BIO
Lewis LaCook makes things. He is a programmer/poet. He likes unstable objects. He doesn't eat enough. Send him all your money.
a poem posted earlier, sonicized
http://www.lewislacook.com/WhiteGrits.mp3
I posted this poem a few days ago to a few lists...here's a musical version
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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I posted this poem a few days ago to a few lists...here's a musical version
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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drowning in the age of midair...
http://www.lewislacook.com/DrowningInTheAgeOfMidAir.mp3
more poetry music...
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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more poetry music...
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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WHITE GRITS AND CATSUP
When I first began my fascinating study on the effects
of local
rainfall on genital shape and compaction, thousands
tethered like
cattle, herded like sheep, appeared to me in pre-dawn
drowse-
dreams, wherein the silent room and the breath of my
mate mixed
in a drizzle of soliloquoy with vague shapes lucidly
drawn on the
insides of my eyelids. One version, called Doctor,
mimicked a
Rogerian psychotherapist, one that brushed my teeth
quite
regularly, listened intensely for the muffled hum of
fascination
growling on the other side of the line. Peter Ganick
said: and
doesn't the treeline instead look like someone took
bites from
the sky? I try to imagine that shy mouth, often paired
with
descriptive skill. She said: your genitals, at rest:
great
whitish flowering room. I, too, took it upon myself
once, heaving
it up over my chest to hurl at the taste of tobacco
mixed with
drizzle latte almost too late to save the heart
beating; the
heart just pumelling your poor stupid friend to mush.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
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of local
rainfall on genital shape and compaction, thousands
tethered like
cattle, herded like sheep, appeared to me in pre-dawn
drowse-
dreams, wherein the silent room and the breath of my
mate mixed
in a drizzle of soliloquoy with vague shapes lucidly
drawn on the
insides of my eyelids. One version, called Doctor,
mimicked a
Rogerian psychotherapist, one that brushed my teeth
quite
regularly, listened intensely for the muffled hum of
fascination
growling on the other side of the line. Peter Ganick
said: and
doesn't the treeline instead look like someone took
bites from
the sky? I try to imagine that shy mouth, often paired
with
descriptive skill. She said: your genitals, at rest:
great
whitish flowering room. I, too, took it upon myself
once, heaving
it up over my chest to hurl at the taste of tobacco
mixed with
drizzle latte almost too late to save the heart
beating; the
heart just pumelling your poor stupid friend to mush.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
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THE CRISIS
All I remember is the fragment, the box springs of the
head. The
weather was broken and lying in several sequences of
looped man-
action (javelin throw, drunken vomiting, coitus) on my
desk. I
picked up the pieces and moved on. You must have
bought new
furniture while I slept. You must have summed up the
crisis in
the Middle East. The neighbors like balloons slide
quietly across
the parking lot; it's early yet, you must have
damaged the room
beyond repair as I slept. Calling tech support, the
beautiful
elderly hunched over the slowness of their day pinch
out of my
scowl a smile that unravels like threads on a list of
things to
do dirtier next time around. I think: will this be us?
And would
be pleased were it so: an old couple holding hands
across
airplane debris that bite deeply into the ground,
finding
everywhere and allowing to gush the watertable on
which I've re-
assembled the weather, creative and tortured little
prick that I
am, unable to leave well enough alone. All I remember
is the
fragrance, the glancing of teeth on moaning flesh, and
dusks
squiting laterally from your eyes as you sat on me.
You must have
corrected the vacancy in my annual report. I
exaggerated the
profit, but still feel good about the crisis in the
Middle East.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
__________________________________________________
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head. The
weather was broken and lying in several sequences of
looped man-
action (javelin throw, drunken vomiting, coitus) on my
desk. I
picked up the pieces and moved on. You must have
bought new
furniture while I slept. You must have summed up the
crisis in
the Middle East. The neighbors like balloons slide
quietly across
the parking lot; it's early yet, you must have
damaged the room
beyond repair as I slept. Calling tech support, the
beautiful
elderly hunched over the slowness of their day pinch
out of my
scowl a smile that unravels like threads on a list of
things to
do dirtier next time around. I think: will this be us?
And would
be pleased were it so: an old couple holding hands
across
airplane debris that bite deeply into the ground,
finding
everywhere and allowing to gush the watertable on
which I've re-
assembled the weather, creative and tortured little
prick that I
am, unable to leave well enough alone. All I remember
is the
fragrance, the glancing of teeth on moaning flesh, and
dusks
squiting laterally from your eyes as you sat on me.
You must have
corrected the vacancy in my annual report. I
exaggerated the
profit, but still feel good about the crisis in the
Middle East.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
__________________________________________________
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NEW CODE EVERY MORNING
One danger of skin will be that it harden to ceramics.
Then
glaze, like all erotica, will seem terminal. Lakey
Teasdale
spinning one on the wheel, which will be electric;
eyes the same
color as morning drenching everything, even my balls
as I wake
up, swallow three caps of gingko saint john's, swallow
coffee and
a cigarette as if I had religion foaming at the mouth
between us.
With Mez watching my genes re-code, I wanted water to
cling to
the railing again like stalagtite mirrors, inverting
seeing gray
in the sky means it's aged just this much.
I sat down forcefully, examining the prose as if
it too were
a fungus beneath my nails. On days like that I would
thank God
for the vegetative life, but God never says you're
welcome; she
just snores on and on; and I rise against her dreams,
the whole
house drowned to the rictus of a pinprick; I just mow
through the
dark with arms in search of coffee.
Indeed, Lawrence Upton vocalizes. Seismic
pentameter, she
moans, the syringe halfway through her spine, singing
like night
skidding to closure on the runway drenched with
morning colors,
an artificiality of typoo that disenthralls gauge set
to weigh in
at whatever breath thickens on the windows; winter,
like John M.
Bennett's spacious bathroom, has spurs all up and down
the
eyelets of the shower curtain. This serves to protect
the
subjunctive from caverns spanning days of sitting and
reading the
Koran, searching for fresh-mown coffee in the dark of
blood-words
on Old Testament rice-paper, good for rolling through
with all
the drunkenness of now fully up, not dressed but
seeking August
Highland; Alan Sondheim mimics Alan Sondheim, I tell
Nikuko, who
Julu-foams between us like spirituality without
doctrine. I
staggered all through the lightning house trying on
each beauty I
crossed.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
__________________________________________________
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Then
glaze, like all erotica, will seem terminal. Lakey
Teasdale
spinning one on the wheel, which will be electric;
eyes the same
color as morning drenching everything, even my balls
as I wake
up, swallow three caps of gingko saint john's, swallow
coffee and
a cigarette as if I had religion foaming at the mouth
between us.
With Mez watching my genes re-code, I wanted water to
cling to
the railing again like stalagtite mirrors, inverting
seeing gray
in the sky means it's aged just this much.
I sat down forcefully, examining the prose as if
it too were
a fungus beneath my nails. On days like that I would
thank God
for the vegetative life, but God never says you're
welcome; she
just snores on and on; and I rise against her dreams,
the whole
house drowned to the rictus of a pinprick; I just mow
through the
dark with arms in search of coffee.
Indeed, Lawrence Upton vocalizes. Seismic
pentameter, she
moans, the syringe halfway through her spine, singing
like night
skidding to closure on the runway drenched with
morning colors,
an artificiality of typoo that disenthralls gauge set
to weigh in
at whatever breath thickens on the windows; winter,
like John M.
Bennett's spacious bathroom, has spurs all up and down
the
eyelets of the shower curtain. This serves to protect
the
subjunctive from caverns spanning days of sitting and
reading the
Koran, searching for fresh-mown coffee in the dark of
blood-words
on Old Testament rice-paper, good for rolling through
with all
the drunkenness of now fully up, not dressed but
seeking August
Highland; Alan Sondheim mimics Alan Sondheim, I tell
Nikuko, who
Julu-foams between us like spirituality without
doctrine. I
staggered all through the lightning house trying on
each beauty I
crossed.
=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
__________________________________________________
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