Lewis LaCook
Since 2001
Works in Lorain, Ohio United States of America

ARTBASE (6)
PORTFOLIO (7)
BIO
Lewis LaCook makes things. He is a programmer/poet. He likes unstable objects. He doesn't eat enough. Send him all your money.
Discussions (792) Opportunities (1) Events (0) Jobs (0)
DISCUSSION

Sky's. Ninth.


Mina Loy staring through mesh at wooden stars. Some
semblance of hypodermic memory, of a fluid she caught
somewhere in her throat, mussed and tassled. I was
wondering perhaps if those clocks that climb through
walls scarred by nicotine were in fact the apparatus
we would be breathing through this evening. No-one
could reallly answer her; the sky, lanced with crystal
hairs of lightning, acknowledge these fastened hours
in which, just by listening quietly, sound became a
long insect rolling loudly through the hallways,
beyond touch.

I love most, when night is electric, weeping makeup,
throwing my hands through the tattoed and aroused
vectors of her skin. Mina Loy, staring up at the
ceiling, jackandcoke: each time she thought to lie
back, sink into the lattice of dark fingers stretching
her across luscious ice, the lights came on; everyone
danced the electric slide. I know what my life did to
me. She twirled like the limp of a baglady, lagging,
gutted by years that drown so sweetly in this wind.
And when Mina Loy finally got back, she brought
Anemone to tears: everyone could hear them breaking in
the hallway.

Will I always? And if so, what exterminator could
judge her right?

Nimble, with sour assonance. As sardonic as nights
gingerly swept from the awe of your coat.

=====

NEW!!!--Dirty Milk--reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

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

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DISCUSSION

:::seven~:;


7.

not-closure indicates an omission trained on slits of
sky are parted by gentle probes of trees reveal that
stationary Anemone voices painting the walls until all
her laws are blank by 8-bit construction set

one red picnic bench in anonymity authors books
pungeant tryptich candles with her mouth sprayed and
almost full patterned by quilted flowers lures
attention blue Armitage in its suffering

panic is not closure in soft doors ticking

=====

NEW!!!--Dirty Milk--reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

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

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DISCUSSION

Six. Sky.


6.

F.W. Murnau pulled himself up, rubbing the plague in
sleepy granules from his eyes. As he did this,
boulders rolled by, as if suspended in a current;
somewhere at some point in his peripheral vision they
dipped beyond the mess of his perception . The
pavement was carpeted with blunt teeth of glass. He
smiled; he knew he was smiling emptily.

Jean Cocteau, he thought; was it inappropriate to
think of Jean after last night? He'd stood in a field,
after reading too many emails about poetry and parks;
on one side, some sort of company dispatched its
trucks for the night; on one side, the irrevocable
back lot of a shopping center unrolled beneath a pink
sky that murmured about distance , murmured and
followed The Death of Love, already distraught-thin
and stumbling vacantly, across the sick punches his
shoes shot into the newly-rained-on grass. On one
side, sleep fell like windows of a house across the
nihil fragrance of tobacco interlaced with his shirt.
And he didn't--or, more appropriately, couldn't--care:
the blitzed starvation in that broken smile The Death
of Love wore had already leached him of everything
he'd known as human.

So F.W. Murnau tried to think of the inhuman. Almost
by reflex he thought first of the computer; the
inarticulate stutter of pages and pictures building
up, loading. The safety of binary, of hexadecimal, of
instruction code and logic and mathematics and
everything a man had to translate to touch. Every act
presupposed another; in the computer, mediation upon
mediation built up a skin that, because of its
density, was highly polished. And yet, lying face up
in that field, a dawn in gauze staining the overcast,
it seemed to F. W. Murnau to be a half-hearted effort.
To understand the computer, to occupy the space of the
computer, was nothing more to him than a man trapped
in a trick house of mirrors; the unfamiliarity of the
house turned out to be only himself, distorted by his
own hand.

Masturbation! It sickened him to stare into a mirror
all day. Jean was like that; Jean never seemed to
leave himself, no matter how many long walks in the
park they took together. The Death of Love, on the
other hand, was the exact opposite: F.W. Murnau
wondered sometimes if The Death of Love was ever
herself; she stared out the windows of the apartment
all morning long, blinking slowly, untouchable, with
all the exclusiveness of a pariah. If Jean Cocteau,
every time F.W. Murnau touched him, froze, heat
spitting around him, splitting the pores of the air,
The Death of Love, when similarly stimulated, would
only sigh.

He shrugged. He didn't see the point in much of
anything anymore. Most of the trucks had left for the
night. A tired-looking young man opened the back door
of the Save-a-lot; he tossed a greasy white trash bag
into the dumpster.

Th dawn birds had stopped singing.

=====

NEW!!!--Dirty Milk--reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

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

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DISCUSSION

A Five of Sky


5.

Our father, whose art
is heaven, how loud beam
thy name--

he has a beautiful
pussy. A wonder
of troubled flesh. Inside
you can hear our arguments beating

against our betterjudgement.
Armitage couldn't try

any harder. Our weapons
of mass
destruction

embed in our shock and awe. You writhe
at the discomfort of it. He wrote
that one too. Anytime WinterMute

thought about it, another window
would fall from the old house.

Sorry to wake you, she says.

=====

NEW!!!--Dirty Milk--reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

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

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DISCUSSION

We Are Stuck


http://www.lewislacook.com/sound/LewisLaCook_WeAreStuck.mp3

NEW!!!--Dirty Milk--reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

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

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