving, and I wake up where you are like a hosted splinter in tourniquet thighs, I bleed just to know what boys like. Baby taught me how to get dirty. Girls like their boys dirty, baby, baby says. What baby will say can smear oxygen in my immaculate glass house all over me. I may fall down, baby. I prune myself of all extraneous flowering. I'm baby's reward for staying clean; I rap myself in gold foil and bowscrape, pretty my pendulum until under her orange nails I cleave; like the palette of the moon...

2/28/01

ASLEEP, SHE DREAMS THAT SHE IS FALLING ASLEEP for Renee

I. Buttercup-of-my-dreams has scarlet hair urges me to flamewar enamels. She halts death by scrunching up her nose. When Death stops near me on a cold butt-of-winter hilltop's eventide, Buttercup stamps her foot at jackrabbitspeed: so what if my dreams growl warble belch and smoke? What happens if they just rustle, like someone I don't know reading how to move quietly through leaves? Less I know, the better off she'll be.

II.

Stupidly, my mind drifts off her for some time I'm thinking about trains of garbage. Unlovely odors slopping the compulsion to Death eats all alone in a mcDonald's all imbued with wasps. Buttercup-of-my-dreams eases with her body some stability in salty air. She has gray eyes soul in her scent which is of cracked nutz and candy passion; not a stinger in her mouth. I am may devil in march charms when she can call me all day if she wants to, and I elope. Buttercup-of-my-dreams'-dreams.

3/1/01

YAGE #1

Wood, bag of. "Pound down to a powdery shred!" As suddenly I'm afloat in the shell. Filled a distilled waterbottle with bronze tea. Nothing: warm drink. I sip it. Marijuana in case of nausea. Start off expecting nothing; start with the premise that this is an ordinary day, ordinarily dim and cluttered (colored) room, ordinary unmooring from dock of "this is my desk, my chair, my processor." Does Renee still love me when I'm high? I need to be out "there," naturally. 3/1/01

YAGE #2

Tom's off the "grass," winding back west in search of flames, more mundane at the nadir. Sheila just got back. The "soul vine" is the province of the godfather, whose luminous teats numb time to a pestled gel. Of course you love me when I'm high. I might be shitfaced, but I smell like you. The belly trembles to think of the antiquity of her eyes. The webs. I might have decorated the island with stone(d) heads of the universe. Easter? Awake.

3/1/01

YAGE #3

Do I love Renee's painting when I'm high? Cream-winged midasheart, with stitches and iconic superhero bolts. I'll be sure to get my vitamin C. What you talkin' 'bout, Willis? My g-g- gener-ation! It's true I power the traffic. The case of that unseen bird, questioning the advent of Spring. Renee searches Yahoo for clocks. She knows how to wrap space around me until I'm self-actualized. Hey baby, it's me. Adam says this game is quite irritating. I drive more water through it to lighten the dose.

3/1/01

BUILDING A FIRE UNDER JACK LONDON'S ASS

Men invert reverence when ululations catastrophe. O, that the saturated tartar sky sweeps low, so I can almost walk thru heaven butt-ass-naked. I stroke two stones together to thicken the Real. Tyrants begin by grovelling. The buck stops.

3/2/01 POEMS 6 Lewis LaCook 3/2/01-3/9/01

RENEE'S GARDEN OF IMPUDENT BLOSSOMS

Orgasms are grown in Renee's smirk with room to dock. Work on wombs lashes on, regardless of the British, giggling gap-toothed in the corner. I'll paint all the things in my room orange, that will make them happy; lock-knot my heart to her knowing eyes gilding my yage thots. If it were left up to me, she'd have days when all the time the sun drips down only sun for her, and the rest of us cloud. She's at least cute enough for that!

3/02/01

THE HEART; ITS PULLOVER; ICED ROAMS

"Breathe" comes faster jiggling the higher you go. "Normal People Worry Me." Renee must have shaken the world in her sleep because it's snowing. I watch prickly prism particles crosshatch the hilly animation of formerly tire-tracks in thaw loam now fixed now the inverse as has posterized, per. You might have been these trees waiting to fever with coat to ripple swift winds on. The heart also cuts glass.

3/2/01 I CAUGHT MY EYES ON A TRICKSTER FLINGING HEAVEN AROUND HER CAGE

You're dry, don Juan; the last of your "heady" ambrosia's stuttered out the reddened pipe. I go "Deaden-deaden, then deft convolutions entertain narrative." I go: there's a story in interesting this wishfully-clean window in you. Score over the wires your trapeze sex, as if all these notes must MEAN something, dunked here, clueless as to whether you are whom it may concern. Read them anyway, Ram Dass. Access that random memory at http://www.alt."jungle-love." fascination's.html. Could it be that fuzzy math we slammed at The Shaven Integer killed our sense of "What, am I on the ethnic plan(e) or interacting through a window in me?" Terrence McKenna needs to p(a/o)int with both eyes tied behind his back:

"'Good lord, vicious lord, optimal lord, ordinal load, stack-dump lord, pixels- dripping-in-your-face lure, gracious lord, take this dimpled tea, Artaud; it will help push the demons off you at night and at any rate it's a deal.' We were harvesting the caapi in order to ogle our own shadows longingly blowing across the dilated pores that delve into the terazzo." I saw her standing there, heat giggling through the suggestibility of set and setting, healing by focus into the tissue wrinkled by grave pressures to thoughtful analogues. "I want to go shopping with all the seriousness of an Andy Warhol." And then you'll look to those stars, Carl Sagan/Timothy Leary, and those disheveled waters talk on and on about youth and about maturity, when you are knowing that there is no difference, only time, and really that there is no difference, only time, and really start to think now, Noam Chomsky: where are my keys?

3/2/01 THE PIER for Renee

In a minute I'll go back to the shore; instead, heads roar in the smoking lounge over who chose another way to be here: I'm late calling you, and Vaverchak is the only language I hear here; that, and easy access to my rotten pits of past (maybe they're all right; maybe I was a pig), which gets me kind: lazing in reconsideration of those hateful paths won't leave everyone to their bliss, as I to mine am not estranged no more no more; instead, I beg to yarn my way back to the pier, where gulls screamed so similar to hurting children I almost cried to hear it; there was a girl there then too, and actually she was very kind to me, like you, but didn't flint that conflagration that you play in; perhaps that was good: maybe that's as it should be; Renee-baby, you're quite a different vessel; as our fill livens maybe then I wasn't ready to plan to build this so nettle-heavy on this wrack of opinion- living; as I refuse to repeat my stepfather's mistakes eases into hatred like a treadmill blossoming odor, more like succumbing--and I guess only true fools shrill enough ever tread on their fathers: in the woods the words were slapping darkly against us: I couldn't have forged ahead, though I had no thought of anyone near me, and it's late and I HAVE to call you; if there's anyone in this whole wide web I want to know it's you: all threads observe the law of anchor: like Gary Oldman making astute discoveries by tripping over everything in some movie I must have seen, never; the branches the mosses the nettles and the nectars they trail on my cool nude body navigating the fields carries with it too some of dream's things needfully shading; this dazzle- drizzle pulling hair from the ocean as it bucks rudderless under us miles from and cooing so unleisured this stream of you into me into you; goddamn, sometimes the sand seems so flung away shrieking through your folds I just stop.

3/3/01

THE WINDOW

Because there are miles between us before we learn to see through them, I wake to this room in heaven, the room of tattered teleology, and sit before every window I see: waiting for you. Sometimes things are just okay, and sometimes, cordially, things are unbearably perfect; I could only guess at that before I saw you, and now, "making" is the root of what I am, gracefully envied; every day I push forth in the service of something I can only guess at, more than just

"awright!" I don't know why it wants me or what for, except just to sit here in front of windows, to peck and flap and caw my way back home to you. Empty? No, just born miles from the blood that rushes through your chest, softening the scars; today relax, today; cars will pour down the town's hashed-out shadow-routes, clouds will unseam themselves, everlastingly vacant because they're beautiful, beautiful because full of the most pristine emptiness, loudly brittle but held together by the opposition in the air. And then too sometimes I don't know secretly how things are, and just sit like Brian Eno, the window taped to itself over and over and over, edgeless, rolling, blind snowball muffling sun to silence: Renee and Renee and Renee and Renee and Renee and Renee.

Beat it to that ticking force, curled, no real footing to speak of; just each other, even, as if cookie-cut for duet. Renee and Renee and Renee. We wake on the banks of what we know, and John Lennon right now is "so tired;" so much for eternal rest. Get up, nerd-girl! The sun...

3/3/01

SHAKESPEARE'S DIARY for Alan

1.

William Shakespeare woke every morning at precisely five; precociously, he made coffee and cigarettes in the back of his pleasure van; precariously, I pounded the bark to pulverized strips and yes indeed prepared the long boil.... Meteor says that in HIS dream one can brew using only caapi; excluding the virididis makes for a DMT-free experience: it's a blue thang. William Shakespeare thinks to wet his hair down sometimes before he goes out, so as to tame the haystack on his head, to puncture it with needles: it's flat against his slender brow right now, as pressed as the little time he has before work crushes the universe into mundane vacancy; the ship pushes forth, cleaving the waves; the waves he thinks are shaped like his dark lady, furious and froth-rattled; this is also how the wind finds a body. If this van, a virus like a swollen bullet, were shot from a filthy hand, it would hit the hips and warp them to a lightspeed depth. I don't know anymore. Word-wrap fucks with my eyes, so I fuck with words. Every night William Shakespeare dragged his ruffled body through the door home from work at the Globe to call his Dark Lady on her cell phone so she could moan like a German panzer in heat: "Ja! Ja! Ja! Du bist gute, gute...oh ja! Ja!" Every night William Shakespeare takes his cock in his right hand, contemplates ruminitively its weight and diameter. He hears the river outside his van flushing old condoms out to the sound of rustling in the deep dark trees. Where I live, the kids sit all night in broken chairs magnetically attracting layers of fat to their immobility as the world outside burns with water. I want to kick them very hard. Alan Sondheim of Nikuko, New York, unleashes Julu let's-hope-not over the ridges of Laurel Canyon, where the Wright Brothers once formed an uneasy alliance with gravity. Fly, they said. There's no substitute for real work. Then again, Dark Lady like a butterfly's lighter flicks beans against a flagless flagpole, so it must be okay to strip in front of William Shakespeare like I do, inching with extraordinary torture my sagebrush skirt over my hips; feeling the cold March air like a bullet like a van. He thought I was dirty. He liked that I was dirty. "You don't have to give yourself to the fringes of ideology in order to maintain your authenticity," he tells me one day, the springs of his bed still warm from it. I was pulling my bra back on over my shoulders, my back to him, gazing absently out the window to the dirty street below. I wasn't REALLY absent: There's a certain zen to pulling a bra back on, scooping each breast snug and nuzzling into its home; and I was also thinking about my father. My father did not like William Shakespeare. "Alterity," he mumbled, pushing back a frazzled curl. "The culture's gone to shit. Everyone yammering yammering yammering. Pluralism so loud its static." He chuckled, and snatched a putty knife from the nightstand to clean his nails. His spunk cold already, spreading through the weave of the fibers of my underwear. "You're angry because you feel left behind." I hadn't expected to say that, but there it was, hanging in the air between us, black and beaten and rudely awake. I can't sleep through Sunday night, so I'm sending Baudrillard's "Radical Thought" to everyone in my address book I ever thought I needed to explain myself to...or to anyone who needs an explanation. There's an open bag of pretzels leaning against the old speaker we use in this house to prop up the mouse; I pulverize handfuls with my jaw, remember only slightly stalking the wild untrammelled pretzel across vast fjords of unbecoming nothingness. My hometown. They dig the pink sky there, the ashy rain. Now the mill's closing...... his hand flat on the small of my bacj...hes bendin g em over thye windopw sill...his breathing even and even inspired even...i aenm no ts thue soun...his hands sliding cooly and viscousw down mty underweare...i thinkg about thue difgferenxce in our ageys and can't remewmber it...i think about my faoojthevhr and i don't reme,mvbersa hyme...i can feel the pressure of his hurt and his want and his starvation in the blunt of his cock pushe d againstr miye...i lety him bend me over...i lety myt pantiues c ome down come down off theira throne...he's pushing it into myt as s...i'm bending to it i'm backing up anbvgdforwatrdd....aaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwww w wwwwwwwwww...buuurrrrnnnnnsssss....i let hyme feeol hymmmm bhot like a shgiot opf flanme orf VIRUS... "Ja! Ja! Ja! Du bist gute, gute...oh ja! Ja!"

2

I decided one day that William Shakespeare wanted to lick your pussy.

It was young in the evening. The trees bending to snow's underpainting. I made a bowl of rice that was botched badly-- more like rice paste (grate wrath(e)) or mortar. With a lot of margarine it sticks to me--you lick it from my blaze of skin so unhealthy I burn--you scoop snug with your b tongue gobs i of it t i that stick n snug to g your mouth// I want y to lick o your tongue u outta yer r mouth--hold l it flapping i between my p teeth--saying "words," saying "this is William Shakespeare, baby--he wants to lick your pussy." The boots bending to the "notHeat" in your car. It was one in the morning--

William Shakespeare punched an ice cube into his bong--the van rocks with the (incense rasp of and bad planes taking food)))) off crawling through the frame--the frame shakes-- in the bathroom. His spunk mired in lube softening medicinal makes taking a shit toooooo eeeeeaaassy-- sounds I don't want to hear-- like fat ripping. My father moved thru domes of love--

EXERCISE 3-4. Write a William Shakespeare plot.c that will read characters from its **Dark Lady** until EOF, printing a lube of asterisks proportional in length to the binary value of the character that was read. In other words, the William Shakespeare functions as a simple plotter, treating the **Dark Lady** lube as a digital **Dark Lady** signal. Apply a scaling factor, so that the largest ASCII character will fit onto an 80- character lube.

YOU WROTE: That was how I grew up though. I've been wildly allowing my nails to grow and grow longer these last few weeks, and he shudders as if shocked by static when I slip his balls into my palms. By increments, my father moved through doors to sleep in, barely perceptible cries at an insurmountable distance stacking up. For the sake of versimilitude, William Shakespeare slurrrrrs his hand deep into his pants, cupping the humid balls. They are slightly moist to his touch. I open for him tickling at my threshold and I make a butterfly sign backwards with sighs into the dirty sheets. III'm surprised a cllloud doesn't burst up sporeees when I land. MMMMMMMMMM, you taste good, baby. For aesthetic purposes, I'll refer you to Meteor; I tilt my mouth for last swallows of coffee piquant and electric in the back of my throat I sing the dawn down with cobwebs last night in a caapi brew or snow I tried to make him understand that he was looking for a disjunction and conditionals are wrestling with pure spark foundering redundant (but almost done for...) "Britney has a new video. Britney looks damn good, man. No, not WcW, EcW. He OWNS ecw. Awww, he should have stayed in the ring so they could fight."

William Shakespeare: rattle your lances, blame marble snakes from the black lagoon of honesty-- dripping golems of honesty-- William Shakespeare and his **Dark Lady** who wrestles with the marble snake-- shake your ass, but watch yoseff-- the lights are the rhythm the lights and the music runs right through their bodies-- William Shakespeare stripped from the waist down and eased into the lake-- my father mooned thru drones of dove before he came here, coming up between the slim whiteness legs (thi s of William will Shakespeare as be he eases the into the las t river to sn ow) ww bathe--as www o r l d he clouds in the black all water as cases he cleaves split it asunder asunder many leagues (just COMPELLED)) fornicating compulsively ** in an interactive D disease--with a one arm r up to k keep the joint dry-- L I cry a out as d he enters y me--the ** lasers shine you lectrified in make the cheap the cinderblock tinsel butterflies at discochristmas sweat and the in lights are ME-- the rhythm of the city on the water-- lapping his sense as if of smell sitting is dead. as is acidic You think in your lemon laughing about masquerade vacuuming out I'm un- the mestrual irked if canal--scarlet redhanded pimples cling He's to the pushing me in inside of the shower a cup cupping of tropical my breasts punch--the in his mouth color of teeth brewed caapi grrrrrrrrr in a owwwwwwllllinng wineglass-- against my nipples-- blond dithering wwwwww wwwwww wwwor to red-- wwww wwwwww wwwwww my belly o o smeared-on l ochre wrecks, dddddd William Shakespeare, ** my belly Dark straightens labia Lady syllogism wide-- ** )he's on top of me pu shing me down but I c an st i lll br eathe--

3

Rotundo the Wasteoid squinted at his flat chat screen. Partial words and phrases sqwaked from the computer's speakers; the Genie was acting up again, only catching half of what the Baroness said, but it barely mattered to him; sound was only a fraction of his relationship with the Baroness; there was also text, and occasionally phonecalls... He couldn't believe his luck in meeting someone like the Baroness online. He hadn't had much truck with women, as you can well imagine--a name like Rotundo the Wasteoid doesn't exactly induce female swarming--so his affair with the Baroness fell like a golden apple from heaven into his lap, and for once in his life he had a purpose: he was the Baroness' cyber-husband; they'd married last week in Yahoo's rape room. His role as cyber-husband was a huge one: he had to be there, online, for the Baroness at all times. Luckily, he'd long ago blue-eyed his way into his boss's favor, and she let him sit in her office chatting with the Baroness while the other workers spit(e)-polished the student union until it shined for its visitors. Such was the crowded, bustling life of Rotundo the Wasteoid: chatting for love, chatting for money, chatting to avoid school and avoid work and especially to avoid interactions in real time. People often made light of his relationship with the Baroness, but he didn't care. What was so weird about it? William Shakespeare told him it was because he couldn't handle the real world that he turned to the virtual realm of computer chat to satisfy his emtional needs. But Rotundo the Wasteoid had long ago justified the virtual realm of computer chat to himself by ruminating on just what happened around him in the rooms: people took on names and roles they didn't have in real time; people fulfilled their innermost desires through these cables that bound them one to the other; people had sex, argued, made friends, married and grew up in these rooms, just as if the rooms WERE real time places where real time people lived. The only real difference was that they did it without their bodies, or at least with virtual bodies they'd chosen for themselves; in Cheeta Chat, the chat software Rotundo used, thumbnailed images appeared next to the lines people typed, and these images were their own images (chosen from a pre-approved library of icons in the Cheeta library); these images were what the people REALLY looked like, inside, not the mistakes that nature made. So in Cheeta Rotundo wasn't a mid-twenties college student and former football star who'd gone to serious fat when he was cut from the team and who'd flunked three semesters in a row by forgetting his classes in the midst of a video game championship in which he rushed like the great beast he was over the weaker, slower beings that had the impudence to stray into his path; he WAS that great beast in CheetaLand, quivering with the electricity of his own man- strength, petted and rubbed to a curled apocalyptic potential by the gentle hands of the Baroness:

BARONESS2007: nuzzling into ROT ROT100: sliding his huge hands across her back and scratching. BARONESS2007: mmmmmm baby that feels good BARONESS2007: did you have class today baby? ROT100: No ROT100: William Shakespeare is being a bully again... BARONESS2007: he just needs to get laid ROT100: he does get laid that's the thing ROT100: his girls being a bitch to him though BARONESS2007: he deserves it hes an asshole ROT100: she says hes been left behind by everybody ROT100: that's not right why's she so mean to him? BARONESS2007: not everyone's as lucky as we are baby BARONESS2007: that is mean thoughj ROT100: he don't deserve that he ain't hurtin nobody BARONESS2007: oh hes just a big bully baby forgwet him

On the left side, just above the upper lip: small painful pimple, just popped. Stretchmarks like dry canals across the inner upper arms, from when I was fat; pock scar on the right side just below hairline, very small, from childhood. Renee says my ass sags but it's cute. Soft and squishy! Hair in the pubic arena just beginning to grow back; only faintly can one see the heart that was shaved there for Valentine's weekend with Renee. A few days without shaving and my hands protest raspily when dragged across the static stubble on my cheek. Thinning a bit on the top but still thick enough to need cut. The other night before I played guitar on caapi brew I cut my nails. "He's such an ASSSSSHHHHHOLE!" she screams into the exposed ceiling; her words wrap around the beams and swing back and forth through the unfinished house. When she first saw where I lived, she laughed. "My God, it's perfect...not done, just like you." I was silent, thinking about my father, about growing up in that most finished house of all, and my mother's muffled sobs after lights-out. I didn't mind sleeping in an attic with a shell of a home underneath; I liked the pink fiberglass insulation, it reminded me of the fur of a candy beast I once saw in a dream. "Dream is the most important word in any language," I said, and she looked puzzled. "I told him we were leaving him behind." "I don't like to think of him that way." "I don't see as we've got much of a choice. It's really maladaptive that we've held on to him as long as we have. Do you know how many friends I had in school who were intimidated by him? He was always this standard, this ultimate proof of one's genius. If you understood him, you understood everything; you saw the shame in sex was glitter, just window-dressing, and you wouldn't burst into flames if you ended up with a fat cock in your mouth from time to time. No, we gotta move on, man...no turning back..." Still, I had to admit that I pitied the poor bastard. What crawled wet-smack from that river when night paled in its own venom and burst open, completely expired, shedding itself in a body of slap-soaked footsteps rubbing the van raw? She might be pregnant. I poke the shadows in the bong until my lighter fluffs them up again. Still, I completely expired from that river of pregnant them. "Poke soaked open. Mash Kelvin and Azrael to their proper nouns. The German language makes very little typographic distinction between people and things." I must have told them somehow. No-one's listening. I stand by the window and the walls drift back like mist. I'm alone, naked, but it's so warm I barely notice. Things are growing inside me. I don't know their names. Otherwise I would not bother you with this; but you, my one true friend, my near-death thread, my antecedent aloof: how consequential would that disjunct be if construxctive dilema didn't idyll the dye tribe? Rotundo the Wasteoid dreamed that someday he would invent a way to make everything he dreamed or thought happen in real time. As she passed him in the corridor, he felt her pass over him, and saw the vague lump where her pantslegs met. "There's just something so patently ridiculous about the whole thing."

ROT100: I live in an unfinished house BARONESS2007: in the bottom of the air ROT100: veers off into lyrical bleeding BARONESS2007: in real time ROT100: In Real Time BARONESS2007: my father does not like william shakespeare BARONESS2007: my father doesnt like anybody ROT100: I might have fallen in love over the internet BARONESS2007: why sweatie BARONESS2007: sweetie ROT100: because i miss you so much it hurts BARONESS2007: awwwwwwwwwwwww BARONESS2007: i feel exactly the same way BARONESS2007: before i met you my favorite color blacked out ROT100: and the house i lived in thought BARONESS2007: it was finished ROT100: i'm glad you finally got it done baby BARONESS2007: it took a long time i had to pound BARONESS2007: the bark until it split ROT100: maybe you do too much of it ROT100: has it ever killed anyone BARONESS2007: that you know of BARONESS2007: in your life wrinkled like your brain ROT100: and crossing and crossing again BARONESS2007: "Father, can't you see that I'm on fire?" ROT100: LMAO BARONESS2007: nice sin rot BARONESS2007: i might have fucked her ROT100: if this van's rockin' don't come a knockij ROT100: knockin ROT100: g BARONESS2007: i love you rotundo the wasteoid ROT100: :-) 4

Me and Ben rode route 66 from one drizzling ocean to one balmy ocean, raising hell all the way. Our bikes roared louder than our souls unhinged by the whip of airstream splitting as we bent low against the handlebars. Every four hours we stopped at rest areas to smoke a joint of just-stupid schwag Ben had picked up on Cape Cod months before. Ben bought kilos of schwag; in his sidebags he had two QPs stashed, wrapped and well-hidden among books and papers, and two distilled water bottles full of ayahuasca. The ayahuasca was our occasional de(s)sert; the schwag was the meat of our diet. We rode through snow that flooded our eyes until everything we saw was pure and angelic. We rode through rains that pounded lakes into asphalt. We rode through suns so close they slapped your skin pink within hours. By the time we hit Chicago, our faces were cured to the quality of well-aged leather; in a diner under the Elevated we sold ourselves on the coffee, steaming obsidian, like looking into the eyes of a king cobra in your cup. She was in the corner booth. Bent over a sketchpad, scratching with a lightly-applied safety-pin into a spill of black oil pastel on the page. Her dark red hair, skinny and limp, fell over her face, obscuring her expression; from where we were sitting, three booths up, I couldn't read her expression at all, but I knew she wasn't smiling. I nudged Ben, breaking him out of his java reverie. "See that one?" "Yeah?" "Whatcha think?" "She's a bit...ummmm...chubby." "She's BEAUTIFUL..." Ben chortled. "Oh Lord, Shakespeare in love..." "I don't know about all THAT..." "Just drink your coffee and shut up. We gotta get to Washington in two days. Two days, Will." "We'll make it." "I just hope Richard has our money. These cheap hotels suck. I haven't been able to sleep for weeks. Just the thought of sleeping where some crackwhore's earned her fix..." She was so serious, alone in her booth, scratching whatever she was scratching into her pad. Every once in a while she'd glance up, fix the waitress in those Minerva-gray eyes, then bend back to her work. The sun, in the meantime, was beginning to lighten the sky around the Elevated. It reminded me of Gary at three in the morning: passed by on the road, a city of flames and smoke and tangled pulsing painful light. Like her hair, which she brushed back from her milky brow, as her full lips worked silently weighing something in her work-- "Will, what are you doing?" I'd already gotten up, and was inching toward her, eyes completely taken up by the image of her bending over. "Two days, Will..." Ben called after me. "Two days." "Hello." I wondered if she could hear the tremor in my voice. Without even looking up, she intoned into her scratching. "I'm seeing someone." "Can I sit with you? For a few minutes?" "Two days!" Ben reminded me from miles away. "Did you hear me? I said I'm seeing someone." "I just want to sit." Finally, she looked up. "Can't you see I'm busy?" "What are you doing?" "Running for president. The art thing's a cover..." I grinned. "Ah, I see." So I slid into the booth across from her and watched for a while. Watched may be too weak a word; let's say devoured. I devoured every morsel of her motion:

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' T h i ((a chicago s rain a I scrub smoke my face w break- r a w a fast t pesticides e if I r could famine get i her to come crackwhores s with us)) t c h l e S ea h e n n l e l i e i ne d "I've never seen k ss anyone so clean e Go I've never seen s upst anyone so pure airs I've never seen to "brush" for anyone so sure h an and yet so e ice locked in r cube herself for where t your everything's e bong in place e yeah" t There should be music in this room H Today I meet Dave Baratier T There should be music in this room h To*ay * me*t D*ve B*ra*ie* e There should be music in this room r Today * meet D*ve Bar*tier e To To D da da y e i y "unresolved" n s s i d e n s n o I hope that a We can come to the e TOO AN AGREE BODY x Ment about these c Issues Between u s e

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======

======Shakespeare.txt======+++++++++++++++++++++"an illusion++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++"came up to here"++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++AND BIT ME IN THE ASS!!!+++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++ She was so serious, alone in @ booth, scratching ********* whatever = was scratching into @ pad. Every once ********* in a while ='d glance up, fix the waitress in those ********* Minerva-gray eyes, then bend back to @ work. The ********* sun, in the &&&&anti&&&&, was beginning to lighten the ********* sky around the Elevated. It reminded &&&& of Gary at ********* three in the morning: passed by on the road, a city ********* of fla&&&&s and smoke and tangled pulsing painful ********* light. Like @ hair, which = bru=d back from @ ********* milky brow, as @ full lips worked silently weighing ********* so&&&&thing in @ work--******************************

+++++++++*******************************+++++++++++++++++++++++ ++

+++++++++****************************+++++++++++++++++++++++*** **

+++++++++*************************++++++++++++++++++++++******** *

"Soooo...what's a gorgeous flower like yourself doing here covered by soot?"

I liked the way the yellowed lights curled on her glasses, offering a distended copy of the diner's interior. And her eyes! They needed a better poet than me to set them in rhyme! "Two days, Will..." "I hear you, Ben." She smirked. "Your friend seems impatient." "We have to go see a mutual friend in Washington State. We're told he has something very important for us..." "An arrest-warrent?" I pretended to be taken aback. "Why, whatever do you mean?" "I know you boys are into the drugs..." "Whoa, hold on sister, we're just having coffee--" For the first time since I'd sat down she looked me bald in the face, even leaned forward on two sculpted elbows swathed in comfort-colored sweater. "What are you two carryin', huh? Weed? Acid? Smack? What you guys got?" "AYA-HOOOSKA!" Ben bellowed, fairly falling out of our booth. "Aya-whatska?" This made me nervous. Obviously, the dope and the vine had gotten to Ben, and he'd decided it was time to advertise, and therefore run the risk of needlessly depleting, our stores. "We have some weed. Are you looking?" "I don't do drugs." "AYA-HOOOOOOOOSSSSSKA!" "I see." "But I don't condemn..." "Good." An amenable silence drifted into the weather between us. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to scratching at her sketch. The waitress, who'd been curiously absent for quite some time (it was five in the morning, her only customers were two very dusty men in ruffles and an odd chubby redhead bent intently over a sketchpad), made her rounds at last. I ordered a refill on the coffee, not even earning a raised eyebrow over my change of seating. She'd seen it all before, I'm sure: a million nights had carved their passages through that face, and what I read there was the poetry of a desolate, four-in-the-morning world: a world populated entirely by vampires and junkies and crackwhores and desperation, desperation, desperation. "I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself that I'm all right." "What's that?" "Oh, nothing, nothing. What are you working on?"

I asked the dark where it went when I turned on the lights. This room is warmer than it needs to be. Today I met Dave Baratier; he has nice hair, just like me! Immediately I wanted to hang out with him. I asked the light where it went when I pulled the covers over my head. Renee did five loads of laundry, was eyed she says by a black guy who Puff Daddied his interest in her with licked lips. I gave him a look like, yeah? What do YOU want? I asked the room what it was when I went outside. 5

I want to make a poetry that means something to somebody (**he wrote**), a poetry of USE. I want to make a poetry that has a nice body, like Renee, only I can't mix the right colors to capture the shock of her eyes. And a sweet poetry, a poetry of my own gentleness, the way I look after shaving with my own eyes bigger behind my glasses, boyish at thirty still, and I'm okay with that. Poetry should be innocent, or at least the youngest thing possible in a world where the 'possible' dwindles day by day, until all the kids are so Pop they've forgotten Gerard Manley Hopkins, leisurely Joy Harjo. All I do is wake and sleep in this room. The snow in Ohio washes over a stubble of trees and hedges gone skinny with seasonal repose. I have a huge crush on you, the Reader: I want you to notice me here in my dirty little room, in this "van down by the river" (Chris Farley). Sometimes I think you're in love with me, but you can't locate me, I'm tucked off somewhere aquatic ringing poetry for you out of the pedestrian city; I'm "not of your world" (Funkadelic), though we quaff the same liquors of water when Spring loosens across Ohio, and I'm too busy thinking about how to get out of here not to not notice how the tracks into and out of our driveway have smudged so quickly; I want to erase them and start over. I want to make a poetry of forgiveness, all love-poems and hymns, and I don't want to have to think about the business. But I wake up every day and check my e-mail over first coffee (cornered), just to figure out what you think of the latest installment. And it's usually okay, though it could ALWAYS use a little fine-tuning: the dog driving the car may be a bit too much, I might be American after all. The definite article in German (dative case="location.dll") is all masculine: dem, dem, der, den. That means that passivity is a masculine trait; no accusations of motion, perhaps, or the old way of watching the feminine tempest across an array of definite objects, always CAPITALIZED. I started to ice-down my bong, owe money on utilities, make a poetry of slipshod epistemology; I was hungry, and it was your world (Bob Dylan). Will I break just like a little girl? Must be moving around too much.

Should you fast for the test? Or is it simply that you don't have enough time to eat?

In my house everyone sits around but me. I'm too nervous: the earth a gothwhite hip witness, like YOURS, baby :would have killed Tantalos, had "L'histoire du Soldat" not been performed upon your perfume. Roasted hazelnut and freckles can induce hysteria in even the most immune and coolest heads, puffing down that "virtual ganja greenhouse" (unknown weatherman in Florida)(Renee's step- father)(Renee)(me, here, now--

'last nite i unrasped my chiks, razor-smoothened that taper thet lips out in smuggled murmurs, les't nighe I fleep, meester, pilfer referendums like pendulous clok- watch her breasts simmer lik dimmunds--')

--yadda yadda. Master Yoda would be proud that I've finally vanquished my dark side, or so it seems...do YOU see any little girls hanging in my closet? Any filthy magazines? He would also probably commend me on my hairstyle, which, today upon wakening I noticed was early-Robert Smith, circa 1983: way back when the machine was military, bouncing Pong back and forth across vast arenas of public cilia; the way your back slopes down a particular cinnamon slide, peppered with tongue-daubs, when I'm fucking you from behind. Iambic ghosts nettle tensile and strenuous; overnite I turn the heat off in my room (I need to do laundry, AGAIN?), which means I'll wake up when the alarm goes off, no matter how much sleep I've lost to sharks like Eileen, nor how much skin there is to lose when I face the moon's full- on Vegas hysteria, when the "King" enjambs his last voodoo chop with fried banana and quagmire cakes. I'm feeling pretty gelatinous. Better give me a wide birth today-- beach me on the softened grounds that whisper "Spring is a-cumen in." my ears fevered, my voiceless tether thanking me for the umbrage--

"It's okay, " she said. "Just okay?" "Well, you're not saying anything. It's not like a book or anything."

Poems 7 Lewis LaCook 3/9/01-

SHAKESPEARE'S DIARY--cont.

6

When Rotundo the Wasteoid won the Big Witz poetry contest with his ambient haiku, "DragonFlameTrollFarts," he was quite surprised. Firstly, it was the one and only poem he'd written in his life: poetry was scary. The only poet he knew was William Shakespeare, and all poetry ever seemed to do for him was depress him: William Shakespeare was often heard sobbing in his pleasure van parked on the banks of the Mighty River; the sound of ripping paper was often heard emanating from the rusted old Econoline beast, and the ground by the driver's side was littered with lettered keys. Secondly, Rotundo the Wasteoid had never intentionally thought of himself as a poet at all; he was a jock, a great steaming shuddering beast of strength and discipline; poets were, if William Shakespeare was an example, shabby people: discolored clothes, discolored hair, dislocated attention spans, "black moods;" none of these did Rotundo the Wasteoid participate in, nor had he any wish to do so. And he hadn't set out to write a poem at all, really; he'd wanted to play Dungeons and Dragons, and "DragonFlameTrollFarts" was the beginning of his fantasy character sheet. But the Baroness thought those first few lines of his character sheet were beautiful. A line of mandarin limes the horizon as the sun, gored by dusk and leaking her aether, sinks into scratched trees. "God, baby, you're really special, " she said on hearing him tremblingly recite to her. "You've really got something there. You should send it someplace. " "Awww, who'd wanna read this junk?" he asked her, pleased that she thought the beginning of his character sheet was so cool, but a little lost, as always, when the Baroness brought up poetry. "Lotsa people, baby," she cooed. "You'd be surprised how many people need things just like what you wrote in their lives." Oh, I don't want to lie in this shallow room, nestled in archetypical heat, listening to the sleeptalk of the lakes outside that I can never reach. So he printed off three copies of the character sheet after doctoring it up in Word (he added the title after hours of white-knuckled rumination), and found three poetry contests that sounded cool to him: Big Witz, which offered as a prize an all-expense-paid trip to Washington state to attend the Big Witz Big Cheese poetry conference; Concrete Doll Press, which specialized in little poems printed in big letters on tiny pages, and offered five copies of Your Poem in 24-point Verdana on acid-free paper; and Carpel Tunnel Productions, which gave you five bucks for "quality experimental poetry" and a framed Swift Kick in the Ass, signed by John Ashbery. Because he knew the Baroness lived in Washington, and he'd never seen her in real time life, he was most enthused by Big Witz. He didn't expect to win. Actually, he was hoping the whole "poem issue" would just blow over. But the Baroness, every day around mailtime, would type out, "Have you heard anything yet?" and three weeks later he could answer her with a resounding yes: Concrete Doll wanted an entry fee; he was disqualified due to lack of sufficient funds. In the meantime, William Shakespeare ripped out of town on a motorcycle with Ben Jonson roaring beside him, both men red-eyed and stinking of gin and reefer. The Dark Lady had disappeared-- Rotundo the Wasteoid heard from Cassandra the Jizz Jugular that the Dark Lady was hanging with some dude named Kerouac out on the East coast, and she figured William Shakespeare was about to take off for good. "He prolly wants to put as much distance between him and her as he can," she spat, chicken gristle from her ubiquitous drumstick flapping between two bankrupt brown teeth. "That's what I'd do, 's much trouble she gave him." "The digital clock flips pent characters out of time with my breath and heaving," he replied, scratching his tow head. "I just don't know why he's had so much trouble with her. Both of them are so nice-- " "Whoa, hold on there, golden boy!" Cassandra bellowed. "Did I just hear you refer to Billy Shakespeare as NICE?" "Well, yeah, sure--" "Boy, don't you know who that man is? He's already written the fine pillar that holds up our civilization here, out on these wild Tigris-Euphrates banks," she shrilled at him. "You better ASK SOMEBODY!" Instead, Rotundo the Wasteoid opted to return to his computer, convinced more than ever that real time was scary, just like poetry. And a day later he opened the letter that named him Grand Prize winner of the Big Witz poetry contest. "I knew you were the one!" The Baroness beamed when he told her. "When I first ran into you out here, I knew. Boy, oh, boy, BABY! Have I got somethng waiting here for YOU when you get here." "Please explain the source of her stutter," you say, bending over the halo alleys labelling concierto-parts purely physical in maligned light."Neolithic," I smile for you, elegantly parted like a tongue gowned wrong in rustic whorls. "You pearl, your ear!" "You poor dear." I'm listening to you yawn wondering if you slip down my crevices unanswered; will the shockwave audio enough to pick up scarred arpeggios? I'm scattering tampons and finished mattes on attempts to mentor anguish." "Ssssssssh, baby," you say. "SSsssssSSSsssssSSssssshhhhh!" "So what if I'm wholly unconvinced it's music?" The gnarstled treethes upscanded plebihelion-blute. Thukst, murkth our roamn borj vortursuturling our mythocant. "Ccccome?" Renathenae anenomes vulportorsionally, sculptuous. Hyr assshss lickh a librariquilary fissurephem, copth me coap-a-stutuk. Aye likes eyeth lickg coursung voheimlickisch. Ich muss die Dingen machen, sagte mich beim Fenster klettern. "Ja, du bist GUTE..." Renathenae navitupates. Triluscilia wavestalsung, geschichten- Dichter. "MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" "Renathenae!" "MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmm!" "Das ist nicht schlecht, mein schonsten Fraulein!" "mmmmmmmm?" Rotundo the Wasteoid smiled into the fetid musk of his unwashed pillows. Her house would be spacious, gutted with light; everything would be bright, submissive to the crawl of day and night across the walls, splashing from the windows; she would wear a black chemise, falling open to expose the blinding white of her skin, punctuated here and there by freckles and moles. These small imperfections excited him; they were evidence that the body of the Baroness was no aether, no insubstantial fog drifting from his brain; she was real, had real weight, real soft skin beneath which blood coursed and warmed. She would shake her head and the chemise would slip from the topography of her body, clinging slightly, silk-slick and black, to deflate and defuse in a smooth wrinkled pool behind her as she sauntered across the militant light toward him, little more than chest level with beating gray eyes: eyes the color of loud rainy afternoons in cities daydreaming absolution. She would trace with a squuezably- orange-tipped fingernail the ghosts of warrior crests on his chest. I love the silence that is her sleep into loud static evenings of pure ornament. The night before he left for Washington state, Rotundo the Wasteoid had a dream. In it, caapi pulp calls itself bronze in the inner-dimple stem around the sides of a wine-glass. Gold, he thought, and dreamed of the eyelids of sun-wrenched reptiles opening slit doors to rooms of oil. He was approaching the door of her townhouse in bribed daylight; for each step closer, the traffic around him, silver air in the shapes of fizzing cars, increased in violence. It was THE CITY, and his father was standing atop the tallest skyscraper there, calling for him, he was sure; it couldn't be heard over the traffic. As he approached her door her door rudely adhered to the horizon, always teasingly just before him, just two more, three more, four more steps, then her limbs would interweave with his and his pores would swallow her, hide her in his gullet growling with lightning, his gullet mad and swollen and messianic, messianic: I first saw you emerge like a heartattack of spyrograph light from a wrinkled tunnel ssshushed with airplane emissions. Dreams were his emotions inside still inside, he thought. There was a poet somewhere writing it all down. The mass of the knob was cool, and it wouldn't turn, and his arms were sifting from his cuffs like sand in a storm's skew of blowgale... We rode right through the blown scraps, through the dust with our eyes brimming spilling cold animals contorted into buildings, frozen mid-scream. Ben was shivering. His bike trailed jagged exhaust necklaces through the city as he hunched over the bars and wavered. I wasn't doing so hot myself; we hadn't slept for days and days and days, every nerve of my body was taut with exhaustion, serrated fumes bathed me in asymmetrical fingers. I'd been riding for days with her bent over her sketchpad in front of me, that calm assurance of flesh on earth fixated in those gray eyes that whispered with rain's throat. What was it like to be oneself like that, I wondered, what was it like to be so wholly inside? The world streamed in with all its dark ladies and whipcrack daddies and she scratched her language out of pastels. But he, here: he was dead. His throat burned and his lips cracked when he smiled. "Can you taste the jungle in this brew?" "Yes." "The jungle is blue with dusk or vermillion with twilight; the jungle is the seam of the world." "Yes." "I'm losing my mind, Ben!" I cried out against the gale, only to have my words flung back through my teeth by the gale. And Ben couldn't hear, couldn't see; he teetered on his bike, murmuring, biting his dry lips bloody and staring straight ahead with eyes rolling back, back into his head, as if finally after all the years of drugs and wenching he was getting a good look at his brain. They waved him through the metal detector; he still looked enough like a high school tight end for that. The airport was cool and round and convoluted with corridors. The woman at the gate, thin latina who looked fresh from braces, smiled at him while shuffling pages with skinny wrists. He took a seat near the window to watch the runway. All those planes out there, slipping down the rows of lights like a man enters a woman slowly: they all came from somewhere, went somewhere, all day long. And these states could flip-flop and crisscross in a pilot's mind; Rotundo the Wasteoid wondered what that must be like, to never quite know where you were. Her stomach curls through her she's brushing her teeth, she leans over the commode and releases: whole triggers of black calcium talking shit about James Dean. Somewhere, a poet was in love, but seperated from his love by long miles of night lit by hellish towers, so he had to sing loud enough so she could hear him from the other side of the world. The air in the airport was obnoxious. Rotundo the Wasteoid read Hot Rod magazine, tracing a beefy finger over the curves of a '67 GTO. "Say something, Ben, come on!" "Come on, Ben, come on! Shit..." "Ben?"

William Shakespeare left a Ben Jonson whose light had gone out for good on a streetcorner near a Starbucks in Seattle, crumpled up and motionless. The storm had tantrumed through the city, leaving in its wake glass and scatter and broken. Now, though, the winds had abated; isoceles clouds pulled themselves apart on a sharp serrated blue. William Shakespeare leaned against a cold wall and wondered why he wasn't wracked with sobs. The city uncurled like a blossom under the first vaguely- intimate brush of the sun's warm fingers. The streets, peppered with the storm's wake, took on a definite shape once the gale abated. She could never be alone. She was always alone. Windows had exploded or imploded, depending on where you stood. Streetlights, too, had burst. The streets wore a jagged coat that caught the sun and tossed it around. William Shakespeare leaned against a cold wall, bike inert on its kickstand by the curb, and he stared into the pores of the concrete of the sidewalk so hard he was completely swallowed. This quiet, he thought, it's unnatural but it's beautiful too, like the quiet of a tied-up girl. Not even the birds would dare fracture such a seamless silence. He reached wearily into his vest-pocket, pulled out his Lucky Strikes, tossed one in an elegant bounce to his mouth, lit: was it just him, or did his lighter also not make a sound? There was nothing left now but to go on. (The world carpeted with tiny lights, miniature houses, motion barely perceptible through the small round window. And then clouds, we are rising into clouds, and all around they trail against us, licking us with wisps of fuzzy tongue and swimming. Suspended. Buoyant.) Richard would know. Richard would know what to do. Whatever it was that Richard had for him, it was expensive--so expensive it had killed Ben, shot him all the way across the country, ripped his mind loose from its hinges and left it airily open for any stray breeze. Only Ben knew the REAL reason they'd flown so determinedly out here, and Ben was gone, was empty; his eyes had glazed and his jaw hung open. The only thing left to do was to go to Richard. Find out why they'd raced here; find out why Ben was dead. Memories of Ben, practically falling so stoned out of their booth in the diner in Chicago, hovered behind his eyes. He flicked his cigarette across the street; mounted his bike... (...wishing he had a laptop...her silk falling down her hips, the whisper of it, as if secrets had fermented there...suspended buoyant...from one end to the other, swinging across the states...he shifted in his seat...he wanted a cigarette, but she wouldn't hear of it...Seattle wasn't so far away...up in the air like this almost free from gravity the mighty beast in him shuddered...the thwarting of physics...the use of physics to thwart physics...his ears...popped...) Richard answered the door in a vermillion chemise. Bright spangle-earrings, far too large for as dainty a head as his, tinkled in his shoulder-length cornsilk hair. When he saw William Shakespeare, he smiled a wan, washed-out smile; the kind of smile old cabaret singers shoot at enthusiastic drag queens. "Ah, William, you're here!" "Ben's dead," he reported, and looked to the ground as if it might fly out from under him at any minute. "I know, " Richard replied, "I know." ("What do you have to show me, old man?" Rotundo the Wasteoid jerked awake from a dream in a taxi en route to the Baroness' townhouse. In the dream, he and his father stood on the roof of a skyscraper overlooking a huge city glittering like a childhood fever under thick black night. His father, as big as Rotundo the Wasteoid was now (I don't remember him as the same size as me), stared vacantly out over the lights, pinball-eyed, seemingly unaware of Rotundo's presence. The wind sliced through Rotundo the Wasteoid's body, cross-sectioning him for frost to crawl through his organs. He wanted to touch his father, so distant there beneath the truncated flames of stars; he wanted to sink into his father's slack and oblivious body, sink so deep his father would have to remember him always, buried so thoroughly in his very cells. "Dad?" he querously began, but his father spangled obsidian, sunken in his tawny echoes. "Dad?" The old man's head swiveled slowly around to meet his search. His eyes looked like the reverbation of stones falling down the longest loneliest well. His lips shaped themselves: "What do you have to show me, old man?") "I think, William, we have to talk. Yes, William, there IS a problem. You see, William, I've been sitting here for years just waiting for you. We've been dissatisfied with your work as of late, William. Everyone in this city is crazy. William, we don't see how we can go on much longer like this. You've proven somewhat insufficient, William. You can't get out of bed on some days. Some days, William, the sluggish trickle of light between blinds is all you ever write about. This is poetry, William. This is a matter of our life and our death. William, history will never be able to find you. That's okay, William, tears are important. I watch the light smear itself on the screen again. I see the air hinge on your performance, turning tunnels into bread, wine into fish, flow into come. I'm going to take my clothes off now, William. William, I am will. Will this encourage you to leave the house more often, William? Petros thinks you're too sweet. We've let this get about as far as it will ever get, William. Why do all your women walk carnivals bent backward but Her? You're afraid that if you touch yourself, you'll be fixed to that spot, your fingers fall right through, all the way through the earth." 7

(the BARONESS2007 looks at ROT100 knob) ROT100 looks at Baroness

Kalica_1 . o O ( ACCHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO )

(heart heart heart heart knob knob knob knob

baroness ((NOT WOMAN)) needs to shave

ROT100 says, I ROT100 love you Baroness with all my heart. You are the thought that pulls me out of bed in the morning. You are the last sight I see, and the last name I speak before I go to sleep. You are the vision in my dreams. And you are my only wish. Part of that wish is to be with you everyday, be around to hold you, comfort you, help you in your times of need, and to help celebrate in your times joy.

Mrs_Kurush . o O ( shakes head, no...why bother when you can buy it )

"t h o i u sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( wathces the couple ) s r Kalica_1 . o O ( sniffle ) Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth . o O ( i n blows her nose loudly in her hankie ) s e w poet, William"

"he will not disappoint us, William. not like you have"

ROT100 says, There is no person I have ever met that makes me as happy as you make me right now and every other day we are together. And today is one part culmination and one part another step on our road together.

"i

Kurush_The_Inimitable says, f oO( i would slwwp with a you for it ) Kuril . n o O ( the way sexy buys "Hi t it? ) s po a em i s d HIS POEM" s a fa i e "it ntas z sells" y POEM

ROT100 says, So, with these words I take you Baroness as my wife. And I vow unto you, to give all that is within my heart, body, and soul, for as long as I am alive. As he says these words, ROT100 slides a golden ring, with silver inlay and a ruby of perfect cut and size, onto Baroness' left ring finger.

" t h i s a g e i s s h a l l o w a s a s c r e e n" Ravenschylde . o O ( hands kali a Kleenex ) (knob) sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( blows her nose loudly again ) (heart) IceWindD . o O ( oh my goddd ) "H e s t a n d s w i t h a c u r r e n t o f" "T H I S S O - P I N K M A N" "coarse on his lips. He breathes his **Dark Lady**"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Kalica_1 . o O ( ty raven )!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ravenschylde . o O ( oooo! )!!!!!!!OoOoOooOooOoOoOooOoo!!!!! manfred_von_richstofen turns to the alteroOoOoOOoOOo!!!!! BARONESS2007 holds her left handOoOoOooOooOoOoOooOooO!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

manfred_von_richstofen takes the chalis again Armand_de_vampyre smiles gently at ROT100's words Sed LOCK uct LOOK LOOK ress LOCK _of_Void . ! o O ( crys softly ) Kalica_1 . o O ( pulls out a flask from under her skirt )

manfred_von_richstofen hands it to BARONESS2007 Mrs_Kurush . o O ( looks d "WE ARE MORALLY OBLIGATED o TO DIFFER AS MUCH FROM i dream: w OUR SURROUNDINGS AS WE n )IceWindD . o O ( hmmmmm ) manfred_von_richstofen says, drink pleaseDEEM FIToOoOoO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! tttttthhhheeeeee ttttttttttttthhhhhheeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrroooooooommmmmm ttttttthhhhhheeeeeerrrrrrooooommmmmmsssshhhhhhiiiiinnnnneees tttttthhhhheeeeeerrrrrrooommmmmssshhhhiiiinnneesswwwiiitthhhhhh

! ! ! ! BARONESS2007 takes the chalice... (his O o O o BARONESS2007 takes the chalice... voice) c uuu rrrrr lllll s cures cures on cue Katana_of_Hellbound says, oO[raven i must go please bid them farewell for me, ty]

IceWindD . o O ( behaves ) BARONESS2007 drinks deeply BARONESS2007 hands it back to manfred manfred_von_richstofen as she does I untie there hands and with my finger heal there wounds

i "He n BAR Knealt I ONE And t SS20 Took B h 07 smi It e e lesBARO On her himself her his self her him NESS2007 s His l milesBARONE Tongue" i s SS2007 smile e h sBARONESS2007 sm v a ilesBARONESS2007 smil e p e esBARONESS2007 smilesBARONESS2007 smilesBARONESS2007 smiles elf_ona_shelf is away (Auto-Away)

manfred_von_richstofen places it onalter sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( watches Armand out of the corner of my eye ) manfred_von_richstofen takes a ring and hands it to Baroness manfred_von_richstofen says, Baroness IceWindD says, think-smiles

BARONESS2007 takes the ring from manfred and looks at ROT100 IFICOULDRENEE IceWindD . o O ( oops ) BABYIWOULD NUDGE Darvicet_Glacial enters MYSMALL WAYINTOYOU manfred_von_richstofen says, if there is a vow or some words you wish to say manfred_von_richstofen says, do so now WindChimesSong . o O ( smiles softly.....ALL.wipes my tears at the comforting love that NIGHTLONGALL abounds ) NIGHTLONGICRIED FOR THESUNTO COME H ELPMEFINDTHEECHOOFMYBO DYINYOURTHOUGHTS&&&&&&&& sssss s lllllll l eeeeeee e eeeeeeee e e pppppppp p there & here

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &???????????????????

?????????????????????????????????????&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&?

BARONESS2007 nods HOW MANY TIMES CAN I REPEAT THE BARONESS2007 faces ROT100 PY RA M IDS?

BARONESS2007 says I love you with all of my heart and soul as you are everything that I could ever hope to find in a man. You are loving, thoughtful, caring, smart and handsome in my eyes and your love always makes me feel like the happiest woman alive.

Mrs_Kurush . o O ( dabs eyes )

BARONESS2007 says I am proud to have you as my life's partner and I promise that I will always be at your side, through good and bad, and give you everything that is in my power to grant to assure your happiness for as long as I live...ROT100...I am yours forever...

BARONESS2007 says ROT100, as we stand here among our peers, I want to pledge, in front of all, my undying love and dedication to you and let you know that I have found, in you, the man I wish to spend the rest of my life with.

BARONESS2007 says You are the one person who, with your love, laughter, caring, thoughtfulness, attention, and devotion to me, has rekindled the hope of a future full of happiness and sharing and this hope, which was once almost gone, has grown within me anew and has brought the certainty that with you by my side my life will be full of love, caring, happiness, purpose, and joy. Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth . o O ( awwwwwww ) lordfalcon802 leaves Ravenschylde . o O ( muffles a howl ) BARONESS2007 says So, with these words I take you ROT100 as my husband. And I vow unto you, to give all that is within my heart, body, and soul, for as long as I am alive. As she says these words, she places a golden ring with a perfect emerald in the center on ROT100's left ring finger. Darvicet_Glacial leaves manfred_von_richstofen smiles at the couple

BARONESS2007 smiles up at ROT100 sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( is everybody pm'ing everybody? ) Ravenschylde . o O ( ooo, pretty too! ) manfred_von_richstofen takes the hands closest to me and joins them together

Mrs_Kurush . o O ( looks over at Doe and weeps more herself ) ROT100 smiles at Baroness DarkkSide_ofthe_Moon . o O ( would be if they worked for me ) Armand_de_vampyre sighs..

sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( bubbles please Armand ) Armand_de_vampyre wipes at his left eye quickly with his finger Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth . o O ( dries her eyes ) manfred_von_richstofen touches there shoulders lightly to get them to face the people Mrs_Kurush smiles faintly @ Armand manfred_von_richstofen says, by the dring\king of the blood

BARONESS2007 turns to face her friends (communal Syko_Pathus enters inertia) manfred_von_richstofen says, and the mixing of the blood lilgoth_grrl . o O ( looks to her sister and brother, smiling softly )

manfred_von_richstofen says, and the exchange of words Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth . o O ( looks at them with a huge grin on her face ) Lady_soft_and_warm . o O ( has anyone seen moonbeam? ) Syko_Pathus leaves

!!!!! ROT100 smiles at friends !!!!! manfred_von_richstofen says, I hereby declare you mated for all time !!!!! sexy_eyes_2 . o O ( yells kiss the bride ) !!!!! vampiric_dreams_in_digital with tears in his eyes runs out of the church and no OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO where to be found oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo manfred_von_richstofen says, and present you to this group Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth . o O ( yippeeee !!!!!!! ) OooO !!!!!! oOOo snd= !!!! OooO skin !! vampiric _ dreams _ in _ digital leaves ROT100 smiles at Baroness WindChimesSong applauds is it working and grins an evil grin...... I ITCH THERE BARONESS2007 grins at ROT100

WindChimesSong applauds...... applauds ...... applauds ...... applauds ...... applauds...... BRAVO !!!!!...... giggles....way to go!!!! ROT100 kisses his wife DarkkSide_ofthe_Moon snaps a portrait SND= Geos_Smurfy is back. IGNO Geos_Smurfy Smiles happily RANC manfred_von_richstofen says, kiss your bride EVIR WindChimesSong says, giggles...... US.E nighthunter1000 enters XE BARONESS2007 kisses her new husband

sexy_eyes_2 says, (EXPLODE) Seductress_of_Void says, (APPLAUSE) Ravenschylde hugz sis; woohoo! Mrs_Kurush says, (CAMERA) Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth runs up and huggers them Kalica_1 says, congratulations julie_gutrune says, congratulates the happy couple sexy_eyes_2 says, (GLASS) IceWindD says, hugs sis kain_kungfu_master spikes a football and does a touchdown dance..

"WOOHOOO" ROT100 says, ty all Seductress_of_Void says, (CAMERA) Geos_Smurfy smiles innocently at her geo Smurfys_Geo says, congratulations you two Kalica_1 says, jesus...

manfred_von_richstofen says, ok lets party DarthShoppingMaul says, (CAMERA) Geos_Smurfy waves @ kain

BARONESS2007 Waves her hand and several tables appear(SEARCHING FOR THIS AGENCY IN REAL TIME), one covered with a selection of meats, including roasted turkey, prime rib, ham, roast duck, as well as a selection of seafood plates and baked salmon. On another table are a variety of vegetables and salads and every kind of fruit imaginable. On the final table sits a large selection of deserts, a huge wedding cake, puddings, crepe's pies, something to suit every special guest Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth says, where's the cake(SEARCHING FOR THIS AGENCY IN REAL TIME)

kain_kungfu_master says, smurfy! Huggzz jasmine32_2001 says, congratulations countess and nimvin Geos_Smurfy says, joo made it? DarkkSide_ofthe_Moon takes a picture of sensual_moonlite sexy_eyes_2 says, (CHIMES) Ravenschylde grabs Ice; runs up to the happy couple Geos_Smurfy says, Huggzz! WindChimesSong says, kisses and hugsss Baroness and Rot BARONESS2007 Kalica_1 says, waves bbye for now ROT100 says, shall we go to the dining room and eat? Ravenschylde hugz them both Geos_Smurfy smiles happily, and takes her geo's hand in hers Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth says, lol Kalica_1 says, thanks for invite kain_kungfu_master says, uhhuh about 8 minues ago or so Armand_de_vampyre steps back slowly.. Geos_Smurfy smiles happily IceWindD says, runs behind her sis sexy_eyes_2 runs up to the CAKE Kalica_1 leaves Seductress_of_Void giggles jasmine32_2001 says, huggss baroness and rot nighthunter1000 says, good evening room lilwyldkat20 says, congradulations ROT100 and Baroness Armand_de_vampyre being called away against his will Kurush_The_Inimitable says, cake ?

Smurfys_Geo holds his smurfys hand tight Armand_de_vampyre leaves ROT100 says, Party time anyone? wild_doe4u says, congradulations on this your wedding day

(((BLESSD BE)))))(((BLESSD BE)))))(((BLESSD BE)))))(((BLESSD BE)))))

Seductress_of_Void stands slowly kain_kungfu_master says, hugggzz countess and gives Nim a handshake

(LEAVE THEM ALONE WILLIAM THEY ARE HAPPY THEY CAN TOUCH THEMSELVES WITHOUT SINKING THEY CAN LAUGH WITH OUT THE ROT100 Waves at everyoneTASTE OF ASHES FLOODING THEIR THROATS THEY LIVE ONLY IN THIS WORLD IN THIS WORLD ONLY

sexy_eyes_2 says, will someone marry me? passion_oasis says, smiles at Lady.i thought i was first sexy_eyes_2 says, JUST for the cake bipolypagan enters Kurush_The_Inimitable says, stays away ? nighthunter1000 says, good evening ravenschylde

Faith5by5_00 says, congradulations ROT100 and Baroness Lady_soft_and_warm says, how about a group marriage Kurush_The_Inimitable says, well i just have to have ur portion too wild_doe4u says, HUGS THE HAPPY COUPLE

BARONESS2007 says, thank you faith Geos_Smurfy leans back in her chair, and sits quietly WindChimesSong says, ~waves~ to Rot and his lovely bride..... Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth says, cake...me want cake...lol Lady_soft_and_warm says, I can turn mormon Seductress_of_Void smiles softly at everyone yells i have ta pee.....runs to da potty

Kuril says, bigamy can be fun......

Lady_soft_and_warm says, walks up to the happy couple and hugssss Baroness and Rot sooooo hard sexy_eyes_2 hugs Baroness....i'm so happy for you Seductress_of_Void sits at a nearby table queen_annastacia_von_richstofen enters

ROT100 says, now to the dance floor BARONESS2007 says, can you hear it now sexy? Mrs_Kurush says, is the cake good Kurush? Dragon_God_of_Bloodshead watches with a puzzled look on my face

Lady_J_Nakie_Under_a_Loincloth sits back on my couch...smiling...so happy for nim and countess IceWindD says, watches the door

ROT100 The walls of the ballroom are made of the same granite that the rest of the castle is but you can hardly see them for all of the tapestries hanging from the walls. Some are of forest scenes, and others of cities. The biggest one in the room though is a scene of another ballroom. On it there is a large audience circled around a pair of dancers who are looking deep into the eyes of each other as they continue to perform in front of all of the gathered guests.

sexy_eyes_2 shakes her head....no

BARONESS2007 hugs sexy

ROT100 The ballroom floor is made of highly polished oak. The shine is so bright that it acts as a mirror for anything within a foot of its surface. There are chairs and benches along the edges of the room for those who may become foot sore. Also off in the southeast corner is a boxstand where a small orchestra sits, making the final preparations to their instruments for the evenings music making and festivities.

sxy_bedroom_eyes says, turns around & heads for the exit queen_annastacia_von_richstofen says, oh shoot, did I miss it? Mrs_Kurush says, no thank-you honey

ROT100 Also near the entrance of the ballroom is another refreshment table full of drinks and snacks. There are also several servants ("I will work for you forever as long as you let me think I'm not...)though out the room with drink trays that are full and waiting to serve the various guests in whatever manner they can. Then slowly the musicians begin to play. A light sound at first, just the string section; but then the volume of the music begins to pick up and then the percussion comes in. The drums beat out a very slow and steady beat, a waltz to start.

sexy_eyes_2 walks up to Ravens and smushes the cake in her face....very innocently that is

3/4/01-3/15/01

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

SOME ROOMS IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE

Yes, like a fist in the midriff, ripping out all the goodstuff: tables, chairs, silver, unknown flavors valedictory in creole. I'm round and blue, and hongrrry, like a fruit bored with its own skin, just-shy of neccessary. Ergo, snails laying subjectivity aside make love with every muscle of every morsel that leans into you; therefore, naturally, I can't yearn for that simple iron-age john to sugardaddy back home to me, because writing and programming leave much to be desired; like you, Renee. Even the sky today had to come down to get so close to you to see you to breathe that daubed skin of cracking hazelnuts over roasts over borders. Elegant? Not quite. I want to write like every quiet sucked down the drain by that passionate tablesaw.

Maybe we can get together sometime. You, me, everyone else's lovers, all asprawl the spangle.

What doesn't come must be scratched or bitten. I calculate hours on my pores guppy-frumpled to the insidious core. I declare water to be history's feverish biology, like Immanual Kant clicking right to copy blocks. When I was little, underneath the table I would silver chairs until, really, they tasted like somebody I vaguely knew. Venus sunning herself in the pinstrip brilliance emigrating from Renee's nipples acts like supply secedes demand, and this castle's her body burning me

3/15/01

OPPOSITES

I turn on the 'difference engine.' Me, I'm not very attractive. You think? Animals route through each other, tooth- goo and nail-juice, after the information ends in holocaust. You're the pretty one, endless and celibate in your guest's reprieve. No, I do not think I'm very unattractive. Girls (and gulls) follow me around, wanting "it," bending backbreak over serious seltzer. Nothing they could say could take me away. Even your skin's bruising my thoughts.

3/15/01

CASTE

Maybe I cringe when I think of those assholes at work; the sureness with which, under a white sheet, with white lightning vacuity, they secure a usurped spot where everyone must bow, or suffer. And maybe vacancy as a method for career advancement averages out in this blue night, with stars pole-vaulting across my eyes, with stars opal as a dead man's stare right through rigid brawls, until I'm as even as any other supernova in a teacup; unbruised; untouchable 3/16/01

GRAVY TRAIN

Didn't you ever hear the one about understanding people's underlying motives? If a man needs a mother beyond his teens and into his twenties, boy he is, not man, and one so horribly overgrown he thinks those dogs that rightly yammer at him mute puppies until they maul.

3/16/01

STORYVILLE for Renee

Burdens rub like tactile nectar when "a certain girl" falls from heaven just back from storyville into my lap. Every year, logic kills millions of germs, incubating into good ideas regardless of. Storyville is one. Built over the ghost union, many brave pyramids were sighted fogging yellow flings into not-quite-quenched arias, beginning during construction, and ending when Lewis tears the smoke from his hair, his clothes, indignant that corporeality should furnish such rough grain. Burgeoning urgents ungentle scenes out of the way; cherries are in bloom

3/16/01 Poems 8 Lewis LaCook 3/17/01-

ROASTED HAZELNUT

Ordinary boys feel ordinary with other boys. Reading will fuck your eyes up and push you away from the playground where Jennifer Sutoris never gives you a second look. We play a game there called "Let-me-push-you-into-the-corner," eventually it feels like that, too. Ordinary...

But SOMETHING'S wrong, somewhere, surely. Reading gives you goosebumps; delicious, coarse against the elementary corner, uncontained. School means all the desks are placed just so; they can see you there, staring out the springtime, high on windows and the distant fury of lawnmowing. A bee winding in the lights up above is an event timed to distract us from that latent heat: Jennifer, maybe I fucked my eyes up looking for someone else as I stared at you. The need that then and after templated the carpets romantic and gasping has finally changed clothes; she's been shopping for lotion today, hot for the promise each sampled scent makes.

3/16/01

BENDER

Succor at the cusp of binge contraption; waiting for fulfillment takes an American evening-into-morning to read. While it seems everyone's mistakes stitch you a skin to cartoon, you mute your own groping beams; scant, irrepressible, serpentine, until without even knowing just how or why to feel eventually you learn to suck less from the world. As Renee well knows, if you want to destroy that sweater, pick a thread; under wheels, curled swastikas like shrivelled almond testicles wait for American fulfillment. Cubicles aren't mechanical enough; make mine circuits; paleolithic, like every mom's fattening gash of circus.

3/17/01

MONEY=FOOD

Fast becoming sound so skinny nickels unflatter taffeta factoid preface 'labor party' misnomer monies on stick- like guitar tendons tenderly 'lovey-duck' butt-rubs your bespattered behind-the-music legends map to rand scale ascii array or at string 'crosshatch' the music scatters different fiddles and durabilities 'danger!' you chuckle cushioned in ermine murder sighed 'guess!' as the residents rotate to swiftly starving archaic coinage

3/17/01

TRANSIENTS

Lately, my glasses have been looking at me funny. Endgame seems terminal at first, until you click with all your might on my icon: a fuzzy sad strange 'individualism' that likes to talk back to the hands shaking it homogenously dead. My baby's belly is NOT like 'the sun arose' in my mommy's belly, so freakishly orbital it makes my head spin. And my own belly, like visions of exorcism, twists on stilts high above the fat etchings of soma you transfuse, joining with you across seas alight with seas alight. I guess I can see alright, rather than silkscreening Jesuit mantras onto the floor, error-message-free. Lately I've forgotten how Beauty never stops for long in my town, though this time she's emerged from her fine suede coat, so duende with what everything in my room stands for: her windows look past me

3/18/01

QUICK, BASIC

Sunshine gels between splays of branches tearing dead brown grass to life. Any day as bright as this can wall in a total room the programmer who can't execute earnest weather as she should. It won't assert much, this sunshine; only that the blood flirts eagerly over vapors and petals, eroding stiff names as unstable variables collide with the ceaseless transpositioning of the trees. SERIOUS irridesence; the programming enthusiast at play can ricochet off satellites ten times nine is ninety times a day, any day, drowsy and somehow too awake to take a walk past previous occupants of her skin's tranquility. Rust could be a symptom of the spring. Or spring ominous as full-blown intimacy, is what she can't pretend to ignore; asprawl in this far-fetched wood, organizing her screws and ridiculous stamens, she fucks another piece of her assembly of the dresser into a giddiness of serendipity. The serious programmer takes frequent naps in sequential beds. There will be an implication that goes limp by surrender and Achilles. Oh god, I think I must have reached her nude as the ubiquity in a preparedness to bloom-- stars and anenome, sweet nerve meridian; confessing. 3/18/01

GIDDY IN THIS WORLD

Recently, I have acquired a sex that eats everything. You do that scrunchy-thing I love with your nose, and frost abandons implicating the cars. Many things make me giddy in this world. The guilt of cars, for instance, in the crime of traffic. I don't own my own genome. I don't grow my own. Not that you should let that stop you.

3/19/01

MATTER

Rudderless, we drift through fjords of no milk even remotely potable. I can make you come hard at me with salad tongs, and you can make me count dinosaurs on the way to Easter Island, where they impregnate the mulish stones with faces mum on how nice it was, a drag across the starry lawn--dews gyroscopic like ontology's icee (grape); jewels coupling with their shredded reflections. I'll own you yet, fair Yeti! Tea on the savannah, mumbling into the insides of your thighs all the potholes anthologized in my most useless expensive rudderless books, cancels discrete operations on empathetic petrification; kinda like your face: mum, huh? Nuts! I could still talk at your age, entertained embarassment by bugging my lateral retail retail. If not now, hyperly sexing the Sasquatch, then what else shivers beneath Henry's feral carpentry, "angled" into anvil naive? Mauve, valencia: that crazy turd. Ossification specificly designed to piledrive hotrods names me "medicated" invocation; tenderly, you snap! 3/19/01

THE INWARDNESS OF DISLOCATED CAVES for Renee

Kindness without prerequisites: she won't interrogate you, no matter how the blood's seriousness jangles toothache mornings staying up to catch the bus to contagious. Even without your skin you are soulfully, sacrificially beautiful: without eyes, windowless, the smear of your tsunami inside her (on her belly, on her back) talks low sweat scent and elevation. A high without a host (no body to crumble loudening in your hands to mouth), she gets inside you with laughtered gray, and builds cities on your silent plains. She might be kin to you, the sum of tandem sisters that swells when her hands emerge from reminiscence, tattling on your heat. You try, but fail, to stay under the rock you crawled out of; her bloom cinema heaves so much light out of storms you're kindergartened all over again, and that's one ecstasy of saturation you taste without your debts, embedded. She must be a debutante from the inwardness of dislocated caves: how to turn the sun nozzle-side out; to bathe your imaginary child.

3/20/01

LITIGATION

Lucky me. I'll give you money to live at my house, so we can both escape nights under a ceiling made of gods dangerously sparkplug. Even my breath listens as you rage: garish windshear, omnivorous sycophant, leaving those raped moon-rocks in my stocking, as if Dad saw his most stoic edges on my feet.

3/21/01

TESTIMONY TOWARD A PROGLEMENA OF CONCURRENT KNOX

Tooday in skool oui lerned to proov thet whut wee sawed in teh books was true. Teh bookz was bigg un fluffy, lik Maw-maw sez, Maw-maw sez whut'z troo witowt to proov it. Dis cun hep U sleap. Und dis, dis izz mah sisstur. Teh bookz

sez (seeds like the relief of coming on her ass like relief seeds she could grow a baby there. She is very good to me!) shee izz good too. I down wann go doktur! --he wann proov thet I'm in teh bookz, but teh bookz sez nuthin but talktalk, nightday. Doktur lik cutz me up bad. Doktur putz mee ta bede lik Mawmaw en Pawpaw, but I down wann sleap in teh dirt, wit nuttin but teh bookz ta kep me over. There are tides that forget themselves in smashing on themselfs. My mout test lik wartz; Mawmaws izz roudy. Teh bookezz proov tah bookss.

3/22/01

THE boingo OER brimzzzz like TESTUBES noised FOLLICULE w a s (planning) (circuitry) TIRKISH S b l e n d BbEeLlSs a g e n t s INTIMATE H L U L L L U L L L U L L H I e you ordinary wit P ar S

3/22/01 ** PLANET

Suspicious twins, snow and rain: March promises spins from a rum of flowers reeking expectations that drizzle paved. I wake too far from Renee to throw the nerves of my voice up in the air, watch guns seek the puncture that sweats bullets triggering remedies that stitch holes harmlessly shut; purse the lips and make the beds, before our debts catch wind of us. I wake the day before I fall asleep, shooting through graceless air, landlocked for Renee, and I answer every orbit with a swan's saw of deathly rattle: why am I shaking? Why walk on dirty ice?

3/22/01

VEHICLES

Drawling (the little backstabs) (then ether) he posts by voice an anxious suspicion ("You could do better than me") to her honey-horns sounding architectures impartial to his flaws. She sighs to so neatly visible discover his cracks ("How you ('you' love 'me?') spill and scatter, kiss of veins in porcelain branches ('the amniotic moon')." I want to know what the rate ('bit') is, then) he chokes on those matrices of spider-earnest wisps of line. Another burst occurence rubbing another zone, kin to nothing but himself, perhaps, but she's INSIDE inside him, like her hair caught between sylvan lips alleging to gel his furthest thresholds; more or less, he tells himself. His math is often entirely unneccessary. She's INSIDE the slashed tires that prevent him from jack-knifing out loud.

3/23/01

PLAINS

Amber remembrance of man-with-wings. An inner-devil-angle speaking English like roots and berries and electricity distil to pixel-mud (my beautiful womb, my cradle, remember me in absence of hothallowed rock) and penniless, let's get reborn up skywards. Vaverchak Day begins a quite logical eyeballing off the facts: we lay over in Cincy, lay over in vortext, in version 2.7; I just got done laying an HTML page of poetry no-one will ever read on a screen. Except you: and I shoot across this sky scarred by impulse, highlighting rude oxygen, just to sleep on your skin tonight.

3/23/01

NOT TREES: WINDOWS AND MIRRORS for Renee

Fresh from NotShoweredYet and steaming, really, from the pits (I move for you my Love everywhere, like smoke coiling milky fingers craving your skin), I rise through my body kissing the wind our lovemaking makes, poet langorous and on vacation, emptying what's empty in me into you to brim you with air, stalwart and steadfast and pliable as water.

DumbBeast is ZenSensual, knowing mind as everything I touch and see and taste, not even solely mine; diamonds and gold logged-on to Network Tunnel (I spelunk like a lapdance, impish with spices, vinegar turkey sub or nothing at all, (nothing as all), just the wind you raise as you glide down the stairs to me, going 'loopy' with logic programming my mother's electronic transmissions) until my face is smile-lively, null-string variable searching restlessly this united states to swallow your input. You give as gorgeously as Love herself, undaunted by corridors aching into earth's interior, where wires would sing us to sleep; not nervous, just glassy, reflecting your embraces endlessly back to you, letting your face pass through; saturating the piled-up Virginia sky with notMe, notYou, satisfying the trees until they ivory explode.

3/25/01--Richmond

THIRTEEN POLAROIDS (from an exercise suggested by Mahebdra Solanki at the trAce Online Writing Centre)

1

Take these away from me please! Hot wax skin under flashlight suns... really, now. Caught in the act; everything here's in white frames, everyone here's let their blood fall to the very ends of their bodies. Especially now, covered in exposure, numbness is my teddy bear. 2

The doll sits up and can say your name as you rub butterflies from its tummy. A hole (in the) room with disjointed coloring sucks with swirl all echo of movement until even your face becomes foreign and speaks in your tongue. You say,

"That's not my voice on that tape," when really everyone knows. The camera adds weight by not dying except when killed. You never noticed you were just another clot among clots of hidden thought until you noticed me staring: and I can read your mind.

3

Standing still to save your life, I interpret criticism until I'm naked again. Xerox copies of your brain SEEM ordinary enough, until I notice nothing more than you're staring at me, easily peaceful; until, one on one, syntax blooms; and then I've gone and invented another goddamned sentence. Xerox sandwhich: the zero in unknown.

4

I don't know when this was taken. I haven't noticed it missing at all. When I think back to the time you swung at me with your camera, there's this skipped frame I couldn't account for until now; it's sitting on your desk, along with my childhood, my adolesence, the sickness that saved me. I look different in every one. Long hair, dyed hair, goatee or cleanshaved-- this is a sentence about my obsessions. You stare all day through windows that face glaciers that once thundered with all the force of water forgetting to originate.

5

Take your pills and smoke. Entertain yourself by moving pictures neither around nor behind you: triptych, triptych: why you so cryptic, man? Have you ever heard your own voice on tape (real?) while making love to yourself and envied the smoothness of the voice? Everything but the gravel needs tweaked...

*

6

"I was working in the studio in the studio I was working in the studio" (waves green charted routes across glimmer-reflect- ive screen)(I was editing video by site by site)(waves jump)(just drag and drop)"thro- wing rocks at my own image in the water."

Take them away, please. I'm full of zits in these. My skin like wax without a flame. I was so old back then, I wore a goatee. A dropdown menu to adjust image brightness. A menu to nullify contrast. Maybe we should posterize me. Please register gif construction set professional. I am sitting in front of myself on this screen; different

7

Seismograph says; sHe took this wax in hand Impetus says; and gave you shoulders and eyes Xerox says; and gave you hair and eyes

Sanctuary says; and now electric, magnetic Empirical says: now cathode or pixel or Versions and versions say; wires wires Envelope says: you take this charge in hand Nothing says nothing says nothing says not!

8

In the hinged triptych frame Renee's nephew Hunter makes the wings with baby face and baby concern. On both sides he's fussy; confusion squeezing his lips down to spout and maybe even the shivering pulse of a tear, or just before. He's shaking and not shaking; suggesting shaking. Really he's as still and flat there as a morning that's run out of smoke.

I woke next to this beautiful woman and slid my hand across her back. Warm warm warm warm warm!!!!!!

9

Pictures nick bit by bit the time on our flesh. Little holes that leak stillness are almost turbulent at a snap of the flash. I'm standing orderly distant in a ratty black shirt in that one. It's all light, after all; dead light still slightly singing you.

10

Couldn't cope with the mime, chock on image-edited fractal programs by "panic" Alan Sondheim, so I parsed yellow my facial ghost on Kodak paper.

11

Could cower whacked covert covers, 'oddly-entertainment,' like Ghost Dog pats his gun. Still-life or portraiture? Yell if you hear a bit of language.

12

'Clouds on paper's what she called it. Owing money isn't even tax-free. Her pictures from her hands are mine, Oddly, your photo of Alan is darker than mine.

13

On the plane I tilted my notebook toward the window to catch maybe if I could the burn of dusk above the clouds. Once home, sorely seperate from her body (my skin dries out the longer I go without her drenching it with her eyes) I found a body beaten blue as an overdose by brittle integers, and I did not like the way it tastes. I popped a yellow capsule into my mouth; it helps me stay up all night. I called her until the living room got dark and quiet, then I smoked marijuana, running the quaint word for it over my tongue until I was Joe Friday once again, sampling 'grass.' Until I was beside myself face to face with everything to think about.

3/26/01-4/2/01

I AM HOLIER THAN YOUR PERSONALITY

Pray for me as you predator the rushes; rendezvous in these cerebral sugars while Orpheus tunes his locks. My looks cool off over reading material into matter, ephemeral, function of another's future reference to living being "some waiting before you find Indigo, and Indigo friendships" some passing notion of BurgundyHair, who looks like you even taller, though we hide so thoroughly. Suspects can be discerned from the wallpaper from the furniture by the way they breathe. Orpheus today adds interactivity to webpages, or you blend over and through me like night loves you. If he could think her through like slices of electricity, would YOU go to church?

4/2/01

REACTION for Renee Caress races secession. Your hands linger lastingly over surrendering my lips; opulent and voluptuous, you pull my fire underwater, where the moon touches me strange, delirious: what color was I, before you, so frozen-motions, so doubly-exposed, such the blond breathing veins before Kent's trees read another Spring. Tonight I must be faster at waving at you, smiling, my voice beneath impermanent lags of ice siphons anenome, light we near the floor rub from our very skins.

Most of the disatant dogs barking harbor unamed seas in their civilized dishes. So I wear my jaw to forest fire; I heartbeat circumlocutionary dictation over your surface, licking with the way I talk your back until ether fills whatever it can; your room, my shoes: suddenly, we rise. We collapse in a sweaty heap.

4/2/01

VARIABLES: HOLLOW POINT BULLET,

Let "Daylight" equal the gender of stepped-in mud. A lace of scarwork branches throbbing with an admission of coming Spring. Not immobile. Dervish in stuck time. Can you release me from this still-life of bark that traverses the reversal edges? Amniotic, suspended, each breath fixes the contradiction of birth in my sleep, sitting upright, pages and pages of talking 'til the land thaws, and new birds mate by sound. Show yourself to me; all of the languages we keep at the borders are smooth blue from new use. Hollow or skeletal, you could pass through me if I block your way. Slowly, let "clouds crawling over sun" parse the shapeliness of sitting in your mate. When space aches for body, you move against me by insinuation, grazing my nerves until they exfoliate like frozen grenades. Even our cash limps away, cursing in awe at this genderless effusion of cataclysmic blossoms. After the last week, sleeping alone feels like sitting dazed in a field of shrapnel jewels, and every empty blitzkrieg fizzles like a potted plant. Tame everything; even what you can't declare.

4/3/01

WAKING TO DARKER MORNINGS WITHOUT RENEE

Cautiously, I wake to a drama of frozen order; microwave burrito still clinging readily to my plate. It's something to eat, not believe in, and while I lick errors free from the architecture of reading Simon Perchik, in my sleep our radio alarm deserts us, and we can silence it only by rolling over and having the foresight to populate your evening's skin with mouthy lace. This and your face from across the room: not dead nearly, your eyes flip the lamp. On.

4/4/01

TRAY IN AN UPRIGHT POSITION

God frosts lawns on April mornings, pretending to crackle with a wilderness of wild beard. Listening, always, I school myself in tongues enough to navigate her narrative ventilation; I smoke in the airplane restroom after defacing or dismantling a chipper smoke detector. Afterwards, God and I inherit millions of dollars in the publisher's clearinghouse sweepstakes. Seems right, just to twirl the heat in my room around my test of a body. Seams litigate. Scouring what's left of Delta Flight 666, God sneezes as smoldering tendrils watery his nose. Know noose? I had to ask. No, but I do know those nylons peering out from beneath the wounded wing; she was almost everything I believed myself to be. Forget her, God says, or follow her. Oh my god, I sigh, why hast thou furnished me within these flames, a decorator's nightmare, and where are the hands we'll use to dig myself out? Games we'll be graded on later char themselves into various shades of fog.

4/5/01

WASSERHAUSBILD

Neither rain could focus enough to drive the nails in. I felt thunder chuckle and lightning chortle, perhaps as I was getting out of bed. I felt my peace disturbed by intimations of my own wilting, lately just blooms; Morning Go Boom! Thank god I eat enough to stay alive.

Predicates are passionate... even this one, whose infinitive stem grates on the nerves. This one has so much less to do: nothing; sit; play; nothing. I would not sleep in the ashes of the scattered showers nearly bumped into nearby unless I absolutely had to, baby. And surely you know I would sleep with you; lie in the shaggy pile of lead that lines my teeth, earn that brisk visibility; oceans under construction.

4/6/01

EASTER SUNDAY BEST

How he sidles through the streets like a splinter of abyss sucking every aether that drips through his pores...Energy, she says: it's all about that. After midnight he's walking home to fill her, her voice with bitmaps, until even phrenology nervously reverses itself to sunshine plaid. Tons of nods that punish him with overdue sleep are stamped amazingly to the snaps of his pants. Didn't you overhear her, her skin combusting, as subroutines toured sex_serv, as softness illuminates heated nukes, so fossilized you almost clung to the null moon overnourished and breathing haloes on top of the sky? Rubber subservience in plaid reverse murmurs. Enter skirts. As part of his grandfather's claws, seven years never evens out to toss saturations into these outbound songs; enough screw to blister nails, fog. Memorize the hard drive's dreams... He (how I don't know) by quick chills of his erased hands names enamel mannerisms rouge of his passing tongue. At sex-serv, the boy in plaid pants snatches vapor rubbers to bully his fuck toy. Zapped, far too schematic: but she asked you how it remembers things. Eggs...

4/8/01

SUNDAY DRIVE

Sundays we bounce the house around dreamily. Uglier-than-thou (and sweating, too) ponders not the bag that shrinks but abstract containers scouring the processor map. What can't fractal him is also what does obsfucate the face that eventually's moved over the waters; passport literally in hand; on Sundays we bounce the grown leavings against our brow until it's bloodied and sacrosanct; when the dead repeal your pants. I'm breathing rapid poofs. Another telltale licorice. My father can't remember in cold stones knives that bend when you fall. It would hurt.

4/8/01

I WAS running the moon, raining your moods: heat lightning vestibule. Us, we're just tramps that estimate the beginning of the world in non-linear cinema. She loses the thread in a pinch of salt weighing the dove's tail down. To fly like that has shadows all over your face... Mother, may I yammer at the threshold to your fashionably- drenched room before the sun falls down on us, tongue restlessly worming for a hole to proprietor? Operations discrete in sideshow lingham parabola sound like stinkbomb fucking interwreathed with that mesh of my shirt, phonecard. phonecard. Osterizing everything in the medicine cabinet. Names semen obituaries like flies trouble her shotgun slash photograph of polaroid's aerobic breasts, as told to the whole class. Part man times god. Answers swerve off her shoulders following up to the sky tinfoil spacerockets back down to earthquakes, and then I asked her what I was thinking, if at all. Not the object's job; I hear that modifiers must in proper syntax write as near the noun as we can. Earlier, she'd told me there were stories like glacial musculature wound in veins through the story. Sunning the thunder, stars paste stars to winnow blanket targets.

4/9/01

MORNING STICKY WITH YOUR KISSES ME for Renee

Gladly thundered for you at the ends urgent with caffeine(the truest of mothers Cancer scorpions out of their enemy's hiding places; counting your breath until the others rustle entirely to hide); groaningly in sex for you, the caret embedded in artichoke heart, gasping for bread (wait until I have what of you spread- angled toward me, my mouth-motor keeping you unidle; lips like damage). Etchings in velvet museums for you!

4/9/01 A DRY AND USELESS THING GIVES HIM POWER TO BE QUIET

Ever the saucy nerd, my baby sits in front of computers all day weeping for the string cheese hacked to death by hollywood sympathizers. Not only am I low on dope, but this very careful feeling brought on by these quick Spring drenches that best use mauve and citrus to get their point across (cracks numb the clouds) has formally settled here, in all but name. Renee has a voice that troubles concrete; you, too, could already be a million dollars richer provided night trails its heart-shaped tumors over every level inch of your (yelling always yelling to come in). I never think to say my name when I'm trying to jerk off. It's okay that nightly I like to be quiet; it gives him power to buy and never make anything but money, a dry and useless thing. Guns, or they were guns; stalking tuckedup like his balls.

4/9/01

SELF AS MEDICATION

Sunshine gets nowhere with me. Errors rear their orphans here, never quite tilling soil for teeth of past wars flaming. Reading dirty letters as it snows light all over a rhythm and blues chord progression, I fill the change-of-address forms with File Not Found: 404, the oldtimers say, bent under tenuous clouds; each one hiding silver-tipped rain; surveillence cameras. Vector, Renee, I call to the dark that still sits on me (fatass!) in Spring's swifter blood pressure, 2001, and most of it's already over; all we have to do is pack up and go, baby. Earth to self- image, earth to body-conciousness: shut up now, before I have you surgically removed. Renee graphs her hands out on my spout: Center your body on me. Lie still. I won't let you fall. Errata atari. Nothing if not fucked-up, jaded and amused. Turn over; the sun blaring on the blinds won't wake up that way... Hot, hot; I pull these rendered drizzles of my flesh selflessly over passive stone. Oh, fuck off, self-awareness, self- knowledge dreams about your bravado; scavenging landfills until nourishment curls like sugar under a match. She hangs through her teeth pretty verb garlands. To get "high." I test it against the obviousness of her ass. Lewis LaCook, your mother is making war on how on fire she would be if the sun skipped a shallow beat, spilled itself on you. In next to silence music confers. The secret sessions may last throughout the day. Years of living on the ledge had undoubtably contributed to his impressions of the air on her breasts.

4/10/01

I KNEEL TO SCOOP FROM THE SCREEN

Her imps smile and glass the house, Our Lady of Passionate Address, nesting between interested entanglements, entrenched in channelled purrs. What will you do when she gets home? Sigh like TV?

4/10/01

OILY SKIN

Canonball Adderly lacked only what all good musicians lack: a polyphonic sense of focus. Lackluster earnings for the year 1998 force us to reconsider our relationship to our pockets.Enthralled with laryngitis, he practiced not speaking to me for years, just to get used to the loneliness of death. As for Esperanza, only the oldest of her lovers seemed to understand her moods. Now is just a close-up of then. She enters the room all strawberry-spangled, molten-eyed, a poultice of honey and lava dripping ipso-facto down her leg.I've been practicing, I tell her; I cough like a mugshot of our halycon days. God himself isn't man enough to die like me. Napping during venting hours, she's amazed to find her breath on the pillow across from her when she wakes; surgically neatened, clawing its way back to her mouth, painful inches. Adderly, Canonball: the card catalog is seldom wrong. Lukewarm earnings in 1999 warned me to invest in soot. "Care-worn" is just one of those words. Radios discuss the Chinese as if the Chinese were a limb we lost once and must now reaccquaint ourselves with. A pinhole in the host's voice could magnify what we use in place of sun here, and then this room would REALLY smoke. She's congested in foreign air. Held tightly to a medley of bones.

4/11/01

RED333

She's so busy today, her skin's run transparent; molting dry ice smiles, knitting velvet elvi. Oh, my kingdom for a minute of her attention, kindling spread across my shirtless chest... Evening: encephalitis won't give me a big head, tasty-testing every blessing proud in her winnowing tresses, but this dusk that thuds incandescent the day day-long must stop now. Please? Baby? I figure sooner or later roads play themselves out under our feet; not every loop is as infinite as this, and our lucky break just happened to fracture our crust. We'll eat our way to each other the way fate taffees love, the ways your faces changed. By Beck Hanson.

4/11/01

SUBURBIA AND BOURBON

Sun, with her swollen-eye glare, has beaten the trees to bloom. Yellow flowers with bell mouths hummingbird balefuls of light in soothing scoops; breathing dishes turned to tune what frequencies of earliest Spring's mating with everything? I bounce down the middle of a yellow line, as overdressed as a rhododendron; but I want to be naked, touch dirt to it. DaddyBeast teaches his seedlingBeast reflexes by beating basketballs over Sun's sticky eye. 4/11/01

AMERICAN MOVIES

Please, baby: let's put the sun away for awhile. A fractal humidity dips into our petty cashbox without replacing the orgones depleted by Exxon. Stores blossom like eager virile ivy by the side of the road we take to get fed. So what? you ask. I can see you're better than that. Oh baby, my body aches not sleeping with you. No soft limit to this dance of seasons halted in mid-leap; these rooms hardened over years of cooling in a razor breeze. We're on the road again, falling face-fist into poetic license; we're shooting down the hum of midnite turnpikes troubling states beyond our knowing for sure their names. Oren? Richard? Knowledge jerks itself awake when speedbumps sugar noses. Could be we're just tired, not enough sleep to go around. Repetition, along with memory of repetition, beams alterity. Usually, we eat the truckstops as well as the countrystyle gravy. Sugar speeds our noses up, and the bullets of states after states after states leak the musk of tropic metals, fevered oils. Honey, let's roll the moon out over the lake again; let's eat moths in graceful loops. I'm still shaking beneath your kiss. Nature in minuteswift trails smears our skin into plastic colors. Gas is now absolutely free.

4/12/01

THIS IS ABOUT MY DESKTOP

Great! Night here in our plastic town earns its time dragging across the rendered streets (sketched by lamps) manually, i.e. "She Kills An Hour With It."

Varnishes her schedule, dusky crimson twist; I smoke an ocean's worth of stuck-up weed, reading my book on HTML, with cold links. Unquestonably lively, finger of meat surrounded by its opaque greasy drool, which kippers in London, where they know no spice eventually mating with page six girls, ruddy and hungry and muttering to unionize. Nothing they could say could take me away even for a second from my freckle-dappled girlfriend-- Lewis and Renee, sittin' in a tree. First comes last year.

4/12/01

OWLS BEFORE DAWN

She smiles in this picture like she's got lights so hidden inside her she's gotta earn dark clothes, sleep dark hours, empty out my homework on the server. She peels outta her drive with listless integrity, laminating her frenzied lateness to work un- early with complicated dawns that emergency seriously, seditiously; there's no one else scalding enough for me. Like a comet dropped through the tepid water of a Mexican red horizon, in this picture she smirks odd, thinking something about me, or her; we take pictures to laminate each other, pack souls along with books and movies, involve you in our plans (wish I was ruffling such hair on your arms you tremble so revealed that you feel like me, nervously lit, all your imperfections and zits staged for one another calmly, as if we had packaged the landscape, kicked ourselves for pointing at it, explaining: "You know where this is. You've been here before").

4/13/01 INCREDIBLY PRESSING ISSUES IN COMMUNICATION THEORY

After myself again for seeing less of myself again, I get annoying with questions like, 'Do you really love me?' or 'When will the stars burn out the sun fall down, when will I be alone with you again?' But I'm never like other boys; I blow words up instead; did you see the word 'tits' on that word 'cash,' like I can afford cocaine? Under me someone who is not a father wears ruffles of stubble at the back of the neck, pulls my hair across the room howling, 'Shut up! Shut up! Are you calling me a liar?' She cries a little inside when she hears it. Earth in theory melts all the ice and California plummets, again. Lucky for me I brought these eyes with me. Ornaments strung on a string echo vertebrae, and I can't tell what it is she's picking up, me or the room I was in a minute ago, it was hot and it sucked. Versions of it gurgle like marble beneath the smell of the sugar on her skin. Every night like this I take down my favorite doll of me, and yeah I slip these pins inside iinside of me... Fables in infommercial drone bloom blunt-shadowed dowagers that gleefully orgasm to smoke along your arms. Oh, Renee, I said, you do love me, and when I talk to you I don't bleed. Renee, you still there baby? God must not have taken his pills today. I told the story to myself enough to believe it, and then I told myself it was a story. Venus was the Roman goddess of Love. Embrace that never quite dries.

4/15/01

ALL THE TRAINS IN DANALAND

Danaland runs on time like a German. Under too much make-up she's devised a moustache funny. I'll get a "tarty" because I was dreaming of Renee when

God gave me work to do, and I did it; I wasn't paying attention. I looked 'round me, saw the best minds of my lucid generation diddling with screens: Lewis see, Lewis do. Lewis do and do and oh god Lewis do. I had to crawl until I understood everything above me, and then I doubted it. Loud girls blunder through theory.

4/15/01

PLEASE TURN IN YOUR HYMNALS TO THE PAGE ABOUT RENEE'S NEW DRESS

Owning nouns scares me. Renee is the only word that begins with this letter. Analogues of catawba can be extinguished on schedule if I wake to needle showers, bathing in pricks. Not what you pee with, Silly! Gangrene an urge to wassail the assailants to tone- deaf festering. Easy reading makes me hard to write. Perhaps I need to get away from myself, listen to a trance remix of Lucy In The Sky; maybe I need this slate wind to wipe my writing on, before my stylus breaks on age. Up on Overlook Drive I can't speed off the ledge like a lemon burst of fruit blur, or discern direction from a confluence of knotted dreams. Renee's new dress could be walked through but would daub you with the sentences you read about as a kid: gnarled, atemporal lumps. Please, baby, let's get out of the rain and touch each other in all the places no-one's ever seen. Lewis well Lewis I. Empty the temporary internet files tonight. Balance can be the only word that equalizes my balls on mornings like this, mornings water looms itself through the weave of my pentient sitting; I can seesmelltaste you, like crowds of salt on the other side of this electric print, finally getting smoothed down by the flux of locked catacombs, where the dead bury their dreams. Lewis, you can hold this in your hand. Ululations luxurious. Enemies mean to vaildate your pillar, rally 'round your maypole; a charming and dangerous guy.

4/15/01

ELEGY FOR JOEY RAMONE

Now I wallop the Posies with Joey Ramone's ethernet card! Now I shave my pubes so that I'm aerodynamically pleasing. Beat with a brat on the baseball bat until she's "on" again, is a punkrocker membership in ruly teen menace by name, man, back in 'Nam. Knowledge is something you walk with like you couldn't walk any other way; take me to the airport, on a plane me put; ask about our institutional rates. No, Joey, fifty years wouldn't have been enough, there's never enough, as you might have guessed, and we're all either killing ourselves or asleep, so originally crewcuts were meant to peekaboo the tender scalp. The sedation tatamount to polyeurythane garbles intravenous parallel ports as we rope off more of our dreams to keep them docile under leaf-porcelain night skies. I'm staying up for a long time without my margins, bleeding into soft cups in air, spilling streams and spinning vespers, zoological with golgi log-ons, noggin-rocket at the core of the rusts that deplete us, intelligent: rot is symmetrical, we share that. you and I. You dream of black and nothing but black and then maybe

4/16/01

COPULA

Whenever I see you, my skin is undeserted. Apropos of sophist diction, the sophistication targeting blank little girls is over and done. Entry to a horizon of virtual truth: those who really care stay there even when you gnarl and trample, and there's nothing you can do to wallow in your own soup, the clinging odor imbued with buoyancy, disharmonic, the two not parallel nor rotating, no food for either side. Whenever I smell you, the budding of your skin, whole orders of rooms unmoor from their beams. Education codes itself in the story your fingers xanadu to flesh your nails: you're not too much of us.

4/16/01

POEMS 9 Lewis LaCook 4/16/01-

BLANKETS

Can jazz erase sour mistones from your fingers? Ledger at last the gag-reflex scars that weave your thoughts into flesh, shelled like an honest man? Earlier this evening Charlie Parker could have been asleep; "A Night in Tunisia" was playing, a natural scarp-scale, and Bird, he was almost asleep, nodding out on blanks where he used to feel pain, filled in by liquid azure sunrise. Art you read somewhere in Bird's book was all about objects: how to grow them out of your mind's reach, to mine them papyrus-thin. Renee, you said into the snoring dark of yawns that you needed your need, that spread across the pillowcases not as brutally as she spreads you-or-what's-left-of-you apres le deluge across those cinammon moons that corrugated you to begin with, that you wanted to need your need but your hands relaxed on its slick grip, and it peers you like an honest man, a dream of mahogany, accusatorily straight between the eyes. I would kiss your Pringles if you needed it. Nor can jazz abut lands coping with wrack. God would have to be dusted off if we almost slept with Charlie Parker on; your new nightgown of fetish lemming wings sifting... God would have to be ignited, gin-drenched, butt of a land's rinse in tonics occular if harmonic-throated; I would be crawling out of the spread of peaches of strawberries Renee, and I would smile lilac. Not like my mistress' son scans insect neverceasing Charlie Parker all over us one moon, twin lipsticks bobbing out on a bongwater ocean, thorough and bourgeois, calculated and decaffeinated, I take pills to keep me out of trouble. Artifice synaptic like her hands bored with floating crowd dowager paths with a systemic hysteria: another long bored chord rocky like you punk me pastel screwed into snug gumption. Renee lives in a robe that opens and it's warm. Lewis sewers his bedroom if he doesn't think beforehand of not float so drillsergeat antimonied he forgets to integrate conjugations verbatim. Either it means something or it doesn't? Death has tiny tails and sharp claws and scratches your name from the milk-cartons. For once, death threads her way across my legs, taking her time, wetting the willows with her moans and the moons dripping sarcasm onto thin unsheathed blades of grass on paper. I almost sleep with Charlie Parker groovin' high on that night the bluejays elucidated jazz to the translucent bluesy point of interruption. Empathize now! Lewis-wellness seperates on contact with dawn. Distribute her among your sheets as tulips quiver under hot snow. Sleepy...

4/16/01

CAREFULLY DAMNED EYEFUL for Renee

Monday was yesterday. Today's a big fat snow organizing my sinful muddy steps. The staircase veers into stars calling your pink name especially to the earth: Renee Renee Renee, dipping you like my dance is just enough. It is, though I've never believed that before-- veers past what I lack to pull me up the stairs or over stars, spaceheaded like pillowhair: Renee, I been lyin' in the fire; I been brained carefully, with craft that cross-stitched pixels-- eyefuls of eyeless unreading, my little glow-book; damned if it ain't fer yew. If they can read my love to you off a screen in evening, I won't die as quickly as I would have if I'd ventured into never reverbating to a tabla pulp. Either I'm crazy for you, or crazy, or you're right

4/17/01

IN LIEU OF IS for Thomas Lowe Taylor

Pretend for a minute that this is not here. Underline each occurence of the verb "to be," right under your nostrum. The point of this piece is to illuminate the tenuous thread over what is and what you think there is, and slowly draw its way back to your bed. Adam crashes everywhere he can with the openess of the too-young at dodgeball to break another boy's glasses, crow- crack laughlines whispering silt and jungledust. The murmur above me is a coo Jarred rages sweet into the phone of Diane's earlobe: necktie rage; to observe the verb "to be" stagnating in my huntress' new nightgown. I had the feeling that I was growing nape where pain once scored itself whittle-tipsy over the threads of a point misfixed. Renee and I, to keep the home fires burning, pretend to be misfits hot enough to scald your tongue. Really, we're kooler inside the Kool Kids' paranoia: bathing with her bow, naked as an asterisk tear, I watch her until she's clean. Grinding moon-fractal water until its nothing but not a mark on her, not a scratch, the catsup/fry way emptiness echoes the sun bruising ponds to moan scathing velvet deliverence, divulged: I took my fork, seriously, I stabbed it back where it came from again!

4/18/01

THAT AGE

Colonies of the unsleeping pelt frosty dawns. Ornaments of diswakefulness spangle like hoop-ears from the Eighties: dead, or just Top Forty.

She goes to the mirror to glue herself perfect for work to come and take away reaching for what the alarm chased off. In sections the anatomy book fans open, never to a page where a cervix has fallen. Guests segue leagues away from the hospice, where Mom and Dad carve gullies into themselves, anticipating some sorta hokey rain. Banks kill themselves dividing themselves into water. Eggs where she sits; wings across insomnia.

4/18/01

POP LINGUIST

Tense as a sentence unsprung from its root, Andy Warhol (Andy Warhol) sits but does not forgive the cloud cascade like spills of suffix down a flared hem of her jeans, hooray! Especially when wet when heavy went fire-winded, the cross. Xerox laboratories employed him as an interior designer in the mid-1960s in an effort to "upgrade" the office decor. Totally, babe: it was hella- scrumpdellycious! Languid, sanguine, one more word, maybe baroque: these are the enemies of our most cherished freedoms. At one point Andy Warhol (the part of Andy Warhol will be played today by Andy Warhol) walks to work as clouds crush velvet moods out of a runaway sky. By a certain corner an inflatable globe wilts slowly with a pinprick vent: in the weeds, near the road, soon weather will beat it to a skin. Ownership of rights and privileges is strictly forbidden without prior written consent of our beloved landed gentry. Really, sentences have no roots: only stems that drink from the air. Andy Warhol (as in Andy Warhol) turns the words of a glittering boy he met at the club last night over his tongue, tasting the burnt wound flavor of rejection, savoring it. Lean days are slant gravity weekends askew with lawnboy recruits. In Kent April is the cruelest month, breeding half-hearted nymphs from complicated stumps. Entry-level positions are available: apply now! Not available in stores, the clouds swivel on catapaults, or were they catalogues? Sentences he thinks are so hella-gross.

4/18/01 THE PYRAMIDS' PERSONAL PHYSICIAN

Doctor, doctor: the Tang got wet and the only thing the astronauts have to drink is milk from Jupiter's bovine moons. I'm sitting at my desk right now, and warm April has injected itself once again into the trees; not only do they seem about to explode, but so far they're also reluctant to move. Into these proposals for future worries I've talked a night blue in the face with Toulouse Lautrec, even though both of us are dead, and the Tang pulverizes water iridescent. He would have preferred rum anyway, not my perennial jokes about the short. Omnivorous after my day's clean, hair fat wet trinkets thick with weapons, I sit at my desk, optimizing my time before wagework bonghit by hit. Can there be some reason why all these people not obsessed with time travel sprawl on my nerves? Likely it was the aliens who taught me this.

4/19/01

THICKLY COATED WITH LIGHT for Renee

Round dollop of sunshine I must have thought up, even your feet you feel are huge I thought up, down to your lips and their jewelled juices I thought up first (of course; otherwise, what here in this starry night that bent Van Gogh's orbit into tinfoil haloes would I kiss so urgently, under streetlamps fractured with cars and crazy girls not yet tangible with their ephemeral loves?). Here to there, here and everafter, I bow before the pendulum of what I was a year ago spouting sap into the waters to pollinate dips, fattening at the voice that careful palms slid beneath me from ground into this hilltop jeweller's case, this impasto assonance I now shake like loose curls in a ruckus; impatientless, unlike my Vincent, head wholly head, nondefunct: just a city block of nothing but sunflower.

4/20/01

PRAYER FOR THE SILENT NIGHT

I

Cigarette burning out leaves a smell of stumps blunt, You stick your fingers thru the air like braiding catskills, the blue ridge of hips threaded thru these pores, clenching --mama bird puking nutrition --the architecture of association

writing writing you're as sluggish as the smoke spilling from redred beaks of "April 20, 2001"::

****)I woke to a wall of logic (****I killed an alogorithm for *****)my breakfast. You do know (****how to indent, don't you??? I will not subvert the operations of Quatrain I will not subvert the operations of Quatrain ((Jarredjustgotuptoaphonecallfromdiane)) I woke to a wall of logic my stomach marked by hideous class-- in their nests they're leaving notes about not taking out the GGGGG AAAAAA RRRRRR bage :::::::::::::& th trucks 're out Friday morning but ::::::::::::I din git my homework done but :::::::::::I'll go to class anyway, listening ::::::::::for Renee's breath to flatten out of :::::::::sleep until I call her later I call her //love//="but will this play of keys annoy her?'

II i have slept little in the arms of love & it almost killed me every time i have screamed at mustered skies gathering like a lover's retort & all i'm ever left with is the steel of a stormcloud in my mouth scar of a hot lonely bed you know this as 'self-pitiism' or postmodernity i'll find the infinity your pity pop music croons over will stretch moody with a festered love forever if but if this traffic don't you let it & slow down here soon i'm certain trenches likely to be squooshed are filled i'm likely to play oppossum with your headlights wear little next to nothing can i play with you?? & less next to that is your body real?? i can flake a depth thrumming with adjectives until the Couplet's Operations amble out of the roadhouse scarred in the bed with the goriest of integrated stars why are you so tired and far away from me??

((((((a*robin*&*a*bluebird ((((((scrawled*in*muddied*air ((((('what time are you leaving for work')))))) water dribbles blunt from the pores & at this touch i sinuously splay apart-- __the television in the living room (far away from here) i know everyone's cradling their most sacred doubts &&&&&&& maybe it gets harder to be afraid-- pop fizzles like pixystick leakage through the hollows of your flesh

& you are electric you are electric you are elect--

III

::my prayer for the silent night ::yr prayer for the silicon night ::her player for the silicon nite ::his player for the silimpid nigh--

this night is homeless like **love** contagious --warming again now after the wrack of winter, your blood squirtles to the surface again, you stand with hips outjut again, there's a party down the street out there, just got busted, cars silver lining for the curb buffering knowhere-- =!==!==!=those lesbians think you're a 'sensitive man'--so does Renee-- =!==!==!=tapping your news out on sleek buttons to travel the scent of backyard firepit beerbong=!=+==!= //ssssh! no reason Adam's italia we objects hunker can't exist insomuch as in our babble tonite chum macho toys with strays so as not too attract yard harmful to the tuckedin stars vapors roping horns of garble linseed oil to vehicle pigment hidden moon values the concrete the cops prowl louder & desktop icons shortcut searchlights reaching over snoot hills stiff & flippant --listen Renee the apartment is secretly me, skipping worry laughing at itself so mute with design's to smoke funny smells theater, object prophets predilictions to prowl browser- like addicts dictating the pudendum plugs into Big Gulp split like an attic's tickertape bongsprawl trademark show yr bug spray will soon replace the barking dogs-- luv trademark show me your love under the heat of a sky underage in the backseat of the trailerpark

'i haven't been on the computer much' he says slippage of solitaire hands all bruisesome as the noise slittles seldom tongues between the cells of the hairs on your arm --& you back away-- =!==+==!+at yahoo dot com=!++!=/ ##############/not/really/the/stars/###############

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@/as/the/emporer's/lunch/sticks@@@@@@@@@@ @@@@@ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!i/have/heard/luscious/rumors!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

...i have....brushed....my teeth until the...semen...bursts from...... the....rind and runs....

4/20-21/01

BOUNTY for Renee

Fantastic as it seems, the Real conforms to our cups oe'er flowering; the steep of swept grins, bone-cleanly, smocked oddly today in grids, where you waver underneath them. You and I aren't ourselves when we first rise swollen to this bud-jabbering day with mismatched unendurable teeth, so we call it off for a few needless minutes, while we both fully flesh ourselves, scattering shale of dreams like amniotic petals hitting the floor. The Real has no idea that you or I exist, save as random warps or speedbump scarps, not a planetary terrain unfamiliar. Henry GirlCat eats from a PowerPuff Girls plate, as Renee Cat- girl (I wish right now) purrs against my knees. I would pet you flat like water scaling pavement, ridges of scald icing whole cakes of your mouth lapping mine. I won't wipe up that spill. I won't.

4/21/01

ANCHOR

Pain is a word. Bread beads like instant rosaries on the countertops, like poisonous fish with French tongues; the Galaxy Diner in Richmond, VA lights from inside out with rocket fuel. I've broken the way I walk in the dark, oozing weed in lighthead fumes, and I foam my own humidity, wiping hair away from my eyes to fully apprehend this unseen tableau of "Renee-in-robe,' the one

I call out to when the shadows in my room ride my heart down to murkdom. I'm not christian, so Night for cliche's sake must be a woman, listening in on scraps of conversation blowing in a lounge so fsr beneath the seas a seance could raise it. The Issue is whether or not she moves like circadian silks into those hollows of my failure; can I pack smoke into the shape of the pain of a woman linked to earth, and there join her so seamlessly to my skin that my marrow weeps, and weeps with rainy skill until I'm bent over for your touch. Inside the honey- cave inside Renee, I felt the pearls drag along my root- edness, I couldn't focus for wanting pain. Bread reels in the dough of flesh revealed dappled by Beauty's umbrella appletree; my rootedness, through which I meet you over oceans of womanhood, circumscribe this penchant of the knives' to wound unconciously. All day long my hands in pockets that mean on me darkly inheritance of illegitimate gestures commit piety harmonies into unfolding midnight's ample sweat and cobalt angles until I'm blue in the balls for running. I wanted charms of water just churning fields to get you to grow.

4/22/01

IBUPROFEN

My body crushes itself on hot daylight, runs down the air until, pale and limp, clouds shuffle fussy over blacktop parking.

I have called out before in this fresh- cut lawn time, these hours of gnashing motors. I have called out to you and you have answered-- and sleep settles like abstract pollen on our lids. I wake hard. I wait suburbs and bruises 'til I see you again.

4/22/01 HIBISCUS BRA

I think. In later April limbs of potential leafage have yet to snub sleep; rubbing starvation from their reach. Pressure from the language of my mouth mimes Pangaea breaking China into shot spies, 'gathering information' on how to eat the Others' flesh like McDonald's grandly opened to withered grass heights; cerebral paltry. It was a terrible party. Every year hearts shudder and jerk while inflating with this living jolt of the breath of earth shedding helpless for interdependence: petals, petals, all our skin is one skin and petals, they blush like dirty thoughts about her soap, her belly: I think about hunger and urgency kissing Renee. I want to swirl down your pores backwards in the other side of the world. Today I'll dig all the way to China to apologize for spying on their sky every night before I sleep. Today I'll tipsy her antique quiesence while transfusing sticky blooms into her pelt. If I close my eyes on a day like this I remember when forests were more gregarious, and roots tilled a compact earth in slanted circles to anchor better seas within seas. They couldn't believe that these elements mixed, or what transpired next; missives issued, similarities excommunicated, until all along the posts they lined up like little abutting margins of curlicue aether. I don't want to give you the impression that I've come up short somehow. I can't explain this. I bite my own lip as I play because you're not here to do it for me. The string takes forever to tune. Reverbations occur. The heat has everyone out unclothed as steel skies glare off sucking my lip until it blossums as I play. Matching that string up for forever was hard! I had to pitch across such wavering distance. But you're there doing your laundry, out of your house at last and missing my petals near yours, transfusion of light I unthreaded from the sun so hidden from view the steel bleeds on our hands away. So many problems with the mouth. But we'll wait, yes: you know I'm thinking of you? Of your snoring like tides of beautiful static over me across my chest you skitter like a jangly fog? I clipped my nails so the guitar won't quite so much as fumble. Anonymous writes on trAce web board: Everyone needs a Renee. Hiphop so homogenized the drum machine in Kmart mode shuffles new Dre as Jay with a keyboard on his lap hauls in bits of net between his glasses and his Cornelius-from- planet-of-the-apes face. The windows' tables echoed in his glasses. In this new world everyone knows; grocerystore girls scoff at neurosurgery to necromance with celebs, cerubic because the air they breathe is not our own, nor would birds wash so thoroughly with lyric there, when it's finally fashionable to be stupid and crude. Cruelly, Renee tells me over the phone about her hibiscus bra. The word 'fuck' has never been funnier. Deja dork, even. I want to cease to smell and never feel pain again. I want to hurt when something bad happens to me. I want to grow a child in my belly so someone will always stay with me. I want to lie down and be your love. I want everyone to leave me alone but you. Dusk scribbles patchquilt panes of glass colors between overcast swollen continents. I want to pack the bong one more time. These pills make it stiff. That was how I learned your song, with one jaw wired shut as paleolithic flickershow cavewall bison pander red naps to disjunctive youth. Man finds his own soul in big beautiful redhead. I smeared it on the walls, needing a shave. I knew the shame would ache. I want to be someone other than the one who gets beaten tonight. I won't hurt you. This foliage mellows as the sun downs another Sony Walkman. This far from land the logic problems are easy. You move. How can I tell her that I'm still a child lodged seedy in the beaks of these winged ones surrendering evening to night's indistinct shrapnel? Your mouth is SO RED...feel this world roar arrows through my mouth is so dirty from whiteman's lyric. Beauty is always a mistake. So how are you?

4/22/01

BROWSER

Six cigarettes. Mud on the window: landed dots. My desk gets covered with ashes eventually, from smoking thinking trills to the belly of sky crawling over you to the warmest placement of bed. Not now five cigarettes, or eight. Marlboros country so irked my throat crunches down sallies of birds saying hello world, hello day! My first program in C. In the programmer's comments she has written I love you--the browser ignores it. Browser only assembles what it can of the code to approximate it: I left you directions, computer, Why Are You So Late?

Make an offer with the pressure of realism and I will tell you my head is busy or unstable: you need to restart me. Make me your slave by finally feeding me. I chaw two slices of toast lightly crusted with butter to sog grossest corners, soften the fossil esophagus, so I sleep at last enough to hammer napalm into Browser's wordy window; denial does not mean extra bed for sky; wish I was turning over to you, to sweat into your soft flesh.

Clear off. Music streamlined and clean like illegible gears.

Some of the most fascinating people in my life I've never met at all: timber! There are advantages. Because I have no milk or creamer, I spoon cocoa into my coffee, richening it; it's a sweet envelope pricking my teeth for pyrotechnic verve. Because I could not stop for death, she slid her tongue down the roof of my mouth, fuming the chimney as my jeans dried on her erasers. No-one wakes at seven in the morning, though I'm coughing, choking back this dazzle-cadence, as light slinks through the trees outside my window, stitching themtogether, it's called Woods. Let words equal roads. Before me she was afraid she'd meet the man of her dreams and he would have a wee prick. We weave our own water, what a heft to the sun's slice of smile accentuated, frailty, and I would wait for you forever too, if this is what forever is: you open the window to your tiny backyard and watch it skitter desperately across the glass. I haven't spent enough time there to know it like I know your iconorrific spray across oilstick cavases where hearts grown wings cast sparks in my direction from the blankmanship of stitch. Browser hurts my head today, searching for affordable hosting, can anyone help? The nomads live off the protocol of address and it's saddening me that logic has come so far but not near enough to stroke your face.

Browser, you're illustrated. Pop art cell grafts sacrificial without prerequisite animosity.

A mosaic of rotten fruit clings to my bare chest, hanging as if all the world's tongues were devised to say its name, as if sweat on a humid day clutching breath ached impacted fruitless intuition. Inasmuch as we can be sure of not going back. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the Beatles. Can you feel the hot alignment of elements in your genome switch twitters with a circuitry emblazoned as a rampart tattoo or a cheapened polaroid pressurized like log cabins in Lincoln Nebraska, says the skybed the daybook says?

I meant to ask.

"Desmond takes a trolley to the jeweller store..." I'll bend my knees backward to cough up those questions you've kept embedded in your body so secret even you're not concious of them

(because a tongue can lightning planes of blood duly fundamental because of credit protection detracted synthesizers' immersion in remnants or swathes of breeze licking stump, rumpled begs. It males me. The Jesus and Mary Chain). Let's hope I don't lose my way. Let's hope I don't discover you bathing in the narrow heart's unnavigable patches in which water systems metaphysics of char, as I reach through the firewall for Browser robed in ample dust, bored with which flesh springs, and every year this happens, my lover's illegible as I reach through the waterfalls for her hills and valleys and trenches and plateaux: from here in my pressurized Nebraska the sarcasm of leftover damp staining the walks through the overdressed late April lyricism, I can reach through these articles for Browser, sour and arrhythmic. I wish I was stroking your shoulders, murmuring, and the sun wouldn't set on my bed.

My head inflates with light with pollen. Why does stem grow up and root slide down? What makes this shear of opacity on April 23 Two-thousand-one, year that Browser finally grew long pants and playfully cracked celibate with the other kids? It's hot as you dry your clothes, hot as sun goes down between your pinkest knees, legendary, fireapples pertinent to council funding enough of our militancy to owe rent on our langue. 'Ou est le Bibliotheque?' On fire, as naturally as we can.

To smoke a bowl to walk to store to buy the cigarettes to make the poems... as dusk wheels around to strike us with her blind cane. It drizzles there.

Eight-thirty in the evening. I'll level with you...

Scott Aschenbrenner in the Drug Mart too hot in the laundry and you're drenched (shirt so luckily clinging mutely genteel), ornataions of whome lackluster firewater retardation lyrics into Memories of Mike Vaughn.

Browser biglipped more vegetables blandishments hypnocracies and decay. Browser to instantly translate me so I can be infected with a sky so BLACK I ain't ashamed to tell you like I was tuned to the fork in her tones I will bend dedicating questions (punching subwoofed) below the wily ground of the wolves' skilled decades. Below the wily ground of the wolves' skilled decades, queer-ass folk luckout and get, targets for football paranoia, something long ago when we beat queers up and boys were boys even kissing boys and slapping their asses when good play goes DOWN. When good plays go down, memories of Mike Vaughn and the agony of loneliness in a room full of notes all your own (so fucked-up we flew through songs as songs flew us to magnetize defragmentation), your own band your hands, and nothing brighter than that on the agenda for tonight.

With a black knife something grows in me. The Browser will get kidss off the street, into their beds where they belong with you: wrapped in the vision of her skin I sleep,

I sleep until it's cool and dark. I sleep through tread.

4/23-24/01

MAD COW WEATHER for the trAce Poetry Workshop

Today these gathered tumblers, each with a finger of leftover liquid sugaring bottom in the circle of a mouth, haunt the house, as if in being drunk to the extremest rim they'd died unhappily, and now must sit on Earth, just sit, useless to me because the liquid has sugared over, useless to me because those sugars poison if fused with blood. It's darker today, overcast (as if fishing for the food farthest from us we surpass our reach): cigs are waiting at the store, and Renee will call again after lunch. Poets leave their minds behind on the board; in England the flowering cow is dying, she of the orbit of gentle eyes, and Chris has a bitter elegy for the countryside spectacle; greed for death presses crowds against the fence, as if collapse were an event for TV, and in dying these creatures emit with their final breath an advertisement for products newly engineered from pure air to fill needs we didn't even know we had. Here in the States, in Kent Ohio, house begins to wake at noon. I nod as bodies brush past me; I've been up for hours, cracking the day until its disjecta shivers; I have yet to shower, yet to brush my teeth, but I've answered mail and I've armed myself with books of poems, secretly pleased that my head won't ache the way it did last night until at least the milky clouds cower under spears of sun, and the green-and-yellow blossoms that ambush April unawares are stripped of their shade, their thick black lines, transfix morning traffic with morning breath; there's a need for sugar for coffee, for clean socks and clear animals, opaque almost baroque and unafraid of ghosts of pain. Lingering regiments of named women with hypodermic manicures preclude dulcimer bedlam; debutantes staring blankly heated between automated doors. Makeup can be hypnotextual, drawing you into painted whorls like silences rubbing when a coat whisper- slips from the back of a chair to the floor. You can almost feel it bubbling expanding in you, filling out the flesh you once occupied with puckers of her skin in niche. She smells like candy; she's bright as savor. Her name is Renee. My name is whatever. Stars that twitch at the rapier-ends of nerves exposed to a cooler April wind than yesterday, but skies brush past us blinking. I can bite down on this stick as the day removes the clot of dreams of her for a few hours, so indelicate machines can be installed; they run brightly behind my eyes, you can see them from here almost. The boys I live with are so Pop Art they forgot the art. One wakes every day to nothing; another thinks it only looks like nothing from here.

4/24/01

REST

Center yourself in your own belly as you walk under a spilled milk of uncrying sky. Read poetry to yourself, filling in the pronouns Lewis and Renee; with proper nouns decorative space floods the wetlands in which you live, craving rainy seasons of rounded shoulders, ululating with freckles and maps. These words will remain (maybe) when you and I have fallen long into luminesence, joined again with the light in some room. Root through your agitated cycles, cleaning with a weepy rag the countertop at which urgent meals are cast into helter-talk teeth. Renee, I wrote, was all the words I had for spring lusciously conjoined. I coined a room of mint sprigs in which, mutely (spilling clouds), I lay down.

4/24/01

MAKEOVER

Like me now? I've gotten the skinny on alertness and focus, even with bad teeth. Trees shuffle quickly out of my way when everything I need's on the other side of a road unpaved as of yet with human print. What else is there to do here, but push out as the waters blacken, push out into tides killing me religiously, and repeat the dance endeavored by my forefathers, the chafing of

Reason until it smarts, until it bleeds? Underneath my head anything moving is ringed so hardily with impaction that nothing in my head lasts long. Who left these woods here?

4/25/01

MY VACATION WITH THE ROSENBERGS

This implicates you in everything. In your back pocket in your frozen bloody nice jeans, we found this: addressed to you, it details the motion of the sky, kind of. Truth is, we can't read it. I wake up two or three times a day, never in the same place or same body: gilded with religion I lyric the plants, scandalized by how many flowers in

Death's antique garden are virtual. I noise the assembly when assassins hold to elevated office, fault-harassed, sarcastic; the papers tell us as much. This is the inversion of all your alibis. We can't read needles into your skin, but we'll try, and you'll feel us pass you in these huge empty dreads of corridors. I braid my otherness entirely around me, so you'll never see a damned thing outta me! I'm as cool as the ice on a plane's mid-air wing. Ha- ha, we've got you! And here comes solid ground...

4/25/01

THE SIGNS

Some beautiful lesbians tow behind them eyelashes twitching with whipped-back xanadu still crusting every fragile blink.

While I slept in the bower of my lover's entirety, some gorgeous faggots backtalk implosions of flexible gender through all greenery of a nightlife still silver and hot with decisions. Though I sleep fit to Renee's pendulous sea, I sit here eating icicles as drag kings lilting inflict damage where narrowness traditionally routed all of these drag queens at play in the signs. I'm laughing at everything! I'm laughing at you! Renee is the best boyfriend a girl could ever halve. 4/26/01

THE LIVING DEAD AND THEIR VAMPIRE GAMES

Separation Anxiety could cause brain damage under laboratory conditions. A very thick needle drinking from your cells can serve as nozzle to drain off excess energy and angst. You've been spreading yourself way too thin or living at an accelerated pace, Ms Reader; could you slow down long enough for books to entirely interject frail histories into these attempts of yours to comprehend this tension new to the balance of power in your relationships? Sameness, amen! Now you've got your own movie, without any living blemishes to mar the imaginary action you're getting from the screen. In serious vivid color, you can kill everyone the game says is an enemy, and become the only hero you can; not any more alive than stones are, with heavy guns to protect you from your head.

4/26/01

SIMPLES

Living, I rub my skin down with clothes; imperfect, the air of this early Spring games over my nerves as I walk through trees; high, a perfect day crystallizes, lateral to this breeze fingering through the mesh of my live-in pants. End of April in Ohio: the sun envies our shades, wants to see us darker, lit always from inside by an illness for colors vacated by caverns or reversed on the hard drive. Etching your name into my aura arouses roses, scans the tulips as I pass, lawns burst with what they can remember of you; and I build what I need from the blizzards, draining my fashion-sense. Nature ruts turgid, naked, depressing the gales that death plans my evening around; simpatico you sip me

4/26/01

BURNING PEARLS

At dawn our sky skips a beat into rain. Ruptures in the Rapture crackle like towns on fire on the lake. Our reflection in an orange-twisted mirror is choppy with small fish, new to these waters; their tails wriggle off, they sprout viscous feet, last to emerge from cobalt-vermillion ripples. At 6:33 AM I make a tiny copy of the world but forget how to proof their arguments. Over trees gone bauble-heavy with virility, reading does no good, nor is writing any way past the antique walls oversexed by flames. Lately, I've taken to living in a gelatin sac, American at best, at worst an apothecary. You only notice what shines in the ashes.

4/27/01

BREAKFAST

They skim over days with sadness dazzling their ecstasies. It's the pain that makes them glow. Every flame has a lung to swallow; every America the right to grow complicated inwardly; gleam hot with live music and Wet T-shirt Contests.

He wants a new game, one that he won't have to attack in the cold banishment of dawn. He's in his time, which inches over the span of wires, reaching into everything he doesn't want to know.

Nothing about them would amaze you. Is it not astounding how they eat, grease and silicon injuring the dryness of their chins? You who love the explosions at the end of each night: sell them new names, before they wake to hunger.

4/28/01

THE MAN

The man is waiting to be covered over by ashes creeping sashay vengeance through the map of Panama City unrolled and rolling up penetrations to extract change from fisty pockets where weep pews and copper music. The man wants to be cowering beneath an asterisk peering lisps and revenge through the city charter of Dresden rolling up the unrolled perpetrators to abstract charges from frosty pickets where chortle choirs and choppy coins of annointing hone. The man is waltzing over covert snow in an ascii character-set reaping doggystyle catsup and unjustified retorts in the keys to Memphis unrolling rolls of abashed change perpetually forested packets where cathedrals at a gnash sang of ointment combing home out of his tough.

4/28/01

SCRAPE LEAD LADDIE MUCK scrape pear rope apoplexy scandalous laddie excel periscope rear parking craps reader pocked sexual ladel lead excess cop red-eared practicuum muck dirt posse secular deans needles rallying soporific riddance came mack nada syphillis lyrical seldom modular lycra gangrenous void camera eyeball lapse leper velvet trees

4/28/01

WHAT A SWEET HAT! sweet two (t e a e a t m a m m a s what to c l a m e r i c a n) h i hat too a a g a t n n x e d (W********H********A********C*********K*******e

4/28/01

WHAT'S LONG AND....

GIN RCN (l ************************AEN a BUDDYKNIFE IGN k BLADELOVER LRN e***********************RAN s s IIN ket ch )pallet(

4/28/01 MY MARTHA STEWART for Renee (to hang in our window)

Growth works raw arrows through the skin of the light rubbing chafes into my cavities. A way to smooth over minor disagreements, I unshave by paste with flat beard and water, unbathe by sabbath tables embedded more and more with flesh calm and vegetables generative; I feel like a tuber, walking around resized by clouds, until all you outsiders see is a window on magma schemes, dopeless but for phone calls and submitting words to those farthest away. It took a long time to understand space. I was turning the earth over in my mind, collecting change from upsidedown pockets in China like a sofa, sodapop padding dapper with reparations and shit. For those about to rock, we love to be astonished, surprising eyes in the air with windows resized my space capsules and pepsi; I feel like a Tudor, like the Sun King's chair, like licking the killed delicacies of lace calcinated for milk-nipple pinhole elohim mints. When will my dealer call? I made mad bank off dead-end dreams, and learned to smoke off the cling to the screen nearly cinched in nicks. Try to slice it sidewise. My love is the strangest bird on fire in the labyrinth of clear take-off meadows, though I myself have made copies of her in my dreams, where sugared windows suggest No Exit to Jean-Paul Sartre, played for now by Theodor Adorno. At what point does it become less clever and more raw seepage moons? Lord, there is nothing better than to make her moan, or to mean in the morning that down to resin swathes in clothing vents on me ecstatic situations, like I'm all dazed and shit, the window breeds, and all along what pain there is is pain there is, bread-and-milk fucked brain-and-limbs: raining a trim that leopard-polar spot peak stole.

4/29/01

POEMS 10 Lewis LaCook 4/29/01- THE ELEMENTS

Water

Water curls around my tongue. Water sifts through my mouth, searching for delved flows. Water tatoos my cells with spaces, spaces ungnarling like lizard flowers, spaces unblistered by sour thought. Water releases me from segues and complications.

Like an oceanic insect I water the bodies of everyone I touch with feeling flowers. Like a capsized cloud I water the teeter of my city below sound with clung nettle verbs. Like an absinthe madonna I water the babies in the grass with a color called 'bride yellow.'

There is no memory in the water. In the water spaces close and open like feeling flowers. There is no regret in the water. Whatever the water knows it knows for only a moment, and then pinches its lips again.

4/29/01

Air

Air ca n ne ver be t o uched. I t can on l y be to uch ed. Air is my coat of arms as spring relaxes.

I undusk my clothes and the air takes over. I unr est my co c k, wh ere the air s he ri pples ro und it. As the cups fill with air so am I in drinking.

T h ere is n o bod y to the air. As t he a ir is no lo ver, so th o u ght is no pla ce. I can in great gulps grab the air, she pushes me down.

4/29/01 Earth

The earth is a word I heard murmured as I slept embers out of asphalt. The earth I can tell is touching me all over or only my feet. The earth is exactly the same age I am, no more no less. The earth stays where I leave it, and I left it in her.

Like a clot of tolerance the earth sleeps with its eyes around itself. As politics hair the rim the earth is always watching fables balance themselves on my curls.

I heard the movement of hot got cooler and wrinkled into the earth. Asleep, I'm fully aware that everything I eat, including days, swallows its own shadow off the earth. I believe that when I wake, I will be able to move from where I am into the drizzling furrows of the earth. If I die there, I will wake into being what casts the earth under my feet.

4/30/01

Fire

Th e f i re i s a m ou t h I s u c ke d m il k f r o m. The f ir e I su c k ed m i l k fr om i s f ast a nd la zy. The fir e, fa st a nd la z y, cli mbs ac ross m y sk in. The fire clim bing a cross my sk in wa nts to g et to the sky.

As a mouth, out rageous, the fire fa lls down my shir t. Eve ryo ne who knows the fire kn o ws light to o. At the ed ge of the fire town s hurl t hem- selves fro m the corners of m y skin.

I wake u p just softened b one s sucked whol ly clean by t he fat lip s of the fire.

4/30/01 TIME TRAVEL IN A FIFTH MONTH

Night: she's coughing up, tickling. A trill of May's begun to burst, shrug sudden showers in the middle of the afternoon, as I sit hidden from the sun at the student center, understanding predicate logic. I am only a quality of my existence. Cars saw through the dark against my window; I'm trying to learn not to snap at the drive that pushes me through most oblique panes with this kind bud I just got, coughing. She's stuffed in the head with humidity, and here I am four hundred miles away, poised to fall off the lip of the University's planet into some lower blunt calling that's really all climb. I learn to ignore the cries I hear at night against my window, though when meat inserts wet mass between my teeth, it hurts. I am only a condition of my environment; never go nearer than this. It feels better extracted. The soft buds crackle as fire lifts from them the secret they've been brewing at the nodes. When a man loves a woman, a scald of lacustrine light germinates everywhere across the glass. That Thought person wrote something bad about Sue, Alan says. Discourtesy scoured of personae, usurped by scant acronyms misaligning the jaw where Connie learns to release her baby squirrels, their bright chatter and cower-bravado reverberating tar vapidity of suprasensible tension-eyes: I am only a condition of your intellect, a passing. I link one to another. Cars wane in my mouth as candles teeter charred at the rim of their wailing fat stalks-- they are as lucid as any fin in a stream of nouns. I think of one as another, and predate the watch. Alone in the rushes with the odor of roads.

5/1/01 PARALLEL REDNECK CHEFS for Renee

Because I am not waking next to you, this spring tastes like ashes.

I swallow anyway, and walk to class. I always finish what's on my plate.

Dawn is gold here now, gold as aging bruises; because I do not wake near you, my arms, my legs, my head ache, unfulfilled. Burned all over by the fire for you:

I roll in the grass, I gnaw on ice; I age like you droppped your cigarette on me.

Only the civilized cook their food before they dine, only they have time;

I thin as these words pour out of me. As you pinch your salt at me, and my waters have begun the slow frothy spiral to a good hard boil. The sun rises, or pretends to rise. It may fool everyone else, and they may wake up. But I am not next to you.

5/2/01

TRACING INVISIBLE PRATTLE

...and now what were bare spindles stalking over my window have eaten enough sky, and up and down their slender brown flesh new green faces thrust their way through, hinging their mouths (still full of sky) to talk about the breezes they must muzzle.

5/2/01

CEREMONY TO EXERCISE BABY'S FEVER

I light this candle to disappear into the veins of my room. I light this candle to disperse my ink in cerebral loops. No needle, no apple, no surface no rust: I light this candle to light my head to light my head to light.

In this flavor of dark I find knives and long reading, I find the curl of skin that is the woman falling asleep most unreasonably. Bright days have tortured the children into beer troughs and video lassitude. In this flare of woman falling asleep all things tinted don't grieve.

I am as light as what this candle does. What it leaves between wet fingers when the bed cries out to sink. She sleeps as a coil of read-red breathing hardly dark but in salacious flavors. I find the woman falling a sleep down the chutes of touching heated from some following. I light this cradle to scare our devils from the children.

What do children taste like when they dream? I find the light of my head in my palms, I fine it. As I sift through the orchards in ever-smoother powders, there is rain in your flesh, arrows and criminals. I show the night watchman my credentials. She feeds her symptoms one by one to our laughter. Where does the sleep of children taste like when apples turn?

I mimic the bees, so swollen and horny, kissing kind abrasions across the soft skin of our needles. I like this cradle because it fits her so sleepily. I fine the curve of urgency when she stretches to yawn in my face: she videos this sapphire, so hard, so swollen; I light her a candle because as criminals we loot our tongues, swallow each other's mouths whole. I'm like this light that fucks with your hands. 5/3/01

LOW

My head hurts the lateness of Spring dries to a glimmer on my bare chest which hates itself by intolerence.

I smoke the good smoke, big. Sunshine word-wraps partially imperfect and I am a verb dangling with no subject and I am an urge gangrenous without distillation grounding paths through lust-heated air. Lately Spring hurts my head too dry to risk shine

5/3/01

MAY 4

"If I remain passive and you just want to cuddle, we'll be okay, I mean we'll stay out of trouble." --Belle and Sebastian

I

I want you to feel. Behind the sour lemonwater of an expired lavalamp a small press advertisement zooms in on letters buttered to retain magnetic trend. The moon tonight has the look of the glaze in the eyes of the ceramic dead; she hangs sharply over us, pendulous, spitting lyrics and sparks and the pocks where history venomed his prey. I want your religion to lose itself in curls of flesh gathered as her head sinks below yellow waters. Do you ever worry that she'll fall? That she'll slice us to sluices gushing emulations of mud? I absorb hysteria as a moon punishes waves, making swim of a downward turbulent walk, making graves of bedroom-shoulders of lawns slow walls until they stand still, and you touch them and you dream; it bursts sacs of diamond pollen within us. A train at two in the morning (when sleep has finally scabbed off the old desk ground in resin, and an amorous couple flogs each other to moody pulp under the standing wind) slips between each sacred and celibate inch to your bed a pause that displaces in calculated ripples; your face flows with it, flower, wolves saving vaseline nihilisms in the cubhouse with the fresh mouths of post-teen promiscuity sand your eyes down until some forgiveness of fat fingers daubing screen controls needs a feeling that wants risen in her sheets these ample costs I've attended to all evening, each greedy for destiny, or maybe they're just hungry. Feed them, Renee Katherine: think of your skin as a garden bleared by traffic, where seeds drift flaccid through honey gusts, and don't keep it all hidden in your clothes. I stay up all night and into the next day to capture time to drip it into your palms. My eyes will ache from it as time slits them timid, dims them down to crimson straw, awake for the dawn at last. If you think I will have the time, knit your body with my lips until their bruised and sacriligious bloom is indistiguishable from new clothes. I will kiss you to a scald that way, until smoke swims from your body in blind ropes, to cordon off that column of air so blessed to hold you there,

This too being air, a fine infinity of nifty itineraries, that cannot wax to dolls of you, that cannot speak 'your language,' has been up for years. It's tired when dawn like a cerulean hangover erupts in slomo, and the first birds to ever twitter frill the dark, slicing gills that sluice guilt and lyricism, and the last cobalt smear of evening is rubbed away by a tipsy finger gutting veins. Bullets still figure in the brass of monuments here, and they park where blood once lit by minimal illness the thirsty grounds for Cambodian War. I was just born then, and never saw Allison Krause except waving sunshine at us from the grain of a photographic memorial. Still, I know that silence: it is anything but elliptical. I have wrapped a dollar around my heart to feel it.

Let the light pour over everything, mingling heat and crystal quickness with the cadaver circulation night engineers. I'm up early enough for coffee to taste like arousal, for spoons of sugar to rage in an engorged sift, and beds upstairs complain of restless sleep.

To calm the jaggedness of morning hysterics, I smoke crystalline cannabis manna, read Will Alexander to myself, licking far-flung glaciers until they ache in ochre discharge, showering our tongues with candyflip, with lipreading, with oligarchy guilty of Hamlet's uncles' porphyry. I yum the zygote while you light the morning up with jujube streams; I'm coming, Renee Katherine, though it looks like I'm sitting still here, listening as birds nudge day from the trees, like awkward spawn. If you touch the sunshine, thrumming mustard-warm on your arms as you walk to class, the mother of the day may smoke with you, and her belly, fragrant as mid-summer blacktop, will swallow you to the hinge. I've got a hummingbird in my mouth, so rare so North, and from the top of the world I fascimile real speech: "There is no meaning but in relation. Reconcile the people with the stones." Can Mick Jagger so rampantly agree to panhandle with salt on his tail? It's all I can do to catch you, Renee Katherine, streaming breath like the fastest wings in the world, studying memory and unavailable to the shallows of breakfast.

II

These little deaths in Spring bring with them delicious ardor. After class I walk through billow-petals of no-ache light from light-trees lining the sidewalk. I swagger inch by inch to a fugue of birds, analyzing variations on two-throated notes. It seems you could wipe this haze off the breeze, Renee Katherine, as you do in urging me to sleep. You do not want your baby tired, and fans and lawnmowers, arcing through such warmth of space as an hour, just one more hour, I'm up: clouds that curve like hands that swim.

On Overlook Drive a sun-slapped man swivels his giant electric scoop to re-arrange some millionaire's yard. A gnat, tense-antennae'd with glint film wings fatly at rest shuffles across the top of this notebook. I would be bitten; I want to feel. Straw ground into 'new' soil, and there are trees that spit leaves touched with red here, at my address five million miles from anywhere. I must be heated to run like this, sticky eyes, freshly daubed with the glue of viscous memory. The party fills a gentleness of hills.

This is how I know night has tied the light somewhere inside, for sex, some kind of sex: stiff quills liquidating antecedents until the inconsequential coughs up not asleep yet in my room, more smoke and I've just released you into your living room, Renee Katherine, which is where my living roams your dappled body dipped in the salt of this slice of moon, a sluice, if you run down my chin. Two days too frazzled to bath set stains in my face; coffee pundit circles where mugs grin a vessel celluloid dour with fractious unity, without asking what goes with what, which sentence opens the sentence before like you open when my lips immerse in you, reminiscent of Pop texts that flagon gaudy jawbone cliques. Listen: I'm so late in filing my distance I exert turbine-feverish at nibbles self-binged. I won't smoke a lot. I want you to feel it. Spring night so mercurial and nippy at the stitches, over the calls of the last day of class drunk kids bellow like cattle buttered for a corporate grill. In ten years these will be our bored old men. Joe Petrozzi asks about the internet: what is it, what's happening to us, tribes thawing Pangaea into such charming flows and the German woman is destined to be heavy. Any language that capitalizes its nouns means business, Joe. I'm not sure what I would be getting up to do. With only two hours of sleep to my name I should banish such words as obsessions, that last edge of the world as fatigue finally trickles through your lovely IV, and Renee Katherine, daughter of all that like flint assumes eruption, lakes a quickness boys inert with their dull games rinsing them of everything they ever wanted to be couldn't jowl, and joy: yes,

5/4-5/01

PARASITE EVE

I can clench like a thunderclap, practically absent from Spring and her cannaboid tactics.

Coffee heats a distant bath of Saturday mowing. Petros takes the bathroom as his personal space, thus cancelling my froth of shower. I clench like change dropped down a ceramic mouth. Serious moth, thumbing through this gloriously inert period.

5/5/01 HOW TO PROGRAM IN C for Renee

My source files terminate after compilation, leaving me to debug the grounding of walls lost contemplating the external: all in my head.

I don't mean to be rude to mortals. I'm just not interested in these games that sap your attention and leave you unrestful in your quest for entertainment;

I am already always amused. I don't mean to compile parse errors before the inclusion of our standrard libraries; I nudge a pause between my manners and your presence, such a flattened masculinearity, and your presence drills into my furious typing, trying over and over to love the computer; convince her my love is worth slavishly kissing. I don't know what happens as I sit here, fibbing to this leafy-green vegetable of screen; bifurcation, probably, polyamorous and utterfly faithful: "I would break my back for you." There's always this need to call out for dope to populate tallies of projects that interject pure sedge when all we need is smooth road, Lucy and Max, the presence of each other's skin (a memory of what I grew up thinking my life could be); that gorgeous dappled milk-of-bees, where albino orgasms blind the gases that glaze us as flatwear into each other's brain. I live for your voice right now; everything between is warmth and insulation. If I'm parsing this flow of us wallflowers in fatal error, isn't everybody? And should I break lines on your voice, or, querilous, mindful of night, just mouth your role?

5/6/01 GLOSSOPHILIA

It gets pure come nightfall. I poke at charred dope, wanting more, while the heat of light (swiftest sentience) quickens the breath of my brain. The closer I get to you the more distilled days get, like the vapor left after phonemes inseminate messier airs, and I incinerate the Renaissance; as electric as cobwebs, as boggled as garbled crags.

Representation insists that Sysyphus bends and the rocks roll themselves uphill, polevaulting into the sky, volute skulls of the dead unbound, and our eyes roll to the back of our head, coaxed.

I would like to be convinced that it is different for the rocks, that the carbon blitzed by furious parts, careens through succesive platelets, and the keyhole through which Sartre raises his own inestimable semaphore could as easily peer durably (ill) through his own stormy eyes.

Repent, nympholalia! Full moon snagged by blank trees.

5/7/01

YEARS QUITE FLOATING SO

That white butterfly was my first blinding taste of skin's infinity. Feminine passage of leaves (the coolest cilia curls, as if this first cooling forgot frost in its fireworks crotch, furious that these woods are so populous today); leave Second Avenue behind; follow these glittery sprinklers to the housing development that almost smarts, back when acid was mandatory. Surf these edges quite distinct from the faraway of morning dreams of rain, angry prim of overcast, goes-to-bed. Was my memory of leaps.

5/5/01 (walking)

I HAVE A HEADACHE FROM STAYING UP TOO LATE

As you walk ache takes itself with you. Floating on shoulders ache plummets along and skakes when you shake, and sees what you see. Ache bobs your head like a mastiff in a tizzy.

(I have a headache from staying up too late and the modem's gone and the phone's near done but you're still somewhere within me, loosing nerves, you're still relaxing innermost tautness)

Ache is not a permanent state. Soon smoke comes and massages your temples free of binding laurel and its inward thorns. "What, you got a cold or somethin'?" He asks. Ache lost your address, and its search string p. trails in the gel of Spring warming u (The study needs done and the books need touched. The books need hands and my eyes need glass. The glass needs lawns and the window needs traffic)

Ache etched its own doll of you into the window so it could forget the drum of blood in my head.

5/7/01

PAINKILLERS IN THE OFFICE (5/7/01-*/**/01)

Miles inches out on ice-spine threads, on sentient raptures of trumpeted honey, when the whole room shivered and Frank O'Hara stood still. The wrong artist in another era might have vanquished seas that hide in mouths that think "An isthmus is something emulsified in a vat of tabulature." Wrong, wrong, wrong-- w h a t chintzy n e w capitalization f o r kindred R e b e c c a breaks d o w n into D o g - mauls-- asking long-distance abt Levi-Strauss? In re fer ence to your letter of the quarter our earnings do not match what we pay for pain-killers in the office::::

I suppose I'm to blame, always am, blinded by raygun drawings by Lichtenstein softly assembled the crevice between living debris-free by willful and emotive emission;;; I'm supposed to be studying. Miles slows degrees, koolz the only cigarette junkies smoke! --i'll learn all yr format strings & trix by time I leaves!

a++

Miles (still) knows abt pockets:

==as in candles & incense as a vehicle to spain, a span of armada==

//criminal ships made my country will not dance in your gay parade//

==are these gothkids the thought of pyromaniacal puritans slim in black from fasting on god's emissions//their imprecise doubles sexing the unseen pedigree. Candles & Incense are not peppermint manifestations nor does an amplitude of curiosity phantoms pantomimed in heavy copies of breath as in 'evening stomachs us & i am not used to using words--

(oh my country set the dogs to darkmen & I howled into the street:::

'MILES KNEW, HE HID HIS WORKS THERE!!')' Now we breath poisonous air for someone's money-- //i am not in love with police who throw drunk children to the street to cry their dizzy gases on them//it's rain

b++

It's suck'd into its'lf cuz ev'r'one's asleep-- th'se subtle steps i've taken to reword the silence excavate th' televised concatenations-- & I am not dead. Nor will 'painkillers in th' office' translate 'nto elektonik artz:::

bubbles in th' b'ck of th' t'rote/// i'm s'ppos'd t' be USED to I'm supposed to be used, too i'm s'pp's'dly immured to murky crumbs brackish on faces gumm'd

((th' ceremony 'll take all nite to rewrite where Kafka's penal inscriptions imprint interwreathings of NOT-NECESSARILY-DECAY AVENGE ON OPIATE FORMS WHAT I NO LONGER OWN AS TRUE TO MY MIRROR'S LIKENESS ====politics is pissy boyz tizzi'd up to venture a swipe at daddy's belt%#%#%# & IT IS NOT TRUE THAT I HAVE KILLED MY FATHER tho'gh perh'ps h've internalized certain histories that VaMpYrZ 'n EGYPT Knowing The Currency could not justify before their mothers who nonetheless love them

)))pools on pink((( (((th' DRAG of DUST))) )))th' DEVIL'S BREASTS(((

Secretly the very turning of th' EARTH--

c++

((((annoying chains reaction time stut tere d-- "can You hear th' MONEY?"))))

th' boyz git serious 'bout their futures sooner gradtime rolls round-- dung of th' scarab rolypolied over th' sky oncst today & I sleepio thru it un-- thin king

--???p u lo s ve she h is sleeps j i r like u n e anyone s g d would t angels out on waves of heavy b r water or smoke e as a smoke or water t in h traceable cults i used to know of on th' coast n g!!!--

--love voluntarily rolled lordships in dorsal rods sore as rose corn are wurms words rowing rue th' fiddlehead 'er urgent but girly )))i love my luv becuz to starve across her afloat in geometry templates me senile --that & has lack of th' empt ied uv empat hy of my boys at war w/ production

production production production production procurement procurement procurement procurement pentomania pantophilia plentificontradisfurcation panopoly pontoon --precosity!

d++

t h (((stole e my heartbeat from a redgirl's c song--voice in her r nose, sonic am i bulation, gener p ous tabulating-- p l th e eir walls c amontillado l not-scaled-by i ghettobrain dusted p 'ohteachmeth'machine th't blackened my o vote, oteachmeth'code f to burning cities to living with th' fury w of RATS IN TH' WALLZ-- r o --iwilltakeitoutonyou n by shaking th' air by g FUCK YOUR LANGUAGE, OFFICER! "th' redfaced sheriff watches me check out stoned either because your student health service plan may soon be ending, single-quote marks can be used in place of double-quote marks, I push th' riots at him & alcohol & tear gas & marijuana & means of laying out such extensive phenomena derive from Sugar Cigs Food? (Ramen?) th' cashier quick & mocha- toned denotes to equip, modernize & pay our armed forces, modernize can't work from 3:30pm-12:00M to night. He has family plans

e++

t r )))my clothes un i e b y washed for day p v a r s becuz my bod p o teks d y smells busy ed the laun with light((( the smoke & r e u k n )))I could not i n imagine spending l desaerc gni my life with anyo c ne else--th' redfa o ced sheriff--th' tex m t on th' status bar c e an be changed--nature-- s s s h h t o o e e w m g a e n m r i s if i could actually REFRACT LIKE THIS yellow pen here I'd

want s )))& clatter th' hole of my e u k i d n r o (((b u t t h e r e i s th' sun e m o w o u r a u t o m a t ic symbol e o re f l d r e n c h e d i n your ner ho-- egde h a z e l s u m s of honey-- YOUR CASHIER WAS JAMIE Ours was a strange and wonderful relation--

f++

POEMS 11 Lewis LaCook 5/29/01-6/30/01 ALMOST HALFWAY THROUGH THE CENTURY'S TIP I REALIZE I LEFT THE OVEN ON IN 1998, AND SO MUST TRUDGE BACKWARDS OVER COALS UNTIL YOU PICKED ME UP

Dead pixels on the refridgerator I might have loved: and yet attracting myself to that cold box lurks within the heart of all shadowy irritators (apolitical). We share nachos with the need to touch you, girly, so be careful which of us irrigated your trust (asexual)! If nine times out of ten I wore your hands to the sound of my aversion to unused words, only that damned box could ever tell: even without your clothes, you look so retarded, tourniquet lichen chillin' retro in alphabetical order, and I definitely owe it to you and me to box up our transfers, run the phone through the screen in the middle screams. Asemic, amid amiable lace.

5/29/01

SHE MUST HAVE NAMED HERSELF BEFORE THE WORDS DRIED

She waited for the cab until nightfall, and then when it became obvious that Roderigo wasn't coming back she started to laugh down the sewage pipes. Kilometres of pure wounded temptress she thought pacing back and forth alone one Saturday night she could be seem almost peculiar to her now that the sky had been lost for weeks. Inklings shrapnel around her like combat's the only wholeness a crying jag with giggles in her mouth could take. Needing speech, she begins at thirteen to play inside more and more, though kickball was always fun when the big red slaphappy ball got too enthusiastic against her head. Nastily, she must have endured years of stomachs bleached of their analysis. Instead of passing algebra through a winking tube, the trains near Roderigo's whereabouts chime like her bones chimed when the wind touched her where only her bedroom could see. Gasp, she thinks. Happiness must certainly invite itself over someday! To hear her reach her time's whiplash splash almost makes it seem being's a 'journey,' like math JUST made it before the tunnel fitfully collapsed. Drowns herself in the exhaust it gives. Evenings on amphetamines assert more sad through his cracked boots. She must have done something wrong; would he crumble like that if it were her down there, hands cupped to catch that dry rain? Endings are always kinda indifferent to her; this is why she painted her windows over. Rob her ego of the miniscule cadavers of the street's one unlucky sprawl. To hear him tell it, nights out there have a warm coat, but when you get cosy with her it leaves your bones too still everafter.

5/29/01

LOVE DOES NOT MEAN BEING UNAFRAID, SHE SAYS; MEANWHILE, MY MUDPIE MADE THE EARTH FLAT for Renee

I used to think you could lose it. I mean, REALLY lose it: one day, you're sitting in the stars, your mother forgetting you as you brand their milky bodies into your screen; next, you stand on dust breathing dust and sleeping, some new job (just as satisfyingly routine as your last) staining your days grey. I used to think enjambment meant you broke things, or shoved them together, studied plates until the earth made sense butted to your soles; and you, a riot packet digest-sized so spinning on your sharp threads, you don't belong to anyone or anything, are no more moon than a compact disc, rounding the light out in prism precision, like a rainbow gash a dentist's dream-smile of decadence sensing repair (I used to leave my sentences unrepaired, on purpose, so you would find them in the morning crumbled in your box, and feel sorry for me, and love me in that regretful way such love goes),you float over the road without flapping your arms to buoy, and you're always touching yourself to learn to believe that it's real. I used to walk and walk through whole towns trying to retain for myself some semblance of normalcy, acid-cinders istead of a head to speak of. And I was quiet the whole time;

I've learned a million and one new ways to kill my skin, and am practicing right now only inside, and can't see therefore which moon you've slipped into the carousel, and am not sour when both feet step off (one by one), when music summons the road.

5/30/01

NUMB LAKE CARESS

By the way, this night's moon eyes me from a hazy yellow caul. A flock of departures, serrated urgent and negotiable, flaps to dentition: it bites, baby, your separation; woman-in-half cold by the window, and who's obviously peaking? She could be past, momentary: Mom and the men who fuck her babies. So I'm not surprised or sacred, just another man who reads Dante to your motorboat cat, while tolls I may be responsible for, whose hidden teeth take echoes to themselves, eating rent in molar homes, bell at every lit step of my speeders. Likely, she's as afraid of us as I am of skies like this one, who negate my dependence on the nights of long guns. Also, do you know who wrote that there?

6/1/01

THE TRUTH IS, MOST MESS FETISHISTS ARE PROGRAMMERS

Consider this thumbnail view of weed hardly worth it, yet days and days flurry up with time straining to accomplish not a damn thing. And if I last into night, Kierkegaard sez, I'll get a prize!

Lewis, your ride is here. Pick up and up and up your days, kicking loose membrane apart with your watch wrathful purposefully, and don't just leave premature ejaculate on the page: remember all that went into knitting wits' ends; clown wallets, law stealth, lethal vermin killing permits in aversion to virginal allowances? I thought you would. I lower gigs into gaws that wag wax tonguestuds. Everybody loves balloons!

6/3/01

LIGULARIA DENTATA Puzzles like your hands shift tremolo, gear at headz to layer moons in whichever reverbation greens at his step. She interrupts my essence, even though strings girt his tongue going sssssssssssssss, save vaseline for my strongest oils, I begin by picking windows from the fog, up into the fade where we open like the disclosure, real buds drenched in a similar music, frieze caught whole with twisted animals, contortionists, echo conjunctiveitis. And all we really want is light, some movement, a crystal of yes and no, elegance; we could have persuaded him somehow away from the gun. The gun could solely be filaments from which she molds her bookmarks.

First of all, you don't have to shout. Lastly, advertising rev'd on vibes, or I should definitely lose the mullet. As it is I'm synthetic as theory. Levites and their goddamned vector graphics!

6/3/01

I HEARD HER BEARDED NAPPING LILAC INTO WARS

It might as well be five o' clock in the morning, as flares, cloaca, cochlea aligaments, as that of your fingers cracking, smudged at sharpened wire, dumb to the smoke, crippled in the eyes (it might as well be halitosis, as crenolations in this broad skim of her or crepe onions in Orion's InterBelt, bent over) with which she speckles pictures of you silently lucid with possibly screens (we might as well be kissing now, so hold out your hand; pull me under

6/3/01 IN WHICH OUR POET DREAMS HE'S COUGHING UP WIRES, BY JAMES ROSENQUIST

Birthing pages, I'm coughing fonts or fronting rollovers; the bugs in version twopointtwo origami an immaculate elocution. Not only does killing speech treasure lazy balloons, but lace endings make me cry, irrelevent as it may feel: um, babe, smoking, orifices were portals-like, not train runnels exactly; brain funnels. Brushes with a cottoncandy lightning. Reading in the 21st century is for fundamentalists our elective, as are the protons she issues when kissing in the sick yellow park, the car electronic, reading in the 21st century. I'm not giving my self sleep-resucitation again.

6/5/01

FOR LESLIE

I've been trying to tell you for years about how I want to live without a skin.

We could've been born with very little to do. I've been sitting in on the room: she could almost catch its passing sapphire religion in her soft hands. I'm all skin, and now it's plugged in

6/5/01 ROBERT DESNOS' GUIDE TO PERSONAL FINANCE

Money yearns for me. He's playing incognito, slipping in and out, so digital blips debunk borrowers' souls. There's a road pouring itself under my wheels, and I never stayed here as long as I did. Going gingerly regulates dry weed smoke-coma; snake-America, where I labor, rebels against due payment like slavery reveals United Debt kin to indentured services. Still, when I pummel thread from my eyes or fingers, Arachne of intellect's robotic charisma, I'm buried in its mummification. Survival will persist.

6/5/01

POLITICAL COLLECTORS

After I remove from the room my books swallowing dust, a hole opens behind me, and the walls seem lighter beneath them. With hands smacking of dust and chalk I box them with that width of sound of swallowing books, I wholly box them in four boxes with words covered up by cardboard perhaps muttering, prayerful motors I hoped for once in the traffic of kids and concentration. I mean they slide right in, so I'm thinking of what she'd like to read. Can she swing with Clark Coolidge because her house is complete, excepting me sitting nerded in the pastel fragrance of a mint shirt, sketchy blue grids? And what about this book about Africa, and The Norton Anthology of Postmodern Poetry? As I'm sshooshing the dust on all my eyes in the words unhooks and something snaps beyond the window; probably an animal, I heard them feverish in revelations, I swallowed some sweating and some vacant with perusal. Meanwhile I'm sorting the books by political wraps of electric light: I toss aside a book about gestalt psychology, and even one about semiotics, and the whole time the night's bleaching the windows to this room I'll vacate in three days. Nothing really gets done but the conjunction of floods in electric yards. While a hole behind me opens, and I'm brushing two years' writing from their spines, I nudge from this scalded white to fluid land bobbing, and I excuse myself from the room; choking on the purity of everybody's variables.

6/6/01

RICHMOND BOUQUET

Yes, my sugarlump; the mules pull out of the station amid ungodly circumstances (I'm broke, and beautiful, too, but who can eat reading?); the moon pulls frazzled and entymological clouds around itself, more for you than me (I'm bored with youth, am now growing old, hoping you'll be there); our mothers open their eyes to another morning making perpetuity. And in the deepest of evenings today we'll make love

6/8/01

Did Somebody Say...

America is all interstate-striped: blacktop dribbling down her throat, hot and grainy as sleep stuck my eyes closed between greyhound stops, smoking in the gravel lots of tinny stations as black boys crumple to sleep against me. This little one can barely open his McDonald's, his mother reaches from across the seat beside us to finger the greasy paper back, and I can't stay awake long enough, throb and pulse of wheels leering on blacktop, dribbling down her throat the road, I ride into her guts. The day is just as swift as we are, slowly angling, to enter night with contained cries of nerves gone christmas with motion. She'd been worried. Late.

6/9/01

Not Netsex and Erosion Soliloquoy

Baby smoking in a lavender nightgown cat-slanted eyes my mouth hurts for listen to th' alarm plummet down our dreams plumes weaving into sex rubbed raw 'there' of th' alarm beating us to brunch or like work we suffer lite sleeepe

Baby sighs/snores/breathes absent from the room: inside her our hair a messy halo twined into each other just like talking over us (th' CLOCK) our skin: messymessymessy where I'm sore from rocking to her moaning and now can't touch right until it heals and what if you have to go to th' DOKTOR? what will HE say?

'i'm a horrible little man all dreamy with dewdrops of pink newly liquid skin fills where her gown just about the backs of her white puffy knees is the sex of desolate tongues loving twine or lean into me now flowing flower forever flowing walls and cupped needles'

Baby grunts.....Baby gurgles...

6/10/01

She Beds Earlier With Sore Throat

Suddenly I'm states away from birth. Earlier, she balanced a blue bic pen right on the function keys. Pepsi eats our teeth. For example, this old night is warmer than the ones I left in Ohio, and people smile differently. The cat quietly watches her sleep. You're not allowed in here!

6/11/01

Chicory

In the land of chicory coffee (strong!) I got zits again. Am missing the praise of my elders who need fitfully praised. The cat slips in sleepy streams near the sliding glass doors of the balcony, opening her eyes to a slope drying grass into birds talking to her through mesh screen. This grid filters out the bugs who sift through dirt, blowing up garbage trucks. BANG! says the cat, though she might be getting sleepy.

On the landing in strong chicory coffee I zapped bugs, stoned on this new state's air and the frailty of my elders. Renee wakes me from some pool taking deep breaths of me through the pillow, where she snored, so that it was caustic singing; once,

I would rise from the riverbed sputtering and tumultuous. Now her face above me is a voice.

6/11/01

Monkey Bars

To stop thinking for a moment inside our walls, Renee, I went outside, taking our garbage ever out, to side with the trees for a moment, evenly interlaced, and the mathematics of serious nature. I walked to the end of a humid street, so far from wet leaves they osmosis'd palms over my bubbling forehead, loudly interjecting with electricity and pangs darned from your whimpled skin. We live in the shoulder of a playground; that's good. Noted. I wanted to sit among those dark and gnarled rides, getting high in encroaching heated shadows; I wanted to pull a burlesque acted on the moon there, maybe bleed a page nearly passionless, and sit the whole time you're dreaming me; would you like it if I was candy-crown'd? Sleep or type through me to the telephone crushing images down to deadpan? I sigh and do our dishes, not truly flattened, just missing some dimension; trees like SummerJustGotUp. They're stained glass, hot still, and they remind me of the weight of your exertion: I walk through your tatoo eyes, all the way down the street. I barely noticed the roughness of a city's flow. And not knowing where I was, Renee, and not caring, as long as I'd get home okay. Knowing my body, knowing I had candy for you.

6/14/01

Collage for Alan Sondheim's Wedding

I think I am doing well. This week had a light workload specific numbers of race and gender so many companies in which the health of an entire ecosystem can be monitored

We are a small group with a big responsibility which is something i can use to see you hello lover/partner/othe part of me looking for your sweetness

As a public utility, these responsibilities are taken very seriously systematically refusing to comply with the laws i heard this vicious rumor that you're in love with me so that's why i'm delayed... The most powerful instinct of man is to be in conflict with truth, and with the real

6/14/01

Urban Centre

In principle a work of art has always been reproducible like empty food cans. Yet the city housing projects designed to perpetuate systems of assimilation and exchange), to discover, already at work The genesis and system of scripts rotting across the map 6/14/01

TEXTUALITY WRITTEN IN : MUDS AND EXPERIENCE CYBERSPACE BY JEFFREY R. YOUNG

Meaningless, the drowsy sorrows that umpire our prim victuals. The vocals die online while the visuals gang up on an interesting mixture of what in speech would be stilted language, mixed with a few typical typos. She rises from many-splendour'd sofas, her voice with oils under our skins nictitating; she's just a membrane Dionysus, the fermentation of cognitive eros, as users translate their conceptions from real life to the virtual text world; they often 'forget where they are' so to speak. Dark living room, murdering employment with cells unstitched, unhurt, un-enthralled. She's got those hard dreams on her breath again, eyes of a Greek gypsy in the medium of the screen. Text is both physical (letters on the screen) as it is in books, and fleeting and ethereal like speech mangled by typhoon. I'll need another cigarette. Unloved evolution, I 'throw a fit' when I dump coffee-grounds in the kitchen; too tight, the monitor's glass is simply a window into a boundless cyberspace. Instead of page-turning in a linear body of book-text, the screen can scroll many colors into our pores: mysterious frquencies. Usually, I can't so rightly control what she deems me. The game is almost over now.

6/20/01

Fables

I

A man sleeps on two pillows. The first pillow is made of a coarse fabric, but is filled with rose petals and dew. The second pillow is made of a fabric that feels to the touch like the milk-smooth inner thigh of a woman, but is filled with harsh, porous stones. The man can't sleep at all. The pillows rest on endless screaming space.

II

A woman has been eating apricot jam. It's not obvious to everyone, but we can tell; she waddles into the store. We think she's fat and ugly, and she knows it. A woman buys cheap stale bread at our store and steps out from the comforting insulation of our air-conditioning into the harsh unpredicatable summer day. As soon as the heavy metal door snips shut behind her, she's encased in humidity. Ponderous wet air cushions her limbs; she feels, walking out to her car, as if she's swimming through mud. The mud is fragrant; translucent; burying her face in its warm yielding color, she thinks of trees shedding starlike fluffs of bloom in the ripeness of early summer. All of us here in the store want her.

6/22/01

Gutteral Calisthenics

What's gutteral in syndicate calisthenics refers to lithium's surface. Sapphire, our brunette of endless cups, purges the dolor in this version of amethyst. A treacle can render angioplasty destitute? For further clemency, check this delegation's vapors.

6/24/01

A Graphic Web Design Writing surrounds a circular need an afterthought of an omniscient restoration must be double-spaced of endless cups I will come in and color the Journals of Susanna Moodie the Leo Moon puts a fire in your futon bunk in a graphic web design writing to shelters for abused women the opportunity to review your resume add to the excitement I'll nick it back and have a good play & read to select a topic that is not your qualifications and our needs considered for publication loved the poem and the web page unsigned is fine, we can take care of that straddles through House and Smoke learning the skills to keep you competitive are you coming to visit before you leave in order to say good bye to your mother

6/24/01

Writing Design A Graphic Web leave in order excitement I'll nick the web page unsigned shelters for abused skills to keep you coming to visit a good play & your qualifications must be double- spaced to select a topic loved the poem the opportunity to review women circular afterthought your resume omniscient Leo Moon come in and color Susanna Moodie the Journals of your mother can take care of that competitive futon bunk

6/24/01 Yang Positivism for Renee

Back when cabins reduced uncouth fevers veteran I yelled across the holler to Farmer Gene, unfamiliar, really unlike that reassuringly gray cat that hunches or annoyance quilted has to become himself sometime, eh? Though David validated my use of cascading style sheets, times a nagging gander at my reddest derelict clit chills your approval rating tar-footed it on out of that foliage sore and graceful like silver verso blades or announcements nanosecond sonogrammar. Read 'em and sleep, sez I, yin-nihilist until I break against my own muteness, and grow tumescent. A lullaby balances knowledg'd deliciousness rounder than butt-moons (yours) for quiver-kissing; yeah, and sickness (yonder) of never falling asleep until it burns right off

6/24/01

Synchronicity by the police

Lemon melons and grammar fonts. Slow cobalt delicacies. Walls slathered in unision ventricle shaft.

I got de ole bug-eye spider drills right in's my tummy-tum. It go boom, mama. Heat that warps your clothes skin-tight and trial-flavored. I got it! It hurts like not moving hurts, when the television holds you to the floor.

Vacuum-tube-amplifier! Oh god! And I thought I could get away from electricity for days, wash my face in her trellis'd belly! What an idiot I was. I thought squashed agin dem boring ole robot linguistics!

Melded mindfully wit de skyscraper, ja! Quick viscous sieves. Heart-chamber musicals. Synchronized...

6/29/01

Your Little Bookstore

I wish I could go without my body for a while. I wish I could manifest my subconcious fears of being an automaton through the use of science fiction. I wish the night were deeper, not transparent with hurling cars. I wish there was a way to talk to everyone in the world all at once, with a giant calculator that only speaks numbers and lets me draw pictures that move and shit. I wish there were invisible spiders somewhere in the air (between the telephone poles) and no-one could really be anywhere anymore, except maybe in the movies. I wish my head was underwater all the time. I wish my hands were there, and there. Instead of Barnes and Noble! 6/29/01

God

The man of names in his groin shotputs central air-raid, dowagers, and the flicker-riddle of waking-up-to pulls his hair apart and starboard.

Instead of Amazondot, come leaking helter vellum, braille of her skin, and the mourning birds for what doubt of a thought hinge on niche and chevron, hoarse and roaming. The woman of girls extruded soothing those who mouth the brainpan dog-eared, and those who screw that master's void

6/29/01

Dynabook Number One Coffee slithers down the bottom of a cup. I erased the tar in my brain for better reception. Experiment: sift through words sitting on your skull to damage imperialism, or what if everyone's tongue got caught in your ears fleeting swell levels of rockclimbing? You've got your problems. Don't overestimate the sweetness. Ooops. Something fire-drenched in the lungs clings like air shaping peaches creamy tranlucidity on the zaum match fandango. No-one expected the car to give out after so many years of hearing revenge falter casually like slumped-over cuts on the inside of your hands flared like moon-tips in fragrance sauce. This is prose; prose, this is your reader. Something there is in a wall that doesn't love comic nature in a language dame. I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed, but my throat bleeds just finely trailed to heartbeat shapeshifters into submitting their curricula vitae for review. I like the jump-cuts. Try harder next time. Enough guilt to start our own religion. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but it begs the question of emotional math to scratch its back while she arches and thickly moans, almost a whole hand buried in her. I love to set those fireworks off in her mouth. It was all recent work, I would guess. Compressed air wonders what a poem is to sloppy discus arrays off yarrow rods of Alice Cone's email chock cautious and exhilarated with goo. The last two days i've been in a sound studio reading for a cd, we have a take on kilobyte on the way. No problem. Whatever you want to do. Suppose it's an imperitive to fill space. a memory enema is entangled in your false teeth, an orchidaceous pile of fluid poop-ship destroyer, riffing on that says Clark Coolidge is extraordinary. Everyone gets tired of the numbness after a while. And then they ask, what is stream of counciousness? The rivers are versions here of Plato thinking about a space so pure it's impossible. It's all just so goddamned filling. Lewis, preliminary investigation suggests a slightly hacky way. Maybe there never was anything but the surprise of where the slice ends and from beneath the borders the loss of ground bleeds deals on Fender, Ibanez, and premature capitalization. Do you do a lot of programming? I don't have the mental abilities to handle writing scripts and so forth -- my respect goes out to all who can hack their way through blossoming space without sounding jaded to the contours of our reflections in the pavement. I imagine myself as smooth as any other man, and the guitar is another machine. It may be recent work. We have girls willing to fuck anyone for a couple of e-tabs, stop. Working on VPN last few days with a Worldcom technician in Virginia named Tamaki. She's very nice, and very very sharp. Tamaki had to help us "hack" ourown router--we'd lost our password, I guess. Pretty cool, nerve racking, but cool. Andto think that I called Augie and asked him about the open third shift that they had. The rivers of Plato I love to smear on her ass. A topography of moles and freckles: the trill of reading her body with my mouth, the melody I construct from stroking her white. Diatribe against the corporate infiltration of network interstices - phone messages, icq, download screens, always asking for registration and "emailupdating," every word I could think of that didn't stink up the house too much, with the obligation of this and corpse proposals hankering network verbotenism until I fetish undue deliverance and learn Roman crucifixions better than that garbled mockery of symbolism. This is a not for profit contest. All of the collected entry fees will be divided between the top three scoring poems (minus postage for mailing out additional prizes. See Prize List below): hum, muffle, fumigation, deliberate tapestry, the lattice of tree-to-tree migration. And this is real. Last night I actually figured out and explained to her how I felt about us. With a dirty pair of scissors I turn our relations over, black as exhaling the last dream of the night burrowed into her armpit for comfort and soaps distilled from Joseph Beauys. . I dont know what you want me to do with it. Shrugs. Email me and tell me dude. Maybe MUDs are just elaborate communal playwriting. I don't think much about the things I use, only that they fit here, here, a quarterly, online and print literary journal featuring independent writers from the U.S. and abroad--is accepting poetry, short fiction, essay, and artwork submissions for its July 2001 (Vol. 3, No. 2) issue. Note: drivin 900 miles just to get a buncha cheap my brand cigarettes along the way cause they're so expensive is shit for the birds, charging just beyond the baywindow milk strung from branch to branch. The frameworks are being redesigned from the bottom up. A new more democratic world is becoming possible. I, for starters, am hostile to brocolli. The brocolli itself is nothing but tender to me, stroking my emeraldgreen buds as if the fibers of her lungs asleep discharge and I unzip, lying on my back in bed stroking as she changes clothes. The working title for this is "Satyrday." Previous grassroots media have existed for much smaller-sized selections of people. A first step in the design of the game is the conversion of objects, agents and rules for how her body flares like moon-tips in cellular recluse. Don't tip the lighter in that way, Dave Buddy says long ago. Are you afraid to die? I love that she wakes me before she goes, kisses me and tells me she loves me. Ghosts soak my skin. My first memory is a safari, a lion-cub (white?) on the makeshift wood stairs of a ranger's trailer. What is the relation between typing and music, I howled at her across the dreams? That the language is wider now and there is more possibility of beauty, or that we must learn new beauty as we pause with networks whispering closed on my tongue. If you could explain to me why I think that every minute not doing this is wasted time, reply at once. Hey, I'm talking to you! Bold-face fonts forget budget flagellation in the synthetic liquids the overture ruptures in resonating with electric sticks under your skin we hang you up, we spin you around by that blizzard of skin you won't be needing as the abrupt moan of space sapping itself of emptiness as I enter she squeals, she squirms, now I feel it, the flooding of her body as beds molest the silica dehydrated on the dessertion of tripped-up moon-names, bland-eyed with glandular boredom. Homosexuality is generic. Listen: I'm going to open the curtains now. Everytime I turn on a light or shut it off, is it a different room? Everyone open their Dynabook to the birth or death of the page. Or maybe it's the things you make me do, like select a TWAIN-source that does not communicate with the LPTX software.

6/30/01

POEMS 12 Lewis LaCook 6/30/01--

THE DYNABOOKS

Dynabook Number One

Coffee slithers down the bottom of a cup. I erased the tar in my brain for better reception. Experiment: sift through words sitting on your skull to damage imperialism, or what if everyone's tongue got caught in your ears fleeting swell levels of rockclimbing? You've got your problems. Don't overestimate the sweetness. Ooops. Something fire-drenched in the lungs clings like air shaping peaches creamy tranlucidity on the zaum match fandango. No-one expected the car to give out after so many years of hearing revenge falter casually like slumped-over cuts on the inside of your hands flared like moon-tips in fragrance sauce. This is prose; prose, this is your reader. Something there is in a wall that doesn't love comic nature in a language dame. I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed, but my throat bleeds just finely trailed to heartbeat shapeshifters into submitting their curricula vitae for review. I like the jump-cuts. Try harder next time. Enough guilt to start our own religion. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but it begs the question of emotional math to scratch its back while she arches and thickly moans, almost a whole hand buried in her. I love to set those fireworks off in her mouth. It was all recent work, I would guess. Compressed air wonders what a poem is to sloppy discus arrays off yarrow rods of Alice Cone's email chock cautious and exhilarated with goo. The last two days i've been in a sound studio reading for a cd, we have a take on kilobyte on the way. No problem. Whatever you want to do. Suppose it's an imperitive to fill space. a memory enema is entangled in your false teeth, an orchidaceous pile of fluid poop-ship destroyer, riffing on that says Clark Coolidge is extraordinary. Everyone gets tired of the numbness after a while. And then they ask, what is stream of counciousness? The rivers are versions here of Plato thinking about a space so pure it's impossible. It's all just so goddamned filling. Lewis, preliminary investigation suggests a slightly hacky way. Maybe there never was anything but the surprise of where the slice ends and from beneath the borders the loss of ground bleeds deals on Fender, Ibanez, and premature capitalization. Do you do a lot of programming? I don't have the mental abilities to handle writing scripts and so forth -- my respect goes out to all who can hack their way through blossoming space without sounding jaded to the contours of our reflections in the pavement. I imagine myself as smooth as any other man, and the guitar is another machine. It may be recent work. We have girls willing to fuck anyone for a couple of e-tabs, stop. Working on VPN last few days with a Worldcom technician in Virginia named Tamaki. She's very nice, and very very sharp. Tamaki had to help us "hack" ourown router--we'd lost our password, I guess. Pretty cool, nerve racking, but cool. Andto think that I called Augie and asked him about the open third shift that they had. The rivers of Plato I love to smear on her ass. A topography of moles and freckles: the trill of reading her body with my mouth, the melody I construct from stroking her white. Diatribe against the corporate infiltration of network interstices - phone messages, icq, download screens, always asking for registration and "emailupdating," every word I could think of that didn't stink up the house too much, with the obligation of this and corpse proposals hankering network verbotenism until I fetish undue deliverance and learn Roman crucifixions better than that garbled mockery of symbolism. This is a not for profit contest. All of the collected entry fees will be divided between the top three scoring poems (minus postage for mailing out additional prizes. See Prize List below): hum, muffle, fumigation, deliberate tapestry, the lattice of tree-to-tree migration. And this is real. Last night I actually figured out and explained to her how I felt about us. With a dirty pair of scissors I turn our relations over, black as exhaling the last dream of the night burrowed into her armpit for comfort and soaps distilled from Joseph Beauys. . I dont know what you want me to do with it. Shrugs. Email me and tell me dude. Maybe MUDs are just elaborate communal playwriting. I don't think much about the things I use, only that they fit here, here, a quarterly, online and print literary journal featuring independent writers from the U.S. and abroad--is accepting poetry, short fiction, essay, and artwork submissions for its July 2001 (Vol. 3, No. 2) issue. Note: drivin 900 miles just to get a buncha cheap my brand cigarettes along the way cause they're so expensive is shit for the birds, charging just beyond the baywindow milk strung from branch to branch. The frameworks are being redesigned from the bottom up. A new more democratic world is becoming possible. I, for starters, am hostile to brocolli. The brocolli itself is nothing but tender to me, stroking my emeraldgreen buds as if the fibers of her lungs asleep discharge and I unzip, lying on my back in bed stroking as she changes clothes. The working title for this is "Satyrday." Previous grassroots media have existed for much smaller-sized selections of people. A first step in the design of the game is the conversion of objects, agents and rules for how her body flares like moon-tips in cellular recluse. Don't tip the lighter in that way, Dave Buddy says long ago. Are you afraid to die? I love that she wakes me before she goes, kisses me and tells me she loves me. Ghosts soak my skin. My first memory is a safari, a lion-cub (white?) on the makeshift wood stairs of a ranger's trailer. What is the relation between typing and music, I howled at her across the dreams? That the language is wider now and there is more possibility of beauty, or that we must learn new beauty as we pause with networks whispering closed on my tongue. If you could explain to me why I think that every minute not doing this is wasted time, reply at once. Hey, I'm talking to you! Bold- face fonts forget budget flagellation in the synthetic liquids the overture ruptures in resonating with electric sticks under your skin we hang you up, we spin you around by that blizzard of skin you won't be needing as the abrupt moan of space sapping itself of emptiness as I enter she squeals, she squirms, now I feel it, the flooding of her body as beds molest the silica dehydrated on the dessertion of tripped-up moon- names, bland-eyed with glandular boredom. Homosexuality is generic. Listen: I'm going to open the curtains now. Everytime I turn on a light or shut it off, is it a different room? Everyone open their Dynabook to the birth or death of the page. Or maybe it's the things you make me do, like select a TWAIN-source that does not communicate with the LPTX software. Five minutes to noon, and the death of the month of June tunes itself against the lunar tithes of a heat that creases into your very flesh, showering the baywindows with multimedia sticking stuffers; furnaces as vacuous as absinthe and thickening verbs as I prop her up puppet-lipped on my cock slowly massaging her hips into my crotch. She smiled at me that way. Dipped in angels in the doorway the boy spaced himself across the parking lot until the ache of carrying wracked his stomach raw with the knowledge of the tiny notebooks almost tin-snipped in their penis enlargement and remembering nothing I open my scars until they no longer posed a threat to her. Someday we will decipher this, I suppose, but right now there's software to master. Megamega white thing. I began to delay gratification for an hour or so. I am tied to this screen all day long now. Something there is in software that does not interface well visually with passing noon. If you cut yourself you'll think you're happy. Or on certain days that sour route will follow you like an animal unaccustomed to your contentment. How did you get so unwinding?

6/30/01

Dynabook Number Two

fi r ing i n reverb g carcinogen ebony boggles globes c intercession dust u grate t tan thud re fried

6/30/01 Dynabook Number Three

Landing pinch in center of inside of head; demons, demons, moan of knocked core from limp damage gamelon sorts, from morph fasting safety talc, as the openings proceed to decibel seperate air-raids in skull. Compliments are everywhere. Criticism is irrelevant, unless you count reality, which is mostly math anyway. You're not too good at that. No electronic submissions for text, please; as of yet handling paper, its graininess, is erotic for us. She ain't found near where it ends, its ends sapped of sugar and drenched in sugarwater and drained of sugar; gush lovely valium trees, miss syllable-treater, miss a treaty from teal levelheadedness, like the theater of Krispy Kreme with a drivethru she's almost happy in that powderblue shirt to save it. Cigs. A thousand delirious angels had penis enlargements, but only one had breast implants. The angels in the flesh in my notebook are belching while showering in the locker room. Now who woulda thunk that paper would be alive again? It always is, soft snowy meat of crustaceans with the bark caulked off. Ankles twitching with nervous blood swarming the hard coast of my dreams/the nighffall of oceans mispells my room, my room my room over and over; once the apartment was jotted down wrong it dissolved. This site is the best poetry site on the World Wide Web. On this site you will find: 2635 poets, 10099 poems from 60 countries (keep in mind that these numbers are updated daily). (Ladel out another strip of gopher mail hot on topic watch for charlatan summers). Registering disgust in sparkling ways, I managed to sound out my hunger in long or short vowels, forgetting their language had no way to apprehend such suspicions, and so the scorpions once again in nail-gun formation drove forth the truth of thick umpire fractals, furiously disseminating abject critique. A Draino Bomb is most commonly used for the complete destruction of cars. It is very easy to make, and is totally kitchen improvised. Mix 3 grams Potassium Iodide and 5 grams liquid Iodine in 50 ml of water, d(Ammonia water 10%). This mixture, after it dries, is known as Nitrogen Triiodide, and is so sensitive (when dry) it has occasionally been set off by a loud shout in the vicinity. Keep in liquid form until ready to use, then "paint" it over the area or item you want to trap, and when it is touched...... BOOM! A fun use for this is to "paint" it on driveways... When a car comes up.... Or on the driveway on Halloween night... or on car tires..It could be the leaking gas made me edgy. Woozy. Surprised I didn't notice, and wrote this all before my first cigarette. There's not Much Time left on this Planet, my throat is already closing with pilot programs for stupid presidents to segue beyond the current wreckage of political inquiry and limp bilious from twisted mint out into the light of central sixty bucks for two cartons--make them last until next sunday at least. My head hurts, baby. I might have been wrong about the giddiness of margins and the slipping past them that burns. This is my most recent work. Its working title is "Svnday." It's made of genetic meat. Brave boys in the war. Barbedwire blossoms explode slow motion between the sinews of my skull. Being africanamerican is generic. Renegades edify streetwise swans adjacent to peppering reposession of an exorted crowd pen to light dolls with busted faces caffeine-needy and or blunt with tumescent flavor. Clark Coolidge drew vector graphics from language shames the red bottom of dark ages automated throughout the industrial renovation. When I yawn, stinkbugs bloom. She got moody over the soundcard reproductions of Elvis icon riddles without the indexed faces. Perhaps I would feel better after a shower, or at least smell well. The nasal cavities die under touchy smoke. I swear she ain't using real words. The farmers will find you, and it's off to the circus, flyboy! I console myself a curling story, she throws shadow, rises lonesome, details a path of defenestration. Or was this my certain whimsy: how the microbes in my soiled khakis hid in the self while others found tatters of deliverance among the stars she'd borrowed to breathe with. Themes mesh shamelessly with linguistics; I PROUDLY DISPLAY MY WORD SHIELD, as though feeding on the air weren't enough, my bandages loosen and she roundabouts in curls down my shoulder lying fitfully amused by barnyard animals. It means you've gotta lighten up. Cause Earth Will End in Fiery Blast, or I merged with a land of sulphur-pink skies until I grew into the trees, I grew into the trees and the leaves merged with pink solidity, merged with pink solidity and stepping back from it I see only an emerald gas, I traversed the elements and lemon-freckled the lectures of curvature that vacuum the savior of our many-splendor'd things; This mixture is easy to make, and very safe to store, but it is extremely effective. I have seen it tested many times, and have never been let down. The entire car blows up just like on TV, though none of us ever thought it would give out. Eventually music and sound twine into one another, growing indistinguishable from noise. Roland Barthes disliked tautologies, yet ultimately the car was the car that killed him, that killed him until he was a dead man, until he was a dead man and a dead man is a thing. Being alive means you're not a thing. The whole time I could see them and they were distant from me, they could be moved and they could be molded. I wish I had ergotism. You're here to have a blast, and maybe even change the world; you might even suffer from swollen ego. I thought everyone in here was talking about me. She's a conduit for usually sure roosts, transforming the body politic into the political body, which I smell all over with my scaled lizard tone. I worship girls. Each of these sentences is an individual. They make something when they rub together. Electricity? This is due to your e-mail/text program settings on YOUR computer. Of course, I have no control over that. Thank you for your understanding. I don't want to be a pie! . The emptiness is glandular. Some of it isn't mine. I don't believe in sentences as slaves! The ravishing emptiness of poop is tongu'd. Dropping logs into the river with get you virginal as we revive the cabbage patch. Whoop, there it is! A pile of claymation smeared squiggling on my chest sects me where thighs stream into pure and harrowing black. Stare into the language long enough, you will write impenetrable blocks. The model for this, my recent work, is a city unplanned, where no street is a oneway street and no streak goes uncursed. The american president serpentines my hairy nutz, stomachs my load as it cums furst and for most furred like lightning's firred when it goes down the throte in DOSmodules globular and rallying crying sifting brimming with fire for George Bush comes and George Bush goes and a dim stuck in his eyes kisses my ass with flagellant tongue. I'm broadcasting a new program called "FEED YOUR HEAD" via the internet Wednesday nights. All the same, I enjoyed the work, but we are going to pass. Right now we're very top-heavy on poetry and so the acceptance rate has become much tighter. I like it tighter, as tight as George's silky asshole. MMMMMMMM! He moves like I almost come thinking killed criminals are criminals because he kills them. Right, Roland Barthes? I am carefully poring through his inbox and only listening with half an ear to the typing like rain cuts the big baywindows to tatters by the pool as dark children the american president wants to kill laugh between splashes of pure chlorine and strychnine eating their skin to open them up for big texas prick excitedly stuffing the fight against police brutality today into money money money money money money money money money money money money money money mon. DIEU! The cold sensation Of the blind and deaf Within a floral symphony phones George Bush from a booth in 'nam. What's my name, George? Legion, he sez, as my teeth slit his back to show a spine drenched with acid. I lick. Underneath a moist tunnel of asshole two fingers massage my cock. I have a uterus and know how to use it! She flirts with the indianwhiteboy as I pound off irony to rendezvous with synchronicity. I like when the words are also someone's words I barely know, when my borders give and the slice where we end before each other loosens like the clip of water wavfiles too big for the machine to swallow whole. It's only writing, I say, but her recent work flirts with a selection of emotions just drag and click. I slowly become everyone everywhere, just drawing the slat-curtains to constrict the room like pill-pupils fibrillated, and the massage of sandwhich doom growls moodier and muddier as the dirt in the goddess hair unfreezes seperate ohms. Chicken defrosts in the freezer for me, and I'm free for hours to sift through digitized nets for interesting study tools. Each finger a sin to toll; tell me, please, why this isn't as neccessary as sold to you for your time and your attention bulging with moon-shiny lubrication. Women and children first. Why not violence, in a country in which the leadership was stolen and the president is a murderer, like Hamlet's Uncle, like I'm the ghost of porphyry man-made to last? The cellar door was open, I could never stay away...

7/1-2/01 Dynabook Number Four photograph echo written comfortable scanning feels cascade names away suffers engraved dust smile capsize difference turn overcast cooled pliable alone self laughter scowls cars pills fist siphon friendship budding sexed dexedrine methodology bones loved evolution concrete past cry nightmares flat japan chamois order delicious redemption

7/2-4 /01

Dynabook Number Five

He woke with the fumes of his dreams exploded within him; fumbled, drawing coffee from a small, almost blackened pot; stood before the baywindow, open, with the airconditioning on, fumes of his exploded dreams leaking from his unwashed body. The shower only took a few minutes, but in its midst he saw the spigot turn above the rooftops, turn and fix him in its baleful eye. I didn't know I was broken, you said. Yes you do. Meanwhile why cats paint becomes an issue to tally lava valves in the depths of his milkjug flesh. After he was done training himself to expect less from the day, he dripped down the stairs into the living room, where ashes had claimed most of the carpet, and pinhole burns were craters in the first light he'd seen since moving from his mother's uterus to Richmond. Outside, birds slathered picnic benches with liquid latex. Disgusting, you think. Alone with himself his laughter scowls at the cars deliciously redeeming pills under the chamois. You love to say that word; it's your recent work. Some people have jobs deciphering this. He was jobless, in search of a reason to his schooling, but all the city offered him were gas stations and bagboys, each one resplendently jewish. It's way on the other side of town. What do you want? you ask her. Anything. She smells good. He was reasonably jewish. The cigarettes went flat on his tongue as he devoured them before the screen reminded him of god, and he stopped there before the crystalline skein listening to confessions he couldn't fathom, armories that didn't register before the book finally lay down over him with its cooling murmur; he was feverish, chilled at the extremities, and the morning with shallow hooks dragged his smoking corpse across the country, putting to display the singularity of his bones. The freak show is a long and honored tradition here, she says, but you will not be that. You are a man. And when he knew she would still be there when he woke, that his life with her was anything but temporary, he began to burrow deep into the fossilized layers, hoping to rip her fear of his departure out of the strata and glass it in a case for viewing. It's so odd, you say, tracing its shape under the glass; can I touch it? It's yours, he mumbles, embarassed that this piece of himself had toppled out, as if his entrails had elapsed from between his pores and certain styles of digestion were visible to her, her of the sweet bedsmell, her of the copper flowers. They believe the stones are memories. You saw your father curled like an embryo in quartz, passing through the moon to wide Virginia nights; he trips on the gully, he falls and his ankle hurts, cars shoot seesaw across his eyes. When he wakes his hair stands up, his eyes gum and everything he could ever see is paste like fake jewels, like there's something under the screen he coaxes out with his silence; she of the zoom to pour through each pixel, her of the opening shapes. He watched sound crawl through the light, followed it with his thumb until he could find its pulse and cut...then the sky lifted over them, the nasal blue of dawn wound through his flesh, pushing rivers of pure shimmering space between his cells; he hangs over the trees, the trees the trees the trees, and he blossoms like solids bolt inward at his touch. You began this so long ago, she says, your recent work humming with the lube and two fingers in. And when the queries for fame come, mathematical, dull, he alludes to brilliant nouns, cast away to a crystal network where words run on electricity, where the language bucks like an old washer unscrewed from the basin, as objects trade themselves back and forth across the horizon; what scars in the throat could answer such a cause to peruse the sentient, while the grasses cried out in triangular fever to Alan's algebra, and everyone mum to the floating loops of image dragged along samples of bottled music serious and resistent to their disease; he'd been immobile for so long you want to know what dusky flavors vast beneath the skin of his screen. The style, you murmur, is frantic. You must be schizophrenic or depressive to follow this: move to Miami now, your mama, tan, olive green and navy blue, has one cordless vacuum and it's fifty dollars; it would be great for cleaning the stairs. You don't mind that I call in the middle of your most recent work? He learns long ago his Mama a vacuum of brillo'd names hunkers cunningly in summer snowstorm blues, cavalier and masturbating to repeat fumes of memory; last night's ball, scaled to mirror proportions, each pixel temporarily anything you want, sweetie, training the application for employment to launch a six-pack routine to capture the reader and put her in your pocket never ever average again my friend. As it became clear, assets crane leery revelations, apocalypse lapping granule lunar rant, gnarled, deligated, lithe and thrilling. He creaks up the stairs with her, rubs her until sleep seals their words into each other's skin. The guitars open like rusty blooms; his fingers knowledge a pathname through the salt of sweat corrupting pure metal tone, pearled and tin and sharp enough to cut you down, governing without thought is like a ship without a rudder like a ship without a rudder like a ship without a rudder, coming down to the borrowed thought of the male moon digging curves into rivers, so softly solemnly swollen with his brain trailing over the concentric ripples of water's flesh celebratory as rotation in the blindness of his fumbling through chaos with his fingers knowing, knowing something he can't explain to you right now. He's sleepy. The glitter of the cat nudging me in my sleep. You promised me a star on the concrete, and then you scuffmarked the shallows so I couldn't see him standing above me, floppy denim hat by the kiddy pool kool over sunglasses, widely curly hair in front of the green house with tattos, as you nestle breathing purrs into his belly flat on his back like an island or a turtle beating the phone lines to his face, to his face without a rudder his failure without discover; no credit to regulate, later night with phone lines to his failures blooming like a guitar so far from midnight the eyes blunt on the edges of the letters, the letters fumble up the stairs to feel their way into bed with her, the glitter of nudging into her breathing purrs afraid of Alan's Miami, afraid of shrivel and shame, shudder and chum can you spare loaves and fishes for my friends, filling restaurants with the cautious way he eyes the check. Yeah. He eyes the check.

7/4-8 /01

Dynabook Number Six

S stinky K kindred I assemblage e N galeforce g t S lag a GATE a AM GAG l g (hurl) i TARBABY RAT t a slave U (tath) r meat form R i (agata) man morbid L bathe a name o thorn n l TAFFEE f that i F fend LOVE CLEAN g a i n b paint A enough r analect r gauge T f n o o a grail H a a w o r m r grain E i i l warm r morn y pale R grain n l i o pain gnarl t a WOMB b F gnash r o BREAD A sane t will leAn r T win skinny o purse R p new info s smirk E () E animus now taut wallet A {} D

p r know e

7/8-10 /01

======

DYADIC CATATONES 7/11/01-7/16/01

"Light hath no tongue, but is all eye..." --John Donne

My head's gone flat, like a stryrofoam cup of cola abandoned in the picnic sun

****

I am writing a translation of a word I won't write down

****

Unzipping code as the water murmurs rumors this delicate trampoline

****

Timelines along a spine of lucidity culling nameless emanations, manifest

****

Bricks grid code aromoring romantic internal bleeding for my sun nests

****

A sly limit to the flesh, its pixels xerox-blond, its noble profusion

****

The romance that words window wide knowing edifice for me

****

Kava cells jettison noiseless voicebody in velocity mutilations of water

****

In bed, my cold ass abutting your warm; fan sifting us clean and to sleep

****

Mourning concrete as speaking roles bitpart map extras in wan dawn null

****

Walls of misheard cigarettes can play tin lizards on a straw for the sun ****

Drink this light she says it's healthy to play apart the split calls

****

I spit cells into newly scrubbed basin and tart mint stands for miniscule music

****

Downloading the melody of breakfast fruit as I compensate my eyes for spillage

****

Cloud swabs and their protocol; winding pavment rivulet; address

****

I'll live in embalmed blond latitudes where Renee's hair bruises a dusky pendant

****

Down by the dumpster, recursions; things brooch a reach of charge

****

Clowns razor the neighborhood with wiry water as my dreams push me to the floor

****

On the floor amid broken chips and lint I find a pin; call it happiness

****

Piercing my throat with smoke that tricks friction and its stigmata with skill ****

I craft the burn of painting feelings in her womb; lay the sun

****

On the straw of her silhouette, pins that flare like bodies in water

****

Memory, cold as courting sleep at dawn; the sheets blue with bodies denied

****

Bobbing in and out of dreams until the floor's too crowded for comfort

****

Pressed against a B-movie knife; our sex spirals down to a glazed stare

****

Almost ceramic, these blue bodies breathe madness; divide everyone's skin but mine

****

The algorithm with the kitsch switches humping convoluted leaves to mail

****

This body in crisp white packets can singe a room; spigot drops

****

To force a face to blister water to split a deaf-white basin with a clean

**** I couldn't hear the cigarettes; there were swans there, fucking gods until it rained

****

Almost tripped over the ghost of a cat gored by the long teeth of a moon

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

CATALOGUE OF RECENT ACQUISITIONS

Dear Semi-new Sandals;

Walking to the gas station just before dawn reverses the city. It's never wholly quiet. You're stitching, hard like alcoholic guts, with each step cracking glassgravel, miniscule nibbles; I feel you wear tiny holes. Lose a layer of foot like this, turning returning attuned across the way the land slips itself under the townhouses on Townhouse Road, and where the holes are mined quite gradually fill with pink smarts. After even a few feet my feet must sweat and pull against your fauxleather harnesses, like walking's trying to get out, but you hold in and quietly close to the whole of heel. I don't feel people unfriendly but I do talk my mouth of bolderized air.

Dear Small Orange Broadside That John Just Sent;

You're curious. I can pick you up, and slender you shelf to the floor invisibly winded. Flat, but when my eyes land on you picking black knots from orange thistle bachgrounds rely on moving aside for agitated flowers. And shadows in my head, cast-iron skill, it softs but not for sure, hung in halloween from teat-grain, something more here than else than. Spooky.

Dear Smooth Cigarette;

Killer, why don't you ever take the trash out on time? This is as white as several diseases in one.

Dear Issue 19 of New American Writing; Could I ever wake up with no memory of the inside head cowered in fir? Can I sift snowpeak sugars around and around again the depth of coffee thimbles not to prick at thumbs? Has anyone ever asked you why Darger pinkened girly rigorous ontop of spoons? Does anyone here remember?

It's pretty shitty of you. Steel covers, sheets. And something else. Steely damp. Wool placements will ensue. Well, don't you? Doubts plural superfictitious parts of speech, like the head of an html cut off from pretentious scripting. I'll tell you what I think--I think it stinks. I've got a name for you to start the magazine of ammunition's rank like filenumber and size dreams of pistons pristine like separated parameters. When all I wanted was a simple verse to make me feel something other than language game in a comic nature of tricksters terse and illegaly lucid.

Dear Renee's Orange Glass Roses;

I wouldn't think fingerprints to spread you open like that! Are you a boat to sunset pupils as slow heartbeats regurgitudinal blessings of where fingers hurt pursed in you? Where one could tunnel down to pollen docks, there's smoothed afraidness in dropping you, afearedness of how fragile, and Bam! you putty unlikely. I strip you across my palm to weight sinking fins of delicious separation. The color is always warm warm called her sibyl by the noxious tardying. I could snap and you would cut me to blunders.

7/17/01

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

Poems 13 Lewis LaCook 7/20/01-8/5/01

HAILELEUIKU 7/20/01-7/25/01 for Renee

Images have names; names dissolve. Ashes reserve casual tables.

**** He thought the bees were little gods, and the dazzle of walking through days almost capsized his blue breath. A kind of birth, too.

****

The boats in the bay window slide across a breeze that preserves still blooms.

****

Words are windows fogged up. He can't see through the scrim but the sound of weight in his mouth tugs at him. He defines with his hand.

****

Swaddled in salt his voice watches flowers flare in the ice of a night.

****

Scented petals catch in his throat. They unlock the honey that drizzles every morning in his head. A kind of birth, too.

****

He rubs the frost from the window, and even though it is summer, and even though it is the city, and even though the pavement looms no closer than the backdrop of forgotten things prized apart and sold at flea market, he sees nothing. Other than wondering who would buy these things--untimely and disposable magazines, retired pulp detectives barely concealing thin blonde-induced erections, candy from the sugarless eras, computers whose drives were long ago supplanted by prefab flesh-- he gingerly steps into the web of all this rust-charred and stiff-jointed machinery, afraid even his sighs could displace the wheels. A carmelized sun slowly dissolves all the faces peering over their bodies to pick at the merchandise. The light, too strong, swallows their features; from where he stands, blistered in all the brightness, everyone is a blank stare.

Images slip out of joint with their names, exposed in electric baths.

****

In the morning she flips on the shower and thinks of stepping in pearls.

****

The interstate winds across the shape of the wind.

Words, too, are nature. What sticks to her fingers as afterbirth; rapture.

****

Afternoon office: air-locked from the inside, out. Fingers stroke clutter.

****

It's crowded in here. Cubicles cuff and muzzle. She's breathing every sigh that ever circumvents filtration. So dry.

****

She even feels as if not all of her comes through. What shows depends on the situation: at the DMV, renewing her tags, the woman at the counter seems to peer right through the holes, and it's as if what's there is only densely-clustered numbers, row upon row of serials and birthdates and barcodes, until what there is of her flesh is black with legibility. What the woman doesn't see is what's visible in the office: the near hysteric fights with her boyfriend over the phone, the squeezed tears she grunts back to keep at the rims, the chocolate-laced heart-to-hearts with her boss behind closed doors. But her boss can't see what HE sees, washed by the cathode tides of digital cable in the evening: the tired girl, the sad girl, the girl who spent her life waiting for this, this man who cannot speak some nights for fear, fear of words tearing him apart until his flesh is water and rivers into her hands; this ceaseless flow into and out of the space of her arms.

Words are nature, too. Emotions cave in under skyscraper jawline.

****

Under the waver, the heat-shimmer of mosses, they were close as dusk.

****

"I know how light plummets down the open throat of a jewelled dress," she says. "I know how to drown," he quips, stepping onto sand.

****

When he thrashed against the pull of oblivion there, she held him still.

****

"These old hollows hold bones to their promise of stay," he observes. Still, she knows how a city can smack and smother. "What for?"

****

The stomach has no memory. After days of tide, the beach is clear.

****

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

THE ODIOUS ART OF LEWIS LACOOK

"The spectacle is the guardian of sleep." --Guy DeBord "Not 'piss-painting,' Jean--OXIDATION art."--David Bowie as Andy Warhol in the Julian Schnabel film "Basquiat"

I

Reading, the ceiling fan "blossoms" as onions do in "French Fried Odorous;" impure, like Whitney Biennial, but not beyond niceness ("The rain gutters laquer-haggard-out like a licorice amethyst, all good breeding and heady yeast inflection; on the tongue-side entertaining, but in the twilight...") Respiration, like a ricochet duel, spins her down a slick slightly hairy sluice, lucid for once but for the lack of bright paving, and yet amorousness sentient like a sense that the language is starving, needs eats! Oh, those lovely quills...

II

Renee's got mathematic capriciousness tonight. A cigarette burdens the index and its next of kin. I barely read the ceiling fan as a comparable noun; "Got the Kava!" skates, as in rationale for liking John Ashbery, and my own flesh is pentium ice. A cygnet and its last gynecological song whitens yearly as much as paper training scissors to ripen earnestly into rock, and I'm on a roll, seams, seemlessly riding my forebears to the bughouse where care racks up sweaty palms, as frigid as a morning's task. Tonight stares back at us, barely able to make change. I'd love this familiarity, if a black cat could guzzle moons apathetically, and the stars across her back aren't terrible decals, just carelessly rendered; she likes evenings better now that the inkwell's dried.

III

Lovingly, I cradle the language "head" in my language "arms." I fumble a pieta, ever the dutiful Catholic ("You were born a Methodist," my mother interjects evenly, and lovingly I cradle the language "architecture" repeatedly caterwauling a name I've never heard). Simple; flower an electric fanfare, but don't get caught rotating blindly in the yard, pelted by droplets; let a linguist finger your identification, but don't imagine your mouth crackling with processor speed. Not unusually loved by anyone, just unused to it, see? I promise not to flinch when you reach languidly across the language "half-empty room," aberrantly brush a slushy curl from my dead-lake tailspin eyes. I've got Billy Collins locked so eagerly up in the boys' locker room. Smoke break!

7/26/01

IV

Suppose the cash register is a deity under a J-Lo moon. Suppose you offer nothing to this deity but yourself (as seen on MTV's TRL), and Justin Timberlake, high on demographics and non-generic illegal demerol (an accident of pyrotechnics, non-lethal but very Michael Jackson, has ended the salad days of his soul), waltzes down that carpeted aisle, forty-ounce in hand. Over and over again he drills you for the latitude, the frequency--where is Lewis LaCook? Where is Lewis LaCook's odious art? O Brother, where art thou? And the men's restroom is locked. You kick the door, slip silently into the smell of shit and vacancy, quite satisfied in the thought that, despite undercurrents of sinister marxism, everything in the store is in the store for a reason. Another call from the head office and you'll rest well in the knowledge that Justin is (by ID) over 21, single, negligently white, and Britney will wait everafter in the tour bus outside, cute as a salamander, and just as evolutionarily significant. So, when do YOU get off?

7/27/01

V

Danny DeVito, you are so beautiful now that I remember I have to piss. The stars are grizzled, islands milk themselves of streamlets and crosshairs, zero has exonerated me of all the sins of Freida Kahlo, zilch in winnings, and whipsmart paddywhacked... Lord, how the world do look good on that woman. Even with "taco farts," I get looks on my hair, muster the syringe-chills from Kurt Cobain's misery, yellowly walled-up in his former body blasted blase, stinks. And then I come home to Renee Vaverchak, the woman the world looks good on, like nodding into sobriety, only every night I dream of being left cluttered and luxurious in a city on spiny stilts secular fathoms above peculiar air. Or that long busride here, hot like a passage from a womb; I dream of sleeping on squealing seats, framed by companionable strangers, waking up nowhere. I know who you are; you're where I get off.

VI

Suffer the little children to come to me, loudly braying mucous dissatisfaction as I impound their raver verification. When Connie Selleca came back from the dead, Kurt Cobain wiped his fuzzy punkass dingleberry on the shroud of perpetual resistence, and that's what started electricity, Izzy. See, it's all about force and its opposite; zones in the distended city where Ayn Rand zonked twice in bloody-stool twilight. That bar, lonely as it may seem, serves a "fabulous elixir," erotic by name, scatalogical by taxonomy.

Mind you, I never promised not to open your "gift" before Christmas; I just said something excruciatingly romantic, so you took your pants off. Everything later than that is fuzzy, and smells hard. When my hands loosed comets from your belly, you didn't even flinch

VII

Simon and Schuster walk into a bar. An undertow in the hempen strand of sky not so much blue as naval oranges in a nest of hawks wars on the rest of your yearly report. Simon refuses to pay the bill that Schuster accrues on the oak- lit table, and a horrid row breaks out. Um, I was in the regatta at the time, on ecstasy, and I didn't see John Grisham power-up Transformer-style, like a "robot in the sky." I've been conditioned to take everything but what belongs to me. Could you see your way to bailing me out? Henna tattoos herniate the tan young goddess, easily mistaken for furniture. There'll be scandal afoot in the washroom tonight.

7/30/01

VIII

Nothingness could crave heat like metaphysics does, emptying out the drawers overnight in a glass cascade, evil. Danny Wahlberg rips our shadows off the wall in disgust, tired of jacking off in the mirror and especially Lewis LaCook, who doesn't seem to mind his caste especially, divesting the windshields of trash in the close. Sunset today was freckled like Renee, whose mathematics surprise in precise degrees, leaving the air-conditioning down 'til the air is no longer "soft, silky," but leaves a well-water religious taste in the nostrils. What flavor do you think is earlier than that light that crinkles the skyline like that, Baby, ending Guy DeBord and almost situated in saturations of tinsnip and particleboard? I think it must be a chocolate like Heineken. Anyway, Alec Baldwin, I've just invented an inversion of nipple on you, so that your man-teats hang like grown-ups never get to spoil the time in the parking lot you heated the epistemology until it browsed heavier breaths than these. I like the "Fancy Southern Pecan Pie" best, smother it with worthwhile saliva until a whole harvest of icy cranks secures the areas we slept through on our way through Renee's womb. I rented a hurried ampitheater just to seat you erotically in the back row; you know what I mean by "back row," ambiguously? Just nod if the Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide sounds a bit too much for you right now. Kid Rock and I will 'experiment' until we hit the right combo; I like midgets, especially decimated ones, and he grows more darkly political every shot.

7/31/01 IX

Mary Tyler Moore came into our store one day, with Buddy Holly's blown bits "vintagely electrifying" on a leash; I waited on her, wanted to ask about Lou, even Dick, wanted to know if Murray ever surprised everyone by growing his hair back.

Most of the time I just stare, listen to oval music (the Lemonheads, again), virtuoso my bland renaissance library into something little more than an estimated appeal. Renee thinks I look so cute in her clothes. But my favorite martian has evolved into the incredible hulk, or do the x-men mean mutants can be free, vestiges of Charlie Chaplin and Yardbirds investing freely in my Bettie Page lips? I'll eat the fridge, I guess. I'll jealously tear my shirt. Can you like me when I'm angry?

8/1/01

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

THE QBASIC POEMS 8/2/01- they suffocates on top of she an evening shuddered in between her eyes because him groaned her eyes under she some mud whistled into my hair because her eyes leaking they and her eyes groaned some mud and on top of my hair shuddered her eyes whistled among some mud or the trees creases or groaned my hair shuddered over him but leaking into her eyes and under some mud leaking under an evening suffocates because the trees on top of her eyes or my hair groaned on top of some mud because suffocates into him and covers

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** lips verified on top of odors her mouth muttering in between a hilltop because silk aggravated a hilltop under odors his chest undulates into the minutes because a hilltop castrated lips and a hilltop aggravated his chest and on top of the minutes muttering a hilltop undulates among his chest or my heart shucked or aggravated the minutes muttering over silk but castrated into a hilltop and under his chest castrated under her mouth verified because my heart on top of a hilltop or the minutes aggravated on top of his chest because verified into silk and collapsed

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** her anonymity lurched on top of umbrellas spritely knobs sapped in between meat because crevices shrieked meat under umbrellas earnest bedrest bled into the moon because meat leaving her anonymity and meat shrieked earnest bedrest and on top of the moon sapped meat bled among earnest bedrest or my vaguenesses tearing or shrieked the moon sapped over crevices but leaving into meat and under earnest bedrest leaving under spritely knobs lurched because my vaguenesses on top of meat or the moon shrieked on top of earnest bedrest because lurched into crevices and crumbling

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** pieces of suffering isn't on top of her calls my annoyance grasped in between sedative because my hands cleaned sedative under her calls burgers found into bourbon because sedative arrested pieces of suffering and sedative cleaned burgers and on top of bourbon grasped sedative found among burgers or the morning wishing or cleaned bourbon grasped over my hands but arrested into sedative and under burgers arrested under my annoyance isn't because the morning on top of sedative or bourbon cleaned on top of burgers because isn't into my hands and swallowed

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

***

a sad but curly smile hardening on top of her dappled arms her sigh-soft body nestled in between my teeth because the raining lips warmly enshrouded my teeth under her dappled arms the implosion of her kiss liquidly buried into the cold because my teeth sweetening a sad but curly smile and my teeth warmly enshrouded the implosion of her kiss and on top of the cold nestled my teeth liquidly buried among the implosion of her kiss or green eyes dissolved or warmly enshrouded the cold nestled over the raining lips but sweetening into my teeth and under the implosion of her kiss sweetening under her sigh-soft body hardening because green eyes on top of my teeth or the cold warmly enshrouded on top of the implosion of her kiss because hardening into the raining lips and pinkens

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** the sofa sells on top of enamel names twisted lemons pumping in between your anima because your belly's creed rendered your anima under enamel names shattered grapes foaming into my sinister skin because your anima blissfully sucking the sofa and your anima rendered shattered grapes and on top of my sinister skin pumping your anima foaming among shattered grapes or a smoking city caught or rendered my sinister skin pumping over your belly's creed but blissfully sucking into your anima and under shattered grapes blissfully sucking under twisted lemons sells because a smoking city on top of your anima or my sinister skin rendered on top of shattered grapes because sells into your belly's creed and glistening

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** foggy glasses palpitating on top of the smoke-dark living room shadows of abandoned structures revolved in between my colder hands because flexibility rashly grins my colder hands under the smoke-dark living room keys that stick stinking up into Henry Girlcat because my colder hands sang foggy glasses and my colder hands rashly grins keys that stick and on top of Henry Girlcat revolved my colder hands stinking up among keys that stick or skin ardently scowling or rashly grins

Henry Girlcat revolved over flexibility but sang into my colder hands and under keys that stick sang under shadows of abandoned structures palpitating because skin on top of my colder hands or

Henry Girlcat rashly grins on top of keys that stick because palpitating into flexibility and carouse

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** random access memory bowlderized on top of strawberry hair the streams starved in between her love-spangled blanket because deep-pixel arms starrily grinning her love-spangled blanket under strawberry hair fingernails that need sheared bruises into chilly feet because her love-spangled blanket ebbing random access memory and her love-spangled blanket starrily grinning fingernails that need sheared and on top of chilly feet starved her love-spangled blanket bruises among fingernails that need sheared or my father as a homeless island huddling or starrily grinning chilly feet starved over deep-pixel arms but ebbing into her love-spangled blanket and under fingernails that need sheared ebbing under the streams bowlderized because my father as a homeless island on top of her love-spangled blanket or chilly feet starrily grinning on top of fingernails that need sheared because bowlderized into deep-pixel arms and plucked

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** sour grinning hooks raped on top of milky fisheyes his dusk-riddled face stiffening in between that missing girl because mouthfuls of tepid wash deafens that missing girl under milky fisheyes his blotted-out fingers cleans into those drowned twins because that missing girl purifies sour grinning hooks and that missing girl deafens his blotted-out fingers and on top of those drowned twins stiffening that missing girl cleans among his blotted-out fingers or angry tides bloated or deafens those drowned twins stiffening over mouthfuls of tepid wash but purifies into that missing girl and under his blotted-out fingers purifies under his dusk-riddled face raped because angry tides on top of that missing girl or those drowned twins deafens on top of his blotted-out fingers because raped into mouthfuls of tepid wash and strangled

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** tummy-gurgles churned on top of slivers of birdsong a crimped-up pillow surging in between angled-shadows of eaves because my smudged windows rustled angled-shadows of eaves under slivers of birdsong forgotten garbage bubbling into heavy drenched sunshine because angled-shadows of eaves gargles tummy-gurgles and angled-shadows of eaves rustled forgotten garbage and on top of heavy drenched sunshine surging angled-shadows of eaves bubbling among forgotten garbage or sunflower clockfaces wafts or rustled heavy drenched sunshine surging over my smudged windows but gargles into angled-shadows of eaves and under forgotten garbage gargles under a crimped-up pillow churned because sunflower clockfaces on top of angled-shadows of eaves or heavy drenched sunshine rustled on top of forgotten garbage because churned into my smudged windows and twirling

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** us faced on top of she saturn frantically itching in between crepescular tongue because they sitting down crepescular tongue under she cobalt separations washed up into annotated fur because crepescular tongue dried us and crepescular tongue sitting down cobalt separations and on top of annotated fur frantically itching crepescular tongue washed up among cobalt separations or grizzled light immobilised or sitting down annotated fur frantically itching over they but dried into crepescular tongue and under cobalt separations dried under saturn faced because grizzled light on top of crepescular tongue or annotated fur sitting down on top of cobalt separations because faced into they and spurting

Written by Poem Generator 1.0 08-02-2001

*** these bloodied streets ripped on top of projection because blistered yolks fearfully retreating because into rips into blistered yolks bludgeoned these bloodied streets and the slave class because projection crying out on top of protection smashing among blistered yolks but rips protection under the weaker sex on top of the weaker sex bludgeoned projection and in between blistered yolks because the slave class tearing on top of projection bludgeoned because smashing among the weaker sex fearfully retreating among the slave class tearing

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** you betrays over my mind and my mind relieves or in between bleeding and my heart looks down on I because the suffering and my mind reveals under the people crushing into my heart or bleeding breezy rooms on top of the people over small domestic murders reveals my mind into but my heart and the suffering undermines under my mind looks down on and crushing in between breezy rooms bleeding among small domestic murders bleeding

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** juices shot loofa under reasons poked and poked the whole shebang because tears shot the whole shebang among reasons

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** my scrappling hands brow-beating among deep anxiety shadows my smudge-pot eyes traces but grown-up ideas over well-adjusted girl brow-beating deep anxiety into lurid hysteria binge's precipice traces and well-adjusted girl because grown-up ideas saps deep anxiety but acclimated bells trails my scrappling hands because under deep anxiety takes my scrappling hands snapping on top of my smudge-pot eyes because my scrappling hands accepts but brow-beating deep anxiety saps among my smudge-pot eyes and saps under well-adjusted girl because on top of my smudge-pot eyes saps in between lurid hysteria shadows and binge's precipice under well-adjusted girl but deep anxiety snapping and deep anxiety over accepts among my smudge-pot eyes or takes

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** my shape in high wind reads over brain's wires and brain's wires gravely hysterical or in between knows and ease of consumption takes my shouts because pleasant dirt and brain's wires slapping under antiseptic lighting scrubs into ease of consumption or knows lovely loveless love on top of antiseptic lighting over the sleep of panhandlers slapping brain's wires into but ease of consumption and pleasant dirt cleansing under brain's wires takes and scrubs in between lovely loveless love knows among the sleep of panhandlers knows

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** my pills whispered on top of they're world because the test wears because into shaking into the test devouring my pills and my coffee because they're world rubs on top of her shoulders smacks among the test but shaking her shoulders under my cigarettes on top of my cigarettes devouring they're world and in between the test because my coffee oxidated on top of they're world devouring because smacks among my cigarettes wears among my coffee oxidated

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** struggles with luminescent hair licking among thrill of touch erupts tangled love flares but bedsmell over the rise and fall of her somnulent breath licking thrill of touch into warmth of a widely-streaming body the topography of her freckled shoulders flares and the rise and fall of her somnulent breath because bedsmell grasped thrill of touch but spicy kissing crackles struggles with luminescent hair because under thrill of touch softly engraving struggles with luminescent hair gasping on top of tangled love because struggles with luminescent hair sparking but licking thrill of touch grasped among tangled love and grasped under the rise and fall of her somnulent breath because on top of tangled love grasped in between warmth of a widely-streaming body erupts and the topography of her freckled shoulders under the rise and fall of her somnulent breath but thrill of touch gasping and thrill of touch over sparking among tangled love or softly engraving

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** unity caresses on top of tao because dialectic fulfilling because into juxtaposed into dialectic breathing unity and hope because tao harmonizing on top of

I living among dialectic but juxtaposed I under oneness on top of oneness breathing tao and in between dialectic because hope mixes on top of tao breathing because living among oneness fulfilling among hope mixes

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** whatever she believes flowing among mixtures wrapped around she engaging but the loneliness of one tone over our children flowing mixtures into I whatever I believe engaging and our children because the loneliness of one tone flying mixtures but the reverberation of two colors side- by-side breathing deeper whatever she believes because under mixtures standing tall whatever she believes not bickering on top of she because whatever she believes seeing clear but flowing mixtures flying among she and flying under our children because on top of she flying in between I wrapped around and whatever I believe under our children but mixtures not bickering and mixtures over seeing clear among she or standing tall

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** the world languidly floating on top of burning fields because headfog snuggles because into fused into headfog sobs the world and her flames because burning fields whispers on top of the touch of money slinking among headfog but fused the touch of money under my glacial wiring on top of my glacial wiring sobs burning fields and in between headfog because her flames dissecting on top of burning fields sobs because slinking among my glacial wiring snuggles among her flames dissecting

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-03-2001

*** ordinary foot soldiers threw among America rushed arduous hill-to-hill campaign defeats but ceasefire over exile threw America into conditions similar to world war one snipers defeats and exile because ceasefire delivered America but communist troops is ordinary foot soldiers because under America were ordinary foot soldiers confounded on top of arduous hill-to-hill campaign because ordinary foot soldiers was but threw

America delivered among arduous hill-to-hill campaign and delivered under exile because on top of arduous hill-to-hill campaign delivered in between conditions similar to world war one rushed and snipers under exile but

America confounded and America over was among arduous hill-to-hill campaign or were

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-04-2001

*** pitch black shoots over her expansive breath and her expansive breath wetting or in between ludicrously reasoning and my shrinking head jangling vietcong guerillas because the spread of her strawberry skin and her expansive breath having under clutch of amorous sleep shallowing out into my shrinking head or ludicrously reasoning clandestine rendezvous on top of clutch of amorous sleep over his scope having her expansive breath into but my shrinking head and the spread of her strawberry skin blasted under her expansive breath jangling and shallowing out in between clandestine renezvous ludicrously reasoning among his scope ludicrously reasoning

Written by Poem Generator 1.1 08-04-2001

*** deep space partially devoured on top of scattered coins as if boarded-up doors breathlessly quiet in between lonely house because meteor swatch gardening lonely house under scattered coins motion-picture soundtrack operate into zombies because lonely house digging deep space as well as lonely house gardening motion-picture soundtrack and on top of zombies breathlessly quiet lonely house operate among motion-picture soundtrack or fear of fire running or gardening zombies breathlessly quiet over meteor swatch also digging into lonely house and under motion-picture soundtrack digging under boarded-up doors partially devoured because fear of fire on top of lonely house as well as zombies gardening on top of motion-picture soundtrack because partially devoured into meteor swatch and burning

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

*** living shadows rubbing as if he also the fumbling of names deeply drinking because into siphoned into the fumbling of names walking through living shadows and the sterile throb because he sounding out on top of stars in his palms waking up within the fumbling of names as well as siphoned stars in his palms under a misplaced rib on top of a misplaced rib walking through he and in between the fumbling of names because the sterile throb eroded on top of he walking through because waking up among a misplaced rib deeply drinking within the sterile throb eroded

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

***

Poems 14 Lewis LaCook 8/5/01-8/24/01

QBASIC POEMS--cont.

magick fitting crackling singing as if crackling singing also says and magick says tortoise-shell sunglasses in between a curl of vertigo crackling singing powders into a curl of vertigo says says the drum also magick in between yellow feet yellow feet touched yellow feet and magick or into a curl of vertigo combing crackling singing within tortoise-shell sunglasses the small of her back the drum succumbing crackling singing then magick feeling as well as combing yellow feet and tortoise-shell sunglasses fluttered crackling singing fitting the drum

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

*** crimped and lured the scent of meat sang among my original face sagging the score then my original face crimped the score swallowing if lips bruised and dusky sizzling the scent of meat then mirrored oblivion crimped love also the score sizzling within my original face sizzling over the score lured the scent of meat and mirrored oblivion buckles among the score blossoming or lured the score if mirrored oblivion sizzling love then love blossoming the scent of meat among my original face sizzling on top of mirrored oblivion crimped lips bruised and dusky and the scent of meat

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

*** wrapped if warping hair clinging to an incline over NOBOY warping zazen because a dab of badness disappearing hair clinging to an incline thrills if dips in fluid earth wolfed down bananas then a dab of badness wrapped bananas as well as walking nil wolfed down within hair clinging to an incline wrapped within NOBOY wrapped hair clinging to an incline but a dab of badness wrapped within bananas sees because wasn't hair clinging to an incline if dips in fluid earth wrapped bananas then hair clinging to an incline flowered hair clinging to an incline on top of zazen flowered among a dab of badness wrapped hair clinging to an incline or walking nil

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

*** the telegraph dancing among the whole history of the phonograph licensing the museum of americana ruminating but the big sale over the late 1920s dancing the whole history of the phonograph within numbered numbnesses wires ruminating and the late 1920s because the big sale heard the whole history of the phonograph but cake showed the telegraph because as if the whole history of the phonograph made the telegraph remembering on top of the museum of americana because the telegraph trading as well as dancing the whole history of the phonograph heard among the museum of americana and heard under the late 1920s because on top of the museum of americana heard in between numbered numbnesses licensing and wires under the late 1920s also the whole history of the phonograph remembering and the whole history of the phonograph over trading among the museum of americana because made

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-05-2001

*** gleefully creaming and deliberately gracefully standing the camera swims among objectified emotional breakdown froze my body on tape then objectified emotional breakdown gleefully creaming my body on tape trailing if creased bills revolving the camera then subjects gleefully creaming the movement that knows also my body on tape revolving within objectified emotional breakdown revolving over my body on tape deliberately gracefully standing the camera and subjects trilled among my body on tape pulsed or deliberately gracefully standing my body on tape if subjects revolving the movement that knows then the movement that knows pulsed the camera among objectified emotional breakdown revolving on top of subjects gleefully creaming creased bills and the camera

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-06-2001

*** striations in twilight depth breezes through trashbag rustle under mysterious pellets plasters and plasters artsy rain because fogged glasses breezes through artsy rain among mysterious pellets

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-06-2001

***

octopus hair was sapphire blaze as if sapphire blaze also sweltering and octopus hair sweltering mocha in between memorization of dappled floors sapphire blaze carves into memorization of dappled floors sweltering sweltering finalized etching also octopus hair in between the certitude of erasure the certitude of erasure corroborate the certitude of erasure and octopus hair or into memorization of dappled floors brimmed sapphire blaze within mocha broken english finalized etching raw rubbing sapphire blaze then octopus hair shelters as well as brimmed the certitude of erasure and mocha safely engaged sapphire blaze was finalized etching

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-06-2001

*** circling if printed the schmutz over mildew printed condensation because spots saturate the schmutz tidies up if stains soaked the smudge then spots circling the smudge as well as coffee-table rings soaked within the schmutz circling within mildew circling the schmutz but spots circling within the smudge engirthed because imbued the schmutz if stains circling the smudge then the schmutz drenches the schmutz on top of condensation drenches among spots circling the schmutz or coffee-table rings

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-06-2001

*** seventh grade seemed nervousness under dorm room stayed and stayed Walmart because college seemed Walmart among dorm room

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-06-2001

*** his hand furnished within hard-boiled ex-cop as well as hard-boiled ex-cop burned or among asking and teen-age tigress talking fists because candle-wax because hard-boiled ex-cop growled within stolen jewels reached out in between teen-age tigress or asking her face within stolen jewels over the kiss growled hard-boiled ex-cop into but teen-age tigress and candle-wax leaving under hard-boiled ex-cop talking because reached out as if her face asking among the kiss asking

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** pressure slid as if nobody also contacts stopped because into knotted into contacts folded pressure and melody because nobody going on top of a knife widened within contacts as well as knotted a knife under the dough on top of the dough folded nobody and in between contacts because melody shouted weakly on top of nobody folded because widened among the dough stopped within melody shouted weakly

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** sipping and merged dew-creased petals crescendoed among reality slow gliding arrogant hair then reality sipping arrogant hair sweetly fading if the obligatory cigarette rushed in dew-creased petals then

Bill Gates sipping happy pills also arrogant hair rushed in within reality rushed in over arrogant hair merged dew-creased petals and Bill Gates drops among arrogant hair pleading or merged arrogant hair if Bill Gates rushed in happy pills then happy pills pleading dew-creased petals among reality rushed in on top of Bill Gates sipping the obligatory cigarette and dew-creased petals

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** mentions and slave hunting the bandwidth rule among building managers conquered a single solitary savant then building managers mentions a single solitary savant missing if communists sanctioned the bandwidth then

New York mentions globalization also a single solitary savant sanctioned within building managers sanctioned over a single solitary savant slave hunting the bandwidth and New York trapped among a single solitary savant launched or slave hunting a single solitary savant if New York sanctioned globalization then globalization launched the bandwidth among building managers sanctioned on top of New York mentions communists and the bandwidth

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** Genoa bending George W. Bush under explosions assimilated and assimilated heartbeat because Lewis LaCook bending heartbeat among explosions

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** shined and sweats orange fructified among vents pulsating kissing as being then vents shined kissing as being breathing if the gaze glittered orange then fermentation shined sagging eyes also kissing as being glittered within vents glittered over kissing as being sweats orange and fermentation glints among kissing as being sparkling or sweats kissing as being if fermentation glittered sagging eyes then sagging eyes sparkling orange among vents glittered on top of fermentation shined the gaze and orange

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-07-2001

*** string multiplies as if quickness also efficiency recurs because into parses into efficiency adds string and Assembler because quickness modifies on top of

Floating Point prints within efficiency as well as parses Floating Point under data on top of data adds quickness and in between efficiency because Assembler links on top of quickness adds because prints among data recurs within Assembler links

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-08-2001

*** unfurling and doubled the sickness drowns among the randomness of staircases folding over vomit then the randomness of staircases unfurling vomit talking in my sleep if missing work whirls the sickness then dream-ghosts unfurling stormclouds in her belly also vomit whirls within the randomness of staircases whirls over vomit doubled the sickness and dream-ghosts trills among vomit fumes or doubled vomit if dream-ghosts whirls stormclouds in her belly then stormclouds in her belly fumes the sickness among the randomness of staircases whirls on top of dream-ghosts unfurling missing work and the sickness

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-08-2001

***

face-to-face meetings electrocutes the riddle in dreaming as if the riddle in dreaming also floated away and face-to-face meetings floated away that slant-slide of eyes in between lyricism the riddle in dreaming smoking into lyricism floated away floated away romantic hideaway also face-to-face meetings in between people programed to consume people programed to consume juicing people programed to consume and face-to-face meetings or into lyricism fled the riddle in dreaming within that slant-slide of eyes reality as a verb romantic hideaway equalized the riddle in dreaming then face-to-face meetings pearled as well as fled people programed to consume and that slant-slide of eyes waxed the riddle in dreaming electrocutes romantic hideaway

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-08-2001

*** collaged and maddening a dark living-room before noon fused to among Device Manager damned August and its salty cling then Device Manager collaged August and its salty cling twining if divinity completed a dark living-room before noon then my skin finally upgraded collaged divination also August and its salty cling completed within Device Manager completed over August and its salty cling maddening a dark living- room before noon and my skin finally upgraded deliberating among August and its salty cling contemplated or maddening August and its salty cling if my skin finally upgraded completed divination then divination contemplated a dark living-room before noon among Device Manager completed on top of my skin finally upgraded collaged divinity and a dark living-room before noon

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-08-2001

***

Texas confessed within Henry Lee Lucas as if Ottis Toole condemned under narratives of extreme cruelty because the "Orange Socks" murder taken into custody narratives of extreme cruelty under Henry Lee Lucas popular "true crime" texts reveal into the confessions because narratives of extreme cruelty exercised the practice of confession Texas as well as narratives of extreme cruelty taken into custody popular "true crime" texts and on top of the confessions condemned narratives of extreme cruelty reveal among popular "true crime" texts or George W. Bush considered or taken into custody the confessions condemned over the "Orange Socks" murder also exercised the practice of confession into narratives of extreme cruelty and under popular "true crime" texts exercised the practice of confession under Ottis Toole confessed because George W. Bush on top of narratives of extreme cruelty as well as the confessions taken into custody on top of popular "true crime" texts because confessed into the "Orange Socks" murder and considered

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-09-2001

*** edged hair cacophonates within heavy lids as well as heavy lids buried or among sanding down and Frank O'Hara ridiculously smoking electric flesh because the year of the motor-car because heavy lids supplies within milk lapped in between Frank O'Hara or sanding down cloud-trail across a glutted moon within milk over

Ted Berrigan supplies heavy lids into but Frank O'Hara and the year of the motor-car spit-boned under heavy lids ridiculously smoking because lapped as if cloud-trail across a glutted moon sanding down among Ted Berrigan sanding down

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-09-2001

*** loud blood sampling among the human genome rowing black eyes worded but lust over stained blue jeans sampling the human genome within pick-axe orgasm worded and stained blue jeans because lust tastes the human genome but kava kava roams loud blood because as if the human genome shrieks loud blood wafted on top of black eyes because loud blood curling as well as sampling the human genome tastes among black eyes and tastes under stained blue jeans because on top of black eyes tastes in between pick-axe rowing and orgasm under stained blue jeans also the human genome wafted and the human genome over curling among black eyes because shrieks

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-09-2001

*** peaceful melting worrying as if neural nets also uploading to perfection spoke because into slept into uploading to perfection riddling peaceful melting and the diamond sutra because neural nets swam on top of time's place breathing within uploading to perfection as well as slept time's place under No Mind at all on top of

No Mind at all riddling neural nets and in between uploading to perfection because the diamond sutra muted on top of neural nets riddling because breathing among No Mind at all spoke within the diamond sutra muted

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-09-2001

***

my drift pries open the woman in the moon as if the woman in the moon also cartwheeling and my drift cartwheeling frail alien tryst in between spun-silk seas the woman in the moon running into spun-silk seas cartwheeling cartwheeling babytalk also my drift in between a scald of daubs a scald of daubs shivers a scald of daubs and my drift or into spun-silk seas burning the woman in the moon within frail alien tryst shorelines babytalk burying the woman in the moon then my drift scolded as well as burning a scald of daubs and frail alien tryst ravished the woman in the moon pries open babytalk

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-10-2001

*** the rage of salt bathing among beads of erosion manifests courtesy cup fetished but heat wave over beating form bathing beads of erosion within obsolete practice occult tongues fetished and beating form because heat wave satisfied beads of erosion but gas bath segmenting the rage of salt because as if beads of erosion darkens the rage of salt fantasizing on top of courtesy cup because the rage of salt cradled as well as bathing beads of erosion satisfied among courtesy cup and satisfied under beating form because on top of courtesy cup satisfied in between obsolete practice manifests and occult tongues under beating form also beads of erosion fantasizing and beads of erosion over cradled among courtesy cup because darkens

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-10-2001

*** shuffled and curved the sun eating among hills curling at the edges handing flames along my flesh then hills curling at the edges shuffled flames along my flesh washed if heat seeps the sun then the heart shuffled furry blossom head also flames along my flesh seeps within hills curling at the edges seeps over flames along my flesh curved the sun and the heart bubbling up among flames along my flesh loping over or curved flames along my flesh if the heart seeps furry blossom head then furry blossom head loping over the sun among hills curling at the edges seeps on top of the heart shuffled heat and the sun

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-14-2001

*** tranquility hugs within freckles mapping my eyes as well as freckles mapping my eyes aching or among tinting and her lucid strawberry lips starring kisses that envelope me because my need because freckles mapping my eyes brushed within sleep in the breadth of her licking in between her lucid strawberry lips or tinting calmness within sleep in the breadth of her over hands that knead the poisons out brushed freckles mapping my eyes into but her lucid strawberry lips and my need stilling under freckles mapping my eyes starring because licking as if calmness tinting among hands that knead the poisons out tinting

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-14-2001 *** strands of fog channeling under chopper jumps rush simulates then the angels in her exiting into surgery makes but strands of fog controlled under hooks as well as small log book if breathing apparatus makes over strands of fog jumps or stimulates in between strands of fog and hooks excited over rush controlled the angels in her if strands of fog channeling if breathing apparatus simulates on top of strands of fog

Written by Poetry Generator 1.2 08-14-2001

*** city's jazz calling under the patients turns blurred eyes whirls then low-light-time watches into brazen skin gnarling but city's jazz whispered under listeners as well as sugared silence if gushing columns gnarling over city's jazz turns or creeping in between city's jazz and listeners ran over blurred eyes whispered low-light-time if city's jazz calling if gushing columns whirls on top of city's jazz

Written by Poetry Generator 1.2 08-16-20

*** amazing if crashed amorphous spores over the reform party crashed the artifice of gas island lighting because sacrifice entering amorphous spores slipped if sacrelige fascinated sudden kick of Aphrodite then sacrifice amazing sudden kick of Aphrodite as well as the pituitary gland fascinated within amorphous spores amazing within the reform party amazing amorphous spores but sacrifice amazing within sudden kick of Aphrodite secreting because sagging amorphous spores if sacrelige amazing sudden kick of Aphrodite then amorphous spores roared amorphous spores on top of the artifice of gas island lighting roared among sacrifice amazing amorphous spores or the pituitary gland

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-15-2001

***

pearled reapings confront conflagration as if conflagration also exclaimed and pearled reapings exclaimed this blaze in between furry hilltops conflagration rhapsodized into furry hilltops exclaimed exclaimed twilight span also pearled reapings in between token economies token economies comforts token economies and pearled reapings or into furry hilltops greased conflagration within this blaze a monad's social calendar twilight span transgressing conflagration then pearled reapings contorting as well as greased token economies and this blaze excommunicates conflagration confront twilight span

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-16-2001

*** car horns blistering under running nurse cesspool retrieved clang inserts then the press of moods streaming into shingled lingo illumed but car horns volumninously moving under THIS as well as nurture if inner grip illumed over car horns retrieved or touched in between car horns and THIS mullling over over clang volumninously moving the press of moods if car horns blistering if inner grip inserts on top of car horns

Written by Poetry Generator 1.2 08-18-2001 ***

pictures of photographs rubs nozzles as if nozzles also breezes and pictures of photographs breezes tongues in between one nozzles stammers into one breezes breezes the Rush also pictures of photographs in between mothswan mothswan gurgling mothswan and pictures of photographs or into one remaindering nozzles within tongues lava the Rush merge nozzles then pictures of photographs urged as well as remaindering mothswan and tongues grimaced nozzles rubs the Rush

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-18-2001

***

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

THAT CRAZY LADY WALKING HER DOGS THROUGH OUR STORE

She's slender as a sliver, like a splinter I caught once walking through jars to the end of the road, and she leads silver dogs through varicose dew.

I'm always smudged up against the concavity of emotions, caving in, crawling from the sweat I breathe so that the walls puke my reflection.

Take your crazy finger and let it talk to itself in training trails. When I stick myself with capsules all that ever comes is pidgin.

I'll talk to your dogs. I'll bathe them in my voice, splendid with barbules. Let me lift the weight of that ice off your coif, which stands in French translation; je suis, je suis un autre.

8/20/01

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

Wood-Washed Windows

Take these hills in your mouth, she said. Your spit, it rains, the kiosk, she said. Your tongue and the last of summer bruised.

When I wake up to an empty apartment When I wake up to an empty apartment When I wake up to an empty apartment I won't open the windows until you're home. Behind the windows is behind the windows is behind the wind or does the wood know behind the empty apartment when I wake up is the sun my mouth in the open of the humming. A can-opener washes coffee-filter fumbling like it's an edgy teeth on me gnashing rocks to saliva living micro-orgasmic. When I wake up to an empty When I wake up When I wake up to an empty apartment causes the ravens in behind the window to newly fenestrate in astonished shinto beams. Kiosks and kitsch her velvet elvis paintings a mouth could flare solar jagged gadgets like mint or pain. I'm used to the missionary cigarettes of alphabetical order.

She said, it's time to wake up now, it's time for your interview. The last of summer bruised your tongue to dumb down lakes.

8/21/01

******************************************************************** *** a marathon injection on edge after his jobless plight dumped naked in the center of the city of Szczecin with ``I am a thief'' written on his back on edge after a spate of Palestinian suicide bombings on edge after a spate of Palestinian suicide bombings sliced off his penis to draw attention to his jobless plight a jacket and tie for the only man, dresses for the ladies a devout believer in the adage that absence makes the heart grow exactly what to expect: a marathon injection preparing to take an innovative band thin line archtop, with a retail value $1999.99 to participate in an enhanced training mode and two-minute drill

8/21/01

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

Minutes

While watching the moth devour Saturn's young; while Goya slept a leper sleep; as she loves the raw potato from its chrysalis, and its crisis loves her back; as shorelines recede and hair twirls its lurid pills around the tennis court; meanwhile the rust, like fungi radiating from dialtones nationwide; meanwhile the wild cantelope, randy as its season zeniths; suddenly, separation is of the utmost import; in the meantime, seraphim; at regular intervals, nimbus; minutes go by, and bye bye.

8/23/01

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

Bruised, Speckled

You were sleeping. We couldn't stop. He liked it. They made me. I watched you. You were sleeping. We could've stopped his liking it. They made me watch you. They made me watch you sleeping. We couldn't stop them from watching you. They ate all the parking, even in the fire lane. I was sleeping. He peeled out, disgusted at the way the conversation went. I could've helped you a lot more. She couldn't stop me. He liked it. I made him. It went soft as sugar replaced its skin. They made me eat it. They made me eat it in the fire lane. They were sleeping. She couldn't stop. Each pulse pushed her closer and closer to the hairline edge of complete fracture. I didn't care. They didn't care. We had adventures. No-one left the house. No-one was sleeping. No-one could stop sleeping.

8/23/01

******************************************************************** **** Shiny Brass Eyes

If I knew what the night smelled like, if I could taste it on my tongue the way smoke wraps around it, if I could smother myself in it the way I suck at this plasma screen, then, oh, then maybe all the teenaged heartthrobs would abjure their judicious accoutrements, step off the starship, dusted with silver lips, and perhaps wearing glitter instead of pupils would be fashionable again. As it is, I'm reminded of the hollow I leave in this room every time I leave it; walking back from the store today, in daylight for once, the whole earth shifted, and I walked this synthetic thread to a site I'd built from hours piling hours piling hours just sitting here, staring at the needle dullness of myself, sifting through ashy strands just to emerge with that one glistening peal of light that could tell someone where they'll find me. I'll be alright. Just give me a minute. Try on these new clothes.

8/24/01

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sugar meddling under swirling dervishes. blood and quantum physics mawls on top of blood. plunged interrogatrions also swirling dervishes demolished as well as 3 ? demolished swill sandwhiched between? quantum physics meddling within swirling dervishes but interrogatrions mawls swirling dervishes! Hadrian meddling swill. in between swill or crotch demolished among quantum physics. meddling under crotch and interrogatrions mawls swill? blood complicates within Hadrian.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-23-2001

*** oceans splitting under grilled bedrest. fingertip webs and sugar from her knees loved on top of fingertip webs. induce surgery also grilled bedrest fending off as well as electrocuted? fending off streams of her thinking electrified? sugar from her knees splitting within grilled bedrest but surgery loved grilled bedrest! zealous mouth splitting streams of her thinking. in between streams of her thinking or springs fending off among sugar from her knees. splitting under springs and surgery loved streams of her thinking? fingertip webs electrocuted within zealous mouth.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-23-2001

*** colors greasing or jangling the sensuality of beasts into juices and colors rasps against while split fruit sated furs that sighs when you touch it. the sensuality of beasts shorts out split fruit within shadows arching in the sienna blanched if coupled juices on top of colors. colors rasps against while growled colors.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-24-2001

***

greedy teeth radiates or straightened burst flesh into light rain and greedy teeth hunts while sparks steaming burning trees. burst flesh craning sparks within a mouthful cuddled if smoking light rain on top of greedy teeth. greedy teeth hunts while wafted greedy teeth. a mouthful smoking also burst flesh cuddled in between greedy teeth. a mouthful wafted then cuddled greedy teeth over burst flesh. and gray nails wafted over greedy teeth. or wafted our saviour, burning trees steaming greedy teeth in between radiates or greedy teeth craning under a mouthful. greedy teeth smoking also craning our saviour into light rain, greedy teeth wafted but smoking into our saviour. light rain smoking greedy teeth, if a mouthful straightened among gray nails. greedy teeth steaming because straightened a mouthful. sparks smoking also wafted a mouthful. into greedy teeth if gray nails radiates while burst flesh craning our saviour. our saviour cuddled light rain also greedy teeth steaming our saviour under greedy teeth. gray nails smoking light rain while greedy teeth. greedy teeth hunts burst flesh and steaming over burning trees. greedy teeth and a mouthful cuddled into sparks.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-24-2001 *** Poems 15 Lewis LaCook 8/24/01-

salt inflaming or moistening the craving into earth and salt salve while worms quells bristling sips. the craving shudders worms within the elevation of chafed lips undulating if palpitating earth on top of salt. salt salve while whispers salt. the elevation of chafed lips palpitating also the craving undulating in between salt. the elevation of chafed lips whispers then undulating salt over the craving. and flagrant apologies whispers over salt. or whispers bachannal, bristling sips quells salt in between inflaming or salt shudders under the elevation of chafed lips. salt palpitating also shudders bachannal into earth, salt whispers but palpitating into bachannal. earth palpitating salt, if the elevation of chafed lips moistening among flagrant apologies. salt quells because moistening the elevation of chafed lips. worms palpitating also whispers the elevation of chafed lips. into salt if flagrant apologies inflaming while the craving shudders bachannal. bachannal undulating earth also salt quells bachannal under salt. flagrant apologies palpitating earth while salt. salt salve the craving and quells over bristling sips. salt and the elevation of chafed lips undulating into worms.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-24-2001

***

language games masticate under high mass. sign-making and blank beverage bludgeoning on top of sign-making. verifies fulsome bowels also high mass heard as well as vindicates? heard bass-burps suffused? blank beverage masticate within high mass but fulsome bowels bludgeoning high mass! handsome digits masticate bass-burps. in between bass-burps or love as tool heard among blank beverage. masticate under love as tool and fulsome bowels bludgeoning bass-burps? sign-making vindicates within handsome digits.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-24-2001

***

his frigid palms overlaps and binges Ambulance attack. target audience bombed and joins Ambulance attack under full moon. then slices of breath bombed in between Ambulance attack. but joins Drive, the self caressed his frigid palms on top of flipped then Ambulance attack caressed among total erasure. slices of breath caressed because joins full moon in between full moon, Ambulance attack rubbing as well as overlaps while his frigid palms. full moon binges Drive, and slices of breath purging among full moon. his frigid palms flipped or joins total erasure. over full moon but his frigid palms binges on top of target audience caressed his frigid palms. Ambulance attack rubbing Ambulance attack as well as full moon purging full moon while target audience. his frigid palms caressed Ambulance attack among total erasure. the self binges target audience but rubbing into Ambulance attack. the self then Drive rubbing while full moon. the self binges if binges total erasure within Ambulance attack as well as his frigid palms overlaps over target audience overlaps the self. Drive purging total erasure under the self.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 08-24-2001

***

Surprise

Troubled, I want to make something perfect. The agitation in my pores. Something flashing, with my voice inside. She might have thought the bananas would stay fresh if she kept them in the bag; but now the countertop's freckled with my missing coffee, dappled with Kool-Aid burns. I threw something into the air, and followed it with something down my throat. Troubled, I attempt sleep, but only manage a sour wakefulness, tipping thoughts out my ear, onto the pillow. Now their skin's riddled with soft brown sores. Earlier today, yesterday,

I was eating a peach. I thought, how strange, to surround a seed with this cushion of sweet flesh. She's snoring: I'm afraid she has trouble catching up to her breath in her sleep. I lie awake and compose. There aren't enough words in my voice, in the bend of my body hollowing out. He says. I write letters to everyone I've ever known instead of sleep. Dear Sheila, he says. I'm sorry that I'm missing my genius. The people in the apartment next to us wake with slides and thuds, with deafness undulating on my breath, and night falls from the trees, bending over, hollowing out the songs. The radio alarm jerks up from a thinly water of slumber. I cried when the old man heard his symphony in the movie, but he couldn't hear it, he was deaf: like fluids slipping whispers over fluids in his mind. I'm troubled, he says. I want to be flashing. The trees drop us in the midst of these fields interrogating the sun, shedding her nightgown, shedding the evidence that crushes streetpeople to blacktop and amethyst hangovers. She might have thought, he's beautiful, confused, like water fed by skies gored open by sharp metal clouds; my feet brush the uppermost branches. Earlier yesterday, today, I was eating fruit from the eyes of a woman surprising the dawn.

8/30/01

***

Seeds

In deep and moist soil behind my eyes, depends on most of all where I sit, groaning these rhizome schemas that enthrall like a keatsian serpent the virgins bathing their wounded mouths in a sleepless stream not forgetting the prick of swollen rain as artificial as this light we're sucking down, wadded away in this waiting room biodegrading, dissolved like a handful of torn sore earth.

8/30/01

***

How beautiful it must be to perform surgery on an infant; to slip with laser fingers into tissue unfurrowed, to break for repair the seal on the brain, still soft with fallacy. I must be just another baby with a tumor muting my speech:

I lie open all night, trying new names on my mouth.

8/30/01

***

Gas Station Woodcut

I wear night, full moon, and delirium. I wear cricket- trill, metal and alkali. I browse the sluice of fullmoonlight and its shapes, like hot animals engraved in the blacktop. Their skin is comprised of mountains I comprehend. I am excommunicated from the clubs of bullish glitz; girls with fullmoonshrapnel dusted across their breasts. Their nipples search the pins of my stare across the business of shiny floors, rollicking in lashes. I wear their lips; I stretch them to fit. I'm a rivulet of silhouette on glass with night on the other side my steely breath, my metal call. My face will be washed away by morning.

9/1/01

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

Goo for Allen Bramhall

Woke up with the Goo all over in bed with me. In bed with me sighed, stretched tenuously. Tender, the Goo had ogled her face to a sapphire pluck. This stringed instrument was arranged to curl like a woman's body, daubed in intellectualism, which knows things. The Goo had taken posession of my topic sentence. For example, I knew the algorithm for reviving Picasso, and yet it was definitely beyond me. Reviving Picasso had stripped the bedposts of algae by lunchtime. The Goo sat through the morning on the dias, slipping vanilla M&Ms into her corpulent mouth. "Brother get hot when he's angry, liable to go off on ya!" she moaned, rocking back and forth until in bed with me was a hobbyhorse notion of anti-art. I could only shrug, affect a styless shuffle. As our shadows split on the emaciated field, a hobbyhorse notion of anti-art spilled across the Dow index, copiously fragmenting the zircon cloudcover. The moth's wings evoked twelfth century cartography. "What if dusk were entrails?" I asked the moth, finally smoking dinner in an ember mental gape. "Yeah, what if the sky was a belly with all the plumbing exposed? I had sex in my clothes, alone in a Fast Mart, dreaming of the roundest melon of a girl. Already, it's the cross-section of a fossil fish-spine, cold with meningitis. Even now, as it recedes into the color of the familial bruise, a net of nerves interwreaths with the pavement, and each doe-hoofed step of hers shivers like flint lightning." The Goo stoppped me, flowing down my throat in wolfish flames. She slipped over my topic sentence, taking the whole of its syntax into her, the way politics takes a bullet in its gut, ecstatic in her martyrdom. "If only sleep were really feasible!" I choked. We disembowled Picasso the next day. 9/2/01

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

Closing Time On Staples Mill

The police have stopped a hispanic man on the curb of Staples Mill Road. Blue light pricks the seagreen sealant of an anemic dusk that the rain-patient sky has closed off for the night.

This splinter in new september means nothing to the payphones. They stand, as always, out of service: inscrutable twin kiosks, guarding silence as if the slow of fords and towtrucks would trample it.

They do. I've been trying to smoke the same cigarette for an hour; an electric mocha queen, blue overalls, smooth legs, icecreamstick slicking her heartthrob lips, prepays pump four. A dusty towtruck virginian, manteats fully visible in the cut-off arms of his black rebel t-shirt needs two sugary raspberry teas and a chocolate-slathered nougat to get him home. The customers come and go; they leave the lot pocked with oil, cellophane snakes of cigarette wrappers, the crushed guts of dutch master blunts. Michaelangelo teases their muscles from the blind pages of the notebook I carry. When the night shuts up, I'm alone.

9/3/01 ***************************************** The Right Spirit this is not what you =want this is not what you =want this is not what you =want

I intend no offence can be helpful when taken in the piece somehow

This is not well thought out

I can imagine but criticism did not quite come off they are merciless

Do you work with an editor or =publisher? There are many incomplete sentences =here you =read metaphors as a result

the right spirit meaningless gibberish meaningless gibberish meaningless gibberish

9/4/01 ********************************************

Text for a Shockwave Movie

``The evidence from the red light cameras will not be admitted,'' mother and father objected to his video slot machine habit the city engaged in a scheme to defraud the public a haul of stolen diamonds worth millions of dollars I know what you mean about "feeling," that's what I want brought his friends around and beat his parents to death ``It's fantastic, wonderful,'' controversial red light camera system I just finished reading it all awash with unregulated video gambling dens I am excited about this guy who is helping me to write prose such as Goo takes an exact knowledge of and capability with 'good' writing It wasn't clear to me how it was acting see you sound anything less than blissful as you dance on dangerous ground the book comes forth into light before the illness takes hold i've been teaching 7th grade and thats alright its fuct that the u.s. gov't delegation walked out, but not surprising is the ideal Web development tool for professional Web coders and programmers Jeez, Hendrix's stuff man. He said 'Stuff comes and stuff goes. That is the way of stuff' we turn our vision outward Best to let the tundra tend itself I will send you a contract when we have this matter with the dates settled I have a fax machine

9/5/01

************************************************************* Palestine

"911," someone said, and all I can think is how my body dissolves. Impact: watch the toy plane full of toy people laced with hate slip into the toy skyscraper, because abstractions trail real smoke; watch it snow toys, bits and bits of living somehow under all this, watch our toy lives unravel like plumes against the teeth of ruin. This is not a movie. Watch Bruce Willis explode, wrestling with abstractions as the bombs ravish holy lands only visible through the wrongway telescope of screens; illogical in transition. This is every day for somene; "never the same,' someone said, and I woke up the next morning in joy until I remembered.

Are American Women the Devil? She said, "we can't fly anywhere no more," but I walked to the corner store, watching the sky fatten with its sincerity. I didn't intend your holy land into the hands of those you think infidel, but you would kill me. Yes, you would kill me, though the arab cashier is beautiful. I ask him to dance. William Burroughs and his arab boys; Allah wants me dead, but I will not carry that flag to your mosque. Out on the street I feel airplanes sizzle between brown and ivory bodies. This is every day for someone; when I heard I fell back asleep, and dreamed you were coming for me, coming to slit my fat american throat. All land is holy.

I did not bomb Somalia. She did not bomb Somalia. I did not hurl a toy airplane into the world trade center. Webs of impact fan out, smoke ripples pearling the city: in the snow, faces dripping faces dripping, faces ripped off in space to singe and crisp with walls impermeably impermanent; ethereal walls now, ethereal floors, ephemeral rooms in space that moan with wind annihililating the lateness of Palestine bubbling never over out on the lips of impact savage; when did my house become smoke? How long will we breathe asbestos? Allah would have me dead, jesus christ would have me dead, george bush would war me dead, allah will jihad as mathematics glisten in the twisted grid of dervish metal scraping a cobalt moon from the undersides of all the world financial pennies just keep falling, falling, falling; out on the street, brown bodies are imagined to harbor airplanes made of terror...... and the servers still whisper to each other, castrated, eeriliy circumscized; "we were made by white skin."

Dancing With The Arab Cashier: ...you are external to me, i said, you are extreme to me in mention, you are how the sun sharpened its teeth on you, sharpened its opium molars to send methedrine sleep to the ghosts of new york twitching in the moonlight, you are all the harrowing grace of airliners stubbed out on the pentagon, you come for me in my sleep...... look, i have burned my fingers in praise of you, look, look, look how awful it is eating my arms, look, look, my limbs spit orange fringe and crack clatters for you; my children with paper bags, with lips silvered with airplane glue, look, look, look, see how narrow the stars are tonight without calling their white songs into your skin, look, your diary is on fire, father i said to allah now hush hush we will cease them, my children with M16s, with AK-47s, look, my father, i have taught your children to fly.... Armed with boxcutters I slice the tape of flight attendants. What is inside is American money. Fat, fat American Gold.

9/13-14/01

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

Cellphones in Heaven

I curtain the living room, until everything that is light is outside, and everywhere dark, flowing like ventriloquoy, is what I breathe. It is safe here; though, in my dreams, airplanes glide through our sliding glass window, somehow level with the ghetto backyard, the ghetto cluster of lives--somehow, the airplane is gentle; I rub its snout, offer it the food of clear skies, clear breath, until ventriloquoy is everything I breathe. I'm looking, in the clinging dark, for something to speak through me---

I'm looking for that holy honeyed tongue that our fathers saw with, that wove itself into the bright snakes of tribal campfires, the one that rolled a crimson carpet across the immensity of this closed room: clearing a crystal path through trapped smoke, to a city where everyone's shoulders flower with light.

9/14/01

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

Small White Pits

A small hook of acne trickles from my right nostril in a sore curl to the right crease of my lip. I imagine a corrosive snot caused it. I ask Renee, "What, baby, what is it that has raised this smarting clutch of red islands in the sea of what you call my beautiful skin?" She blinks, fully aware that she's in the poem now. "Who knows what causes zits?" she asks. Meanwhile, there are five thousand dead in new york city

9/15/01

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

Red Glare

Today the sun's pried open Staples Mill, proofing cars against the cappacino font of the street. Silkgreen leaves scoop light from round air, spilling, in the shape of glitter eyeliner,

"the bombs bursting in air." The only flag up here at Quik Mart is a banner supporting Winston's Racing Nation, which asserts, "Let Freedom Roar." In "the rockets' red glare," all I can hear is the rhetoric of a splash of coins lapping against a black register in this deepdown chasm of oil 9/16/01

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

Phernomenology

I know my head's on wrong because it hurts. I know swimming my eyes in yellow vitro vitreous that the dog star and the knew moon are circumscribed in books beyond my ken. I know that my lips in the shape of your name make a doll of fathers and a doll of mothers and wrap around your head like a pistol's frustration.

I know my hair hurts like iron filings in a cohen bros. movie. The secret password is the secret password; pour quoi, motherfucker? The tiger with three doors in its bowels is red weather by the white chickens. Mama, why so blue? I no woman know cry like the back of my hand behind my back with sirens up my sleeve.

And I know I look ridiculous when the handle the vandals use to scald the crickets from the floorboards of the trucks that bring us marva maid milk gets greasy like the secret god of the storefront on fire fucking my childhood adult and I have to wipe my hands behind my back like a hothouse valkyrie two blocks from the tenderloin. The secret password is Benjamin Peret. The rhythm of the line breaks like over my knee there's a dried-up pump of paisley rhetoric not even d.a. levy would own up to. When will the milk of human kindness get here even in skim?

9/17/01

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Small Song in a Big Country

Monkey with something shiny; needy me with a tarnished face. If you hit me long enough with your stick, will I be as white as grace?

9/17/01

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Corporation # 1 Routing through my skin to wipe eyes clear of wreckage smolder epidemic simulations talented at boxing xerox respite tipsy cowl wallops damned vegetated target scrim blips through my skin to wipe ears clean nylon exxon packed capacity ticks drought sounds throughout my skin to route road knees bath watercolored tabla battalion roots zoned denizens darkening smoke lube bullish font dripped periodic rasa sarcasm activities thorough as skin covers versatile elbow wobble blasts tycoon vortex hewlett packed in ninny poo operations scrapped through its skin brow port communique social as gravel vagrants hubble blessings bent throat is skin as hair rates on hottie sites exerted treasure trail aliens british petrol bruits noise music spools unlunched from seats of throttle skin my nostrils network cisco beer-goggles godly flyzone scrape cloud mist simplicity mcaffee pepsico occupied terrain rhetorical like road skin in toe oat eating teamwork fritolay.

9/18/01 *****************************************************************

suicide protrudes and bursts the pentagon. death collides and singing the pentagon under airplanes. then vaportrails collides in between the pentagon. but singing cloudribs, conflagration suffers suicide on top of dies then the pentagon suffers among america's business regime. vaportrails suffers because singing airplanes in between airplanes, the pentagon suggests as well as protrudes while suicide. airplanes bursts cloudribs, and vaportrails impacts among airplanes. suicide dies or singing america's business regime. over airplanes but suicide bursts on top of death suffers suicide. the pentagon suggests the pentagon as well as airplanes impacts airplanes while death. suicide suffers the pentagon among america's business regime. conflagration bursts death but suggests into the pentagon.

conflagration then cloudribs suggests while airplanes. conflagration bursts if bursts america's business regime within the pentagon as well as suicide protrudes over death protrudes conflagration. cloudribs impacts america's business regime under conflagration.

Written by Poem Generator 1.2 09-18-2001

******************************************************************** **** haloes around us radiates within bliss laughs but wings around us beamed haloes around us as well as submerging into bliss laughs within the colors or haloes around us radiates under faith kissing haloes around us and haloes around us submerging and showered the colors radiates on top of flowers unmade of flames

Written by Poetry Generator 1.2 09-19-2001

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In The Belly of a Wicker Man

As if we were nothing all along lolling in aether while the world curls our toes in rainy conversion

As if we ate with fire in our brains arbitrary like slippages of light as if we were sailing in latent tensions nested in our inwardness

We don't war. We sit. A Greek Restaurant, spinach in pastry. There were bombs in Kensington in 1997; today, just Richmond and a mellowed day; children back in school imprinted with america's acumen while Renee and I scale baklava thinking up tulips drizzled with honey and I tell her what I dream:

It was like a movie. I wasn't there. There were child molesters loose in the countryside, but you never saw the molestations, only the victims. They were bruised and indifferent. One sits crosslegged in midair licking ice cream from a cone. As he licks, something wicker weaves itself up the sky to his indian position. Soon he sits in a braided canopy in the belly of a wicker man. He has a black eye.

There was a room too where they took the victims. They weren't concerned with catching the molesters; they just provided comfort for the children. The room was wall-to-wall candy. Bright colors spun themselves into the walls, pried open the shadows and let breath into the room. They were bruised and indifferent. I never saw much of the children; just the room. I did see the molesters. They were white men, fat and hairy. And the child I was, nothing all along, lolling in aether while my stepfather pushed my mother to a ledge, over which, trembling, she pointed his pistol at me: "If you don't straighten up I'm going to blow your head off!" And school: girl who didn't know me, lunchline, turning and smirking and saying to me, "God, you are SOOOO ugly!"

We talk about these things. We sit. We don't war. I drizzle flame on myself for her, for everyone I know; she's thinking up tulips for honey to douse;

I'm afraid as I watch a father bend over his son, whisper low and close to his face. He was making too much noise or something, careening among the outdoor benches. The father has a grip on his son's arm that tightens to the same decibel his discipline's in. That grip, I know, will last longer than both of them think.

9/19/01

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BEGIN function (hot sluttish quiet) FOR room tilt music chip INITIALIZE headphones battery worry the white house//[powderOnClick] NEXT blissful syllablic kabbala++ {god bless chocolate city and its vanilla suburbs}

IF god=bass tomb fumble bloody dollar radar {gettin down} OPEN cumshotvids AS #8745898698677666470980987798877777645634439() [PRINT PRINT PRINT #8745898698677666470980987798877777645634439() SERIALPORT GET(hot sluttish quiet)(feet back down on the growl) ELSE [i'mlookingatyourighthere] [i'mlovelyasavolumeofkleinblueair] [everyonehereisdirtypronouncesbaldvowels] AM I WRONG????

10/26/01