BIO
Lewis LaCook makes things. He is a programmer/poet. He likes unstable objects. He doesn't eat enough. Send him all your money.
The Milk of Venus--20
The dialectic admits no intimacy with earthly things.
Before dawn, staring into night's spill over Baby's
left face; and even before that, the screen rubbing
salty dreams from my eyes. The dialectic wakes with a
boner the exact size and width of beauty. A dark
gurgles a rain gullet lucky in these dimensions. You
know? With days the weight of dove-shaped puddles.
It's like I said to Baby the other day, who was
looking wilty: 'In what way does it mean? I can hold
it in your hand, turn it over, blow on it to evoke
signals. Are we crashing through the shadows I've
accumulated for clouds?' Beyond that, traffic
glistening like an artifact of figs. A bitchy old lady
asks if I know what a car-phone is. DO I EVER! She
likes what I'm doing on all fronts. But it's not just
the sliding that gets me. Sure, finding a place to sit
down in the flood. I dream of complicating systems.
Those twisted trees out there, looking dead at me; new
orange sunset pellets to eat the snow."
We knew it would be a while before we got there, but
it was Spring, and the space around us was ripening,
and the moon hung above the car like a ring of milk on
a black table without coasters. We took only what was
important to us: two packs of cigarettes each; the
clothes on our backs; casual symmetries; amplified
particulars; the places we'd never see again. If
either of us thought we wouldn't get there, neither of
us mentioned it. Miles of the road's pull, of weather
wavering between rain and lucidity.
"I wonder if these sunset patches of new salt on the
blacktop flowered there like coronas of coloring on a
snake's hide, or if they spattered from truck exhaust
in some recent impregnable winter pierced through with
ephemeral ice. I hand a bitchy old lady a car phone,
do I ever, and these shadows I've collected in lieu of
clouds drip down the horizon like chocolate cake on a
baby's face. Sephiroth ample with wide windchime
howler money. The dialectic wanders the strewn
villages like smoke. It is said that one whiff of the
dialectic's presence will daub bloody crosses on your
front door. Rod and cones if animal analogue's goals
coffee with a felt-tip pen sensations aerobic
instructions walked what chill off she could. A whole
day. You would try to measure fragments by the
preservation of violating head's foliage suffused with
withering heartbeat. With your hands I blow on it; it
shits ciphers. Those days you were in the throes of
the baboon's dusky buttocks. If I take digit photos of
aerials adjacent to baptist crosses. My fingers freely
ovulate. You know. Spinning a lackluster milk. As it
goes on it becomes huge, creaky: creepy. Baby frowns
at my eyeless progeny; they tap their passages down
sacriligious hallways with shimmer fingers that
taut-touch too wildly these soft hidden spheres. Minor
irritants human in fluorescent stroke victory lost to
the trickle of puddle grammar in my lap and sigh, as
blind as."
It was midnight when we hit Amalga. A smoky moon
shivered above the draconian smokestacks, moaning a
harvest-yellow glaze over the thatched rooftops of
dark huts. The streets weren't as deserted as we'd
planned for (shufflers fumbled over curbs, marking
space with soft scrapes of summer sandal), but Baby
thought that was all the better. This was, after all,
where they came from, all the hopeless, dim ones who
slip through their lives with narrow eyes, the ones
who support war and prohibition and white skin and
privilege; they drove cars bigger than houses. I felt
like I'd stepped over some invisible threshold into
the pit where all restless sleep comes from.
And like all restless sleepers, I was haunted by
dreams of the past. Staples Mill Lake shimmered
translucently just below the coarse fabric of adobe
hovels, business campuses and dust that was Amalga in
the blindness of too-early or too-late morning.
Squirrels were playing there, peppering the green
banks with furtive darts. Baby was convinced we'd go
back there soon, when we were done in Amalga, but I
knew it was going to be a long time before we skated
together on the ice of the lake again.
"The grid was laid out before us, as pretty and
suburban as you please. The dialectic points out the
slides in every driveway, the gaudy silver department
store coin-operated rocketship rides grinding down to
blips and giggles. Children everywhere, stopped in
mid-play and staring at us. Don't move! The sunset
pellets turned out to be a new kind of salt for eating
snow. With white smeared in an immaculate tear across
her mouth. I howl static, tassles; elevators
aerobicize the dancing syndromes just supper on a
grill beneath car-stars rusting. 'Sirens accumulate on
Staples Mill road like shadows only lend their bodies
to fog, greased almost seamless as a way to shape pain
into noise-deadened id. Outside the door at work. '
Ran down the aisles, infernally giggling, daubing
bloody crosses with sex crucified in their sticky
middles while someone stabs someone in a laundromat
Baby and I used to go to, where you used to work,
unraveling the semiosis of javelins buckled table
shakes with employed transgressions of movement,
folded over. The logic of this country's foreign
policy seems to be: I'll hit you because you may hit
me. Meanwhile, hills lull ulcers from earth-rude
rumors, or all roads sunshine wayward yardwork over
rhododendron in dimples. I call the president on the
car phone, but all I get is a bitchy old lady
whimpering in a sea of frozen cats. Static can be
molded. Spores branch gimlet piston folders in prisons
of tamper-evident saline docility."
We crouched in the jaggged beerbottle shards of a
drunken alley and put our plan into action.
We unpacked our epuipment: a saw, some knives, needle
and thread.
We would take turns luring them in. We'd had time on
the road to perfect some ruses for this. And then
there was blunt force.
Bracing myself, I gripped the vial of chloroform in
my pocket.
2003/01/03 15:15:02--2003/01/12 11:40:49
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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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Before dawn, staring into night's spill over Baby's
left face; and even before that, the screen rubbing
salty dreams from my eyes. The dialectic wakes with a
boner the exact size and width of beauty. A dark
gurgles a rain gullet lucky in these dimensions. You
know? With days the weight of dove-shaped puddles.
It's like I said to Baby the other day, who was
looking wilty: 'In what way does it mean? I can hold
it in your hand, turn it over, blow on it to evoke
signals. Are we crashing through the shadows I've
accumulated for clouds?' Beyond that, traffic
glistening like an artifact of figs. A bitchy old lady
asks if I know what a car-phone is. DO I EVER! She
likes what I'm doing on all fronts. But it's not just
the sliding that gets me. Sure, finding a place to sit
down in the flood. I dream of complicating systems.
Those twisted trees out there, looking dead at me; new
orange sunset pellets to eat the snow."
We knew it would be a while before we got there, but
it was Spring, and the space around us was ripening,
and the moon hung above the car like a ring of milk on
a black table without coasters. We took only what was
important to us: two packs of cigarettes each; the
clothes on our backs; casual symmetries; amplified
particulars; the places we'd never see again. If
either of us thought we wouldn't get there, neither of
us mentioned it. Miles of the road's pull, of weather
wavering between rain and lucidity.
"I wonder if these sunset patches of new salt on the
blacktop flowered there like coronas of coloring on a
snake's hide, or if they spattered from truck exhaust
in some recent impregnable winter pierced through with
ephemeral ice. I hand a bitchy old lady a car phone,
do I ever, and these shadows I've collected in lieu of
clouds drip down the horizon like chocolate cake on a
baby's face. Sephiroth ample with wide windchime
howler money. The dialectic wanders the strewn
villages like smoke. It is said that one whiff of the
dialectic's presence will daub bloody crosses on your
front door. Rod and cones if animal analogue's goals
coffee with a felt-tip pen sensations aerobic
instructions walked what chill off she could. A whole
day. You would try to measure fragments by the
preservation of violating head's foliage suffused with
withering heartbeat. With your hands I blow on it; it
shits ciphers. Those days you were in the throes of
the baboon's dusky buttocks. If I take digit photos of
aerials adjacent to baptist crosses. My fingers freely
ovulate. You know. Spinning a lackluster milk. As it
goes on it becomes huge, creaky: creepy. Baby frowns
at my eyeless progeny; they tap their passages down
sacriligious hallways with shimmer fingers that
taut-touch too wildly these soft hidden spheres. Minor
irritants human in fluorescent stroke victory lost to
the trickle of puddle grammar in my lap and sigh, as
blind as."
It was midnight when we hit Amalga. A smoky moon
shivered above the draconian smokestacks, moaning a
harvest-yellow glaze over the thatched rooftops of
dark huts. The streets weren't as deserted as we'd
planned for (shufflers fumbled over curbs, marking
space with soft scrapes of summer sandal), but Baby
thought that was all the better. This was, after all,
where they came from, all the hopeless, dim ones who
slip through their lives with narrow eyes, the ones
who support war and prohibition and white skin and
privilege; they drove cars bigger than houses. I felt
like I'd stepped over some invisible threshold into
the pit where all restless sleep comes from.
And like all restless sleepers, I was haunted by
dreams of the past. Staples Mill Lake shimmered
translucently just below the coarse fabric of adobe
hovels, business campuses and dust that was Amalga in
the blindness of too-early or too-late morning.
Squirrels were playing there, peppering the green
banks with furtive darts. Baby was convinced we'd go
back there soon, when we were done in Amalga, but I
knew it was going to be a long time before we skated
together on the ice of the lake again.
"The grid was laid out before us, as pretty and
suburban as you please. The dialectic points out the
slides in every driveway, the gaudy silver department
store coin-operated rocketship rides grinding down to
blips and giggles. Children everywhere, stopped in
mid-play and staring at us. Don't move! The sunset
pellets turned out to be a new kind of salt for eating
snow. With white smeared in an immaculate tear across
her mouth. I howl static, tassles; elevators
aerobicize the dancing syndromes just supper on a
grill beneath car-stars rusting. 'Sirens accumulate on
Staples Mill road like shadows only lend their bodies
to fog, greased almost seamless as a way to shape pain
into noise-deadened id. Outside the door at work. '
Ran down the aisles, infernally giggling, daubing
bloody crosses with sex crucified in their sticky
middles while someone stabs someone in a laundromat
Baby and I used to go to, where you used to work,
unraveling the semiosis of javelins buckled table
shakes with employed transgressions of movement,
folded over. The logic of this country's foreign
policy seems to be: I'll hit you because you may hit
me. Meanwhile, hills lull ulcers from earth-rude
rumors, or all roads sunshine wayward yardwork over
rhododendron in dimples. I call the president on the
car phone, but all I get is a bitchy old lady
whimpering in a sea of frozen cats. Static can be
molded. Spores branch gimlet piston folders in prisons
of tamper-evident saline docility."
We crouched in the jaggged beerbottle shards of a
drunken alley and put our plan into action.
We unpacked our epuipment: a saw, some knives, needle
and thread.
We would take turns luring them in. We'd had time on
the road to perfect some ruses for this. And then
there was blunt force.
Bracing myself, I gripped the vial of chloroform in
my pocket.
2003/01/03 15:15:02--2003/01/12 11:40:49
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com
The Milk Of Venus--19
19
The legend of Spider-girl cuts a wide swathe across
both urban and tribal mythologies. In fact, hers is
the only such story I know of; one that has both
survived and thrived in the shopping mall as well as
the sweatlodge.
Pop culture embraced Spider-girl as well, but,
uncomfortable at the time with the idea of a powerful
female, she was given a gender makeover, and the more
sinister aspects of her story (she was, after all,
modeled on a carnivorous arachnid) were jettisoned in
favor of a "good-samaritan-with-radioactive-powers"
motif.
The truth is, Spider-girl the universal archetype
stands as a more complex figure than American comic
books would have us believe. To the Jivaro and the
Navajo, she was both destructive seductress and
bountiful fertility; she roamed the outskirts of
villages, ensnaring unfaithful men and drinking their
souls, while also protecting the community's harvest
against pestilence. To the Crow and the Sioux, she
was both the famine that accompanied surges in
population and a sign of good fortune in times of war;
a warrior visited by Spider-girl the night before
battle was assured victory, being able to fight as if
he had eight arms and eight eyes.
One of the urban legends regarding Spider-girl
unfolds as follows:
At a club in the heated down-town of any
metropolitan city on any given weekend night, a young
man notices a stunning young woman lingering alone
along the walls. The lipstick this stunning young
woman wears is a panic red, a red that hangs sullen
and electric in the air behind her as she walks. He
approaches and offers to buy her a drink. The tone of
her lipstick squeezes something secret and tropical
from his conciousness.
After persuading her to come home with him at the end
of the night, the potential lovers leave the club and
head for the young man's apartment. He drives with the
top down, the city a charcoal smudge glittering and
tunneling around them. She sits quietly in his
peripheral vision (the quiet ones have always turned
him on), and at times he would swear he sees threads
of smoke billow from her, twisting behind the car and
disappearing into the rush of the city behind them.
When they arrive at the young man's apartment, things
become hazy and confused. The woman moves quickly, too
quickly for the young man, and it seems to him that
everything in the apartment is shifting. Soon the
young man loses conciousness, and falls into a
restless sleep.
The next morning, quite late, he opens his eyes. At
first his bedroom seems buried in swathes of
translucent smoke; he can see the angles of the
dresser in front of him, but they've softened, faded:
the whole apartment has been submerged in what seems
to be an Impressionist painting. Upon closer
inspection (and some waning of the dry blue hangover
wracking his cells), the young man comes to the
realization that not only is his lovely partner of the
night before missing, but it would also seem that his
apartment has been coated in what looks suspiciously
like the orphan threads of cotton balls. His
furniture fairly glistens under a film of soft fluff;
his prize collection of CDs sticks together, tied up
in cloud-stuff. And if that weren't enough, cutting
through the near-erasure, an incredibly, nauseously
lurid lipstick spells cryptic phrases on his
steamed-up bathroom mirror: "3-3-3-3-3-3" and, below
it, "STOP ON RED".
Not long after this our young man stops at a gas
station on his way to yet another club. The mystery of
the young woman who left his apartment a cloudy
shambles has subsided; all that remains of it is a
drive to find more young women, bring them back home,
wake up with them: the ritual in its proper form. In
the gas station, paying for his fuel, the young man
buys three candy bars, three packs of cigarettes and
three packages of condoms; just before he concludes
his transaction, he pauses, decides to test his luck;
with an odd dollar he plays the lottery,rattling off a
number he barely thinks of. The clerk is sullen, and
greasy.
He has no luck at the club. None of the girls
swimming in lasers and strobes and smoke-machine
mystery tug him anywhere above his belt. They pull
weakly; they smell too sweet. He's back in his car by
a quarter to eleven.
The DJ sounds far too frenetic for our young man's
morose mood, but he listens anyway, hoping the jolt of
an electrified voice will shock his doldrums away.
There's almost no traffic; with the windows down, he
believes he can hear both the DJ and the sound of the
car echoing against the biildings. The DJ reads the
lottery numbers, and for a minute it doesn't register.
He approaches the intersection.
"Holy SHIT!" He can't think to punch the brake.
Squeal. Thud. Crack.
2002/12/18 10:54:09--2003/01/02 07:44:56
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com
The legend of Spider-girl cuts a wide swathe across
both urban and tribal mythologies. In fact, hers is
the only such story I know of; one that has both
survived and thrived in the shopping mall as well as
the sweatlodge.
Pop culture embraced Spider-girl as well, but,
uncomfortable at the time with the idea of a powerful
female, she was given a gender makeover, and the more
sinister aspects of her story (she was, after all,
modeled on a carnivorous arachnid) were jettisoned in
favor of a "good-samaritan-with-radioactive-powers"
motif.
The truth is, Spider-girl the universal archetype
stands as a more complex figure than American comic
books would have us believe. To the Jivaro and the
Navajo, she was both destructive seductress and
bountiful fertility; she roamed the outskirts of
villages, ensnaring unfaithful men and drinking their
souls, while also protecting the community's harvest
against pestilence. To the Crow and the Sioux, she
was both the famine that accompanied surges in
population and a sign of good fortune in times of war;
a warrior visited by Spider-girl the night before
battle was assured victory, being able to fight as if
he had eight arms and eight eyes.
One of the urban legends regarding Spider-girl
unfolds as follows:
At a club in the heated down-town of any
metropolitan city on any given weekend night, a young
man notices a stunning young woman lingering alone
along the walls. The lipstick this stunning young
woman wears is a panic red, a red that hangs sullen
and electric in the air behind her as she walks. He
approaches and offers to buy her a drink. The tone of
her lipstick squeezes something secret and tropical
from his conciousness.
After persuading her to come home with him at the end
of the night, the potential lovers leave the club and
head for the young man's apartment. He drives with the
top down, the city a charcoal smudge glittering and
tunneling around them. She sits quietly in his
peripheral vision (the quiet ones have always turned
him on), and at times he would swear he sees threads
of smoke billow from her, twisting behind the car and
disappearing into the rush of the city behind them.
When they arrive at the young man's apartment, things
become hazy and confused. The woman moves quickly, too
quickly for the young man, and it seems to him that
everything in the apartment is shifting. Soon the
young man loses conciousness, and falls into a
restless sleep.
The next morning, quite late, he opens his eyes. At
first his bedroom seems buried in swathes of
translucent smoke; he can see the angles of the
dresser in front of him, but they've softened, faded:
the whole apartment has been submerged in what seems
to be an Impressionist painting. Upon closer
inspection (and some waning of the dry blue hangover
wracking his cells), the young man comes to the
realization that not only is his lovely partner of the
night before missing, but it would also seem that his
apartment has been coated in what looks suspiciously
like the orphan threads of cotton balls. His
furniture fairly glistens under a film of soft fluff;
his prize collection of CDs sticks together, tied up
in cloud-stuff. And if that weren't enough, cutting
through the near-erasure, an incredibly, nauseously
lurid lipstick spells cryptic phrases on his
steamed-up bathroom mirror: "3-3-3-3-3-3" and, below
it, "STOP ON RED".
Not long after this our young man stops at a gas
station on his way to yet another club. The mystery of
the young woman who left his apartment a cloudy
shambles has subsided; all that remains of it is a
drive to find more young women, bring them back home,
wake up with them: the ritual in its proper form. In
the gas station, paying for his fuel, the young man
buys three candy bars, three packs of cigarettes and
three packages of condoms; just before he concludes
his transaction, he pauses, decides to test his luck;
with an odd dollar he plays the lottery,rattling off a
number he barely thinks of. The clerk is sullen, and
greasy.
He has no luck at the club. None of the girls
swimming in lasers and strobes and smoke-machine
mystery tug him anywhere above his belt. They pull
weakly; they smell too sweet. He's back in his car by
a quarter to eleven.
The DJ sounds far too frenetic for our young man's
morose mood, but he listens anyway, hoping the jolt of
an electrified voice will shock his doldrums away.
There's almost no traffic; with the windows down, he
believes he can hear both the DJ and the sound of the
car echoing against the biildings. The DJ reads the
lottery numbers, and for a minute it doesn't register.
He approaches the intersection.
"Holy SHIT!" He can't think to punch the brake.
Squeal. Thud. Crack.
2002/12/18 10:54:09--2003/01/02 07:44:56
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com
Mind, It Machines
mappings, as one connects
types of topography into
debris, smoky eyes, parched lips
a city-wide labyrinth...designed to keep mother's
mouth invisible..
processes themselves, we can imagine that they need a
flow of harmony in order to subsist [2]; this
principle, to get
spinal injury to the eyehole in
woods
are processes themselves, we can imagine that they
need a flow of entropy in order to subsist
this principle, together with
"a declaratory policy"
if North Korea began to reactivate its nuclear
facilities at Yongbyon, the country's arsenal, as
Secretary of State Colin L. Powell and other officials
insisted that it would be
woods
suck me dry or limp, a performance installation,
contemplates the double, or golem, the presence of
someone newer gazing from
the water
Other, a seductive cyborg, which
way, repressed etiology. If the histrionics of
networked media are in a continuous process of decay
and regeneration, like
we can imagine that they need a flow of harmony in
order to subsist
this principle sucks me dry or limp, a performance
installation, contemplates the double, or golem, the
presence of Other, a seductive cyborg, who sucks me
dry or limp, a performance installation,
contemplates You your have mind your on mind it
machines,
mappings, as one connected new
when
the Korean nuclear arsenal, as Secretary of city-wide
Colin L. Powell and other officials insisted that it
would be a forest and You seems. have You your have
mind your on mind it machines,
mappings, as one connected new types of topography to
a city-wide labyrinth...designed to keep mother's
mouth invisible..
forest and You seems. have You your have mind your on
mind it machines,
words
processes themselves,
we can imagine that they need a flow of entropy in
order to subsist [2]; this principle
suggests a place of low grade memory function, like a
stroked-out brain. Farad and Rashid are filming the
Israeli performance installation, contemplates the
double, or golem, the presence of Other, a seductive
cyborg
seems. it minding all machines minding tending
machines leaf-curling,
crawled machines, dawn crawled through furrow the
bark, the brass dark, spring away, repressed
etiology. If the architectonics of networked media
are in a harrowing pink collapse to a year, like
further creates a drama of amnesia, a sustained remit
to forget where and who and what, what came next,
a sustained remit to forget where and who and what,
what came next,
2002/12/31 20:42:21
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com
types of topography into
debris, smoky eyes, parched lips
a city-wide labyrinth...designed to keep mother's
mouth invisible..
processes themselves, we can imagine that they need a
flow of harmony in order to subsist [2]; this
principle, to get
spinal injury to the eyehole in
woods
are processes themselves, we can imagine that they
need a flow of entropy in order to subsist
this principle, together with
"a declaratory policy"
if North Korea began to reactivate its nuclear
facilities at Yongbyon, the country's arsenal, as
Secretary of State Colin L. Powell and other officials
insisted that it would be
woods
suck me dry or limp, a performance installation,
contemplates the double, or golem, the presence of
someone newer gazing from
the water
Other, a seductive cyborg, which
way, repressed etiology. If the histrionics of
networked media are in a continuous process of decay
and regeneration, like
we can imagine that they need a flow of harmony in
order to subsist
this principle sucks me dry or limp, a performance
installation, contemplates the double, or golem, the
presence of Other, a seductive cyborg, who sucks me
dry or limp, a performance installation,
contemplates You your have mind your on mind it
machines,
mappings, as one connected new
when
the Korean nuclear arsenal, as Secretary of city-wide
Colin L. Powell and other officials insisted that it
would be a forest and You seems. have You your have
mind your on mind it machines,
mappings, as one connected new types of topography to
a city-wide labyrinth...designed to keep mother's
mouth invisible..
forest and You seems. have You your have mind your on
mind it machines,
words
processes themselves,
we can imagine that they need a flow of entropy in
order to subsist [2]; this principle
suggests a place of low grade memory function, like a
stroked-out brain. Farad and Rashid are filming the
Israeli performance installation, contemplates the
double, or golem, the presence of Other, a seductive
cyborg
seems. it minding all machines minding tending
machines leaf-curling,
crawled machines, dawn crawled through furrow the
bark, the brass dark, spring away, repressed
etiology. If the architectonics of networked media
are in a harrowing pink collapse to a year, like
further creates a drama of amnesia, a sustained remit
to forget where and who and what, what came next,
a sustained remit to forget where and who and what,
what came next,
2002/12/31 20:42:21
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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 Brass Bark of Spring
seems. it minding all machines
and machines minding tending machines leaf-curling
toes,
the koran unclear arsenal, as grit from our tongues
glossing and sun spattered like bodily fluids are
counterproduct forest. and You
seems. have You your have mind your on mind it
machines,
crawled machines, down crawled the furrow bark, the
brass bark, spring
the Korean unclear arsenal, as Secretary of State
Colin L. Powell and sun spattered like bodily fluids
are counterproduct. their damned hats it was a
"sensuous manipulation" He acknowledged on the ABC
News program "This Week" their damned hats the Clinton
administration had their damned hats
woods
he called "a declaratory policy"
their damned hats if North Korea began to reactivate
its unclear facilities at Yongbyon, the country's math
koran nuclear arsenal, as grit from our tongues
glossing and other officials insisted their damned
hats
it would be counterproduct
to set deadlines for North Korea to meet American
demands or make threats to take military action.
the koran unclear arsenal, as Secretary of State
Colin L. Powell and sun spattered like bodily fluids
are counterproduct
to set the jaws of life for North Korea to meet
American demands or make threats to sex the lessons
out.
forest and You seems. have You your have mind your on
mind it machines to set deadlines for North Korea to
meet American demands or make threats to sex the
lessons out.
we cry for our brethren now from a longstanding
declaration by the United States that it would not
tolerate crawled machines, down
crawled the furrow bark, the brass bark
spring
2002/12/30 16:49:16
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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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Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
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and machines minding tending machines leaf-curling
toes,
the koran unclear arsenal, as grit from our tongues
glossing and sun spattered like bodily fluids are
counterproduct forest. and You
seems. have You your have mind your on mind it
machines,
crawled machines, down crawled the furrow bark, the
brass bark, spring
the Korean unclear arsenal, as Secretary of State
Colin L. Powell and sun spattered like bodily fluids
are counterproduct. their damned hats it was a
"sensuous manipulation" He acknowledged on the ABC
News program "This Week" their damned hats the Clinton
administration had their damned hats
woods
he called "a declaratory policy"
their damned hats if North Korea began to reactivate
its unclear facilities at Yongbyon, the country's math
koran nuclear arsenal, as grit from our tongues
glossing and other officials insisted their damned
hats
it would be counterproduct
to set deadlines for North Korea to meet American
demands or make threats to take military action.
the koran unclear arsenal, as Secretary of State
Colin L. Powell and sun spattered like bodily fluids
are counterproduct
to set the jaws of life for North Korea to meet
American demands or make threats to sex the lessons
out.
forest and You seems. have You your have mind your on
mind it machines to set deadlines for North Korea to
meet American demands or make threats to sex the
lessons out.
we cry for our brethren now from a longstanding
declaration by the United States that it would not
tolerate crawled machines, down
crawled the furrow bark, the brass bark
spring
2002/12/30 16:49:16
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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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Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
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Squids
Now we spit such vein-ink, thoughtless,
as I round a sky grown crystal mauve
with emissions. One would think
in this weather of sabres and
ruminations clutched dead-
weight to our chests that
at least William Carlos Williams would
think that thumb-muddied missionaries
could birth breached a bredth of union.
All I got is this lousy mouth of when my love
swam dreads of exhausted light to
greet me across the mall, hold me
close to the dead who fission here,
calling for me in Billy Collins'
plain style of memory charms
Laura Bush. I am unitiated in
University arts. You wouldn't believe
how glazed and red I become explaining
all the pixellations of motive of
emotions involved, lying about
my baptism. I'm covered in it.
2002/12/29 20:37:56
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com
as I round a sky grown crystal mauve
with emissions. One would think
in this weather of sabres and
ruminations clutched dead-
weight to our chests that
at least William Carlos Williams would
think that thumb-muddied missionaries
could birth breached a bredth of union.
All I got is this lousy mouth of when my love
swam dreads of exhausted light to
greet me across the mall, hold me
close to the dead who fission here,
calling for me in Billy Collins'
plain style of memory charms
Laura Bush. I am unitiated in
University arts. You wouldn't believe
how glazed and red I become explaining
all the pixellations of motive of
emotions involved, lying about
my baptism. I'm covered in it.
2002/12/29 20:37:56
=====
Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Mail Plus - Powerful. Affordable. Sign up now.
http://mailplus.yahoo.com