BIO
Lewis LaCook makes things. He is a programmer/poet. He likes unstable objects. He doesn't eat enough. Send him all your money.
CRACKS
--and these trees lean through
one another, singing a cicada lace
to sleep in, a skin of its own
mottled cries, which is a description
of a ladder shaking the man almost flying
to flush the bats we've found leaking
through the stitches in the ceiling--
he is a man with tools. i am a man
with Benson and Hedges 100s (premium filter),
which means the air has finally in some ways
accepted its inevitable decline. profuse with
holes (premium filter), interpretive dance
leans the scream of the metal ladder
way back to retract it. i'm such a turncoat
in this racket--but now you're pointing
that camera at me. it doesn't blink. i'm afraid
to crack into smiles sometimes when its
looking at you through it for me that way.
=====
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one another, singing a cicada lace
to sleep in, a skin of its own
mottled cries, which is a description
of a ladder shaking the man almost flying
to flush the bats we've found leaking
through the stitches in the ceiling--
he is a man with tools. i am a man
with Benson and Hedges 100s (premium filter),
which means the air has finally in some ways
accepted its inevitable decline. profuse with
holes (premium filter), interpretive dance
leans the scream of the metal ladder
way back to retract it. i'm such a turncoat
in this racket--but now you're pointing
that camera at me. it doesn't blink. i'm afraid
to crack into smiles sometimes when its
looking at you through it for me that way.
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
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Bananamilk does the body good
Bananamilk does the body good
a review of Sangburn Kim's interactive net piece Bananamilk
http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/litarture/93450
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
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a review of Sangburn Kim's interactive net piece Bananamilk
http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/litarture/93450
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
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BAT
It glid frm smwhr in th ktchn,
It glided, from. The kitchen
where we'd left the food dangling
and there were no birds like balloon
kts, as Eddie says: tie a string to it
nd use it. I am making language hly.
See? Soft risen, verdant ropes,
lngg, an erg of antonyms,
you'll never understand. Ughhh!
Eddiesays, use it as a kite,
and tht guy in the bnd laft.
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
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It glided, from. The kitchen
where we'd left the food dangling
and there were no birds like balloon
kts, as Eddie says: tie a string to it
nd use it. I am making language hly.
See? Soft risen, verdant ropes,
lngg, an erg of antonyms,
you'll never understand. Ughhh!
Eddiesays, use it as a kite,
and tht guy in the bnd laft.
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
__________________________________________________
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CHAT
Swimming with your eyes.
I see this blond wholeness of Summer
immersing romantically in bathrobe lawnmowers.
There's nowhere to move but movement.
There's lines like ribs across the.
Hair tied bracken suffocant and listless patrol--
I want to know what it is in Oly that
is pain (the proper nouns dispersing
sweat like angled grapes in a mauve tuft
of cunning (I dress in serpentine
religious)), that requires the big pills
that should not be taken with Hepatitus C
(the god of fire, discovered
in a net fucking the wife
as an anodyne for brutishness).
Would you be agog with the analogue?
My throatish gram bursting through
a swim in eyes replicant, obtuse,
as though trading mediocrity for
ecriture were literate. Every once
in a while objects sit on
the surface of breathing, and then
we speak of jellies beyond our bodies.
Once I called to you in all the misshapen
lameness of the ache of old pressures,
and you reassured me, fucking in the net.
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
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I see this blond wholeness of Summer
immersing romantically in bathrobe lawnmowers.
There's nowhere to move but movement.
There's lines like ribs across the.
Hair tied bracken suffocant and listless patrol--
I want to know what it is in Oly that
is pain (the proper nouns dispersing
sweat like angled grapes in a mauve tuft
of cunning (I dress in serpentine
religious)), that requires the big pills
that should not be taken with Hepatitus C
(the god of fire, discovered
in a net fucking the wife
as an anodyne for brutishness).
Would you be agog with the analogue?
My throatish gram bursting through
a swim in eyes replicant, obtuse,
as though trading mediocrity for
ecriture were literate. Every once
in a while objects sit on
the surface of breathing, and then
we speak of jellies beyond our bodies.
Once I called to you in all the misshapen
lameness of the ache of old pressures,
and you reassured me, fucking in the net.
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
__________________________________________________
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Sign up for SBC Yahoo! Dial - First Month Free
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Almost blanched butterfly (after breuckL)
You or 'it' embed 'it' in its protocol until the whole
idea of
'it' is an organ that breathes in and out.
You sanctify it. With urine you claim its space,
wrapping
pungeantly around it. You throttle.
All but one reflex machine sacrifices toxins to
cicadas through
the just trees over frustrated garbage.
Kneeling into a spatter of sun. The spread of it over
water, and
what of you it gives back.
What does it give back.
Listen: Nothing begins to resemble circles around
burning hunks
if she can break fragile wires.
You assemble her like circuits. She resembles you in
your more
flagrent moments.
Almost blanched butterfly stained pupa, rash fires,
smoke grease.
The inevitable insects.
Mouth across tongue slicing bedding down.
Raptor's nest leaves breathless plucked-away anxiety,
artificial
plunger plunging deeply into respiration for less than
mirroring
shadows distinct tinctures' assonance. The cadence of
soaking in
predatory conversations. Is beautiful.
Dark heat [stuff it].
In.
Excavate spewing after sharpened soil fraction's
bastard -even
frost itself, no-one...
Investigate the textures. Guitars severed with sex.
Intrigue come
and gone.
Moistened foreskin quivering amid shapes' sighs'
looped plunge
into piecemeal electricity not knowing why clouds drip
panes.
I wish I knew why planes and trains and salt and
storage. I wish
I knew data and information. Only fragile
sunlight-shatter
reassembles someone different there.
Hyphenate the frenetic skeins almost eaten cold,
existence's
shape.
Nightfall bounces deadly drowning water. Knives and
the surprise
of their sight. This is the placement of it, the
absolution of
abolitionism through you. Soft silicone diaphonous.
Feel oblivion's lip-ciphering negation lifting my skin
organ's
bird. The mailman brings it every morning.
Aspirations come stainless.
Steel mirror.
Ceiling pills.
Positioned lisp.
Poison.
Soda smudged milky light shadows around neck cheeks
deepening
hair sprawled ass-up.
You sternly address me. Stiff lungs, naked flesh
mumbling behind
icy blue haloes' moaning. It got cold all of a sudden.
I'm a reasonable man, get off my case, get off my
case, get off
my case. My seed bursts the mattress, and at last your
belly
defaces the bed.
Mattress ocean necklaces crisp circuit distance
switches bleak
morning's less sleep than usual.
Rocky filament.
Darkened sky flattens gray tension.
I used to think code winding, layering, dumping peals
of cellular
lucidity across the stacks. You used me to dream.
Disarray prattles debugging the flustered pinching.
Head murmur trickles astutely swaying branches
undulating below
clouds' contorted bliss-sheets remembering watertable
mud foam
given to never-ending but shapes leap flame-drenched.
The
swelling stray hem brushes against everyone.
The toy is shiningly supple.
Woods joint spots blinking at her as she undresses.
Wood joint
spots burning lurid plasticity. Wood joints spots
canvassing the
digital neck. Miniscule head calculations' crooked arm
crook.
Touching her, rapture-enacted answers almost siphons
off mop-
closet technicians. We, at siamese bit, biting
ourselves into
puddles of commoness.
Vellum-curved cathode blow-up.
--Bob BrueckL, Lewis LaCook
after Lewis LaCook's "to"
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
__________________________________________________
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idea of
'it' is an organ that breathes in and out.
You sanctify it. With urine you claim its space,
wrapping
pungeantly around it. You throttle.
All but one reflex machine sacrifices toxins to
cicadas through
the just trees over frustrated garbage.
Kneeling into a spatter of sun. The spread of it over
water, and
what of you it gives back.
What does it give back.
Listen: Nothing begins to resemble circles around
burning hunks
if she can break fragile wires.
You assemble her like circuits. She resembles you in
your more
flagrent moments.
Almost blanched butterfly stained pupa, rash fires,
smoke grease.
The inevitable insects.
Mouth across tongue slicing bedding down.
Raptor's nest leaves breathless plucked-away anxiety,
artificial
plunger plunging deeply into respiration for less than
mirroring
shadows distinct tinctures' assonance. The cadence of
soaking in
predatory conversations. Is beautiful.
Dark heat [stuff it].
In.
Excavate spewing after sharpened soil fraction's
bastard -even
frost itself, no-one...
Investigate the textures. Guitars severed with sex.
Intrigue come
and gone.
Moistened foreskin quivering amid shapes' sighs'
looped plunge
into piecemeal electricity not knowing why clouds drip
panes.
I wish I knew why planes and trains and salt and
storage. I wish
I knew data and information. Only fragile
sunlight-shatter
reassembles someone different there.
Hyphenate the frenetic skeins almost eaten cold,
existence's
shape.
Nightfall bounces deadly drowning water. Knives and
the surprise
of their sight. This is the placement of it, the
absolution of
abolitionism through you. Soft silicone diaphonous.
Feel oblivion's lip-ciphering negation lifting my skin
organ's
bird. The mailman brings it every morning.
Aspirations come stainless.
Steel mirror.
Ceiling pills.
Positioned lisp.
Poison.
Soda smudged milky light shadows around neck cheeks
deepening
hair sprawled ass-up.
You sternly address me. Stiff lungs, naked flesh
mumbling behind
icy blue haloes' moaning. It got cold all of a sudden.
I'm a reasonable man, get off my case, get off my
case, get off
my case. My seed bursts the mattress, and at last your
belly
defaces the bed.
Mattress ocean necklaces crisp circuit distance
switches bleak
morning's less sleep than usual.
Rocky filament.
Darkened sky flattens gray tension.
I used to think code winding, layering, dumping peals
of cellular
lucidity across the stacks. You used me to dream.
Disarray prattles debugging the flustered pinching.
Head murmur trickles astutely swaying branches
undulating below
clouds' contorted bliss-sheets remembering watertable
mud foam
given to never-ending but shapes leap flame-drenched.
The
swelling stray hem brushes against everyone.
The toy is shiningly supple.
Woods joint spots blinking at her as she undresses.
Wood joint
spots burning lurid plasticity. Wood joints spots
canvassing the
digital neck. Miniscule head calculations' crooked arm
crook.
Touching her, rapture-enacted answers almost siphons
off mop-
closet technicians. We, at siamese bit, biting
ourselves into
puddles of commoness.
Vellum-curved cathode blow-up.
--Bob BrueckL, Lewis LaCook
after Lewis LaCook's "to"
=====
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook
__________________________________________________
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