text for instrument 4(?) continued...

Which means what? Of course, I'm "kind" (listening,
over the
sunspasms of my parking lot, to children hidden
somewhere in the
trees at play), I "listen" to the text (which Bob
fucks from its
sticky box, Breuckl-groin'd as Unicef fetching teflon
fingerfoods) as it uncurls like burning sensuality
from the husk-
nerves just jangled by machine problems, like being
born in 1970
(this was the year Black Sabbath…), but where does
that leave
her? With glasses, which means (signifier) that she's
smart; the
brown creek rolling almost dried to the expanded banks
across her
belly, warm like birth, which (signifier) in 1970 was
a November
etching on metal's guitar-based saturation: back then,
asshole,
it wasn't even called "metal," it was "rock and roll,"
and you
can't kill it, no matter how much networking our two
machines
together can seem like mesmerism in semic clash
(not-signified:
in fact, 'tis only the peaks of an utterance we feel
here,
listening in through the blacktop trees to the smell
the sun
leaves as it runs down the sky, though I stand
point-blank with
the horizon and headTippedBack crane to swallow it,
like a
toothbrush embedded sleeplessly in the head). So she
goes away,
eventually, like the rain immolates all those
foursquare drawings
we charted in chalk at the sidewalk level; she leaves
with her
warm belly, and the circle of retarded kids
(signifier) are left
to play kickball instead; remember the cross-hatched
hide on
those balls? The hollow flaccid pock that sounded when
foot
connected with velocity, rolling ever closer and just
at that
angle into air? I thought I could control it. I'd
close my eyes
or fix its passage cleaving air furrowed like frost as
it rose,
and I would try to draw the ball closer to me waiting
in the far
fields (this is where those odd and lonely trees are
that I
befriend, pissing my bellyful of Mad Dog or Wild Irish
Rose into
their roots: riding our bikes to KMart on weekends
John and I
passed through the good neighborhoods where our denim
and our
long hair rotted like sweaty entropy, and I stomp down
every
surprise prettiness of flowerbed as vengeance for
something(signified)), try to get the ball to land in
my arms,
disconnected.
Meanwhile, Claire needs an upload of mp3 for her
domain,
which extends from one end of the space-without-space
to the
other (business?), and which I wake to dip into only
temporarily.
The lot's calling me from behind milky walls; in the
morning the
sun and the heat are weaker than at night, which is
all ablaze
with her and I here, hanging below the poor old woman
above us
who keeps falling and breaking her bones (she's gone
again now,
and the wind rushing through the lot working picks up
trash along
with it, crimped kleenex and crumbled Dutch Master
jackets). Here
there is no trash, everything's burned in need of
living engine,
everything's genuine and painted over with smoothness
unresembling scratched skin in red unburnished furrows

(business). Sometimes I dream about how I got here,
relieving the
brothers who split the sky with their pristine and
purified
darkness, taking dewrag duty on my own pursuits as a
rupture that
quite slowly swells whole again: I wish I had every
tear of
someone's left me on disk or CD-Rom, then I could
reapply them in
all the mess and message of crystal, wear them like I
wore them
walking howlful into nights it was clear this one or
that one
didn't or couldn't love me, and I was separate from
the world
wholly and in fields, listening unstoned to the
nightbirds
skimming fragrance of grass dead in the fibers (taking
pills,
swallowing ephedrine and caffeine, jazz in my hair as
dawn
rustled the suburbs and out blew the exquisite birds,
going
somewhere as an escape, as I stared down the barrel of
my time
stuck to blacktop and embedded in my mind). This must
have
started bouncing the dusty basketball with its hollow
pock that
sucked my hands dry alone, thinking first of movies
I'd make
somehow or scribble invisibly over the inner head
dealt with. I'd
send Kevin away, who was my best friend who sucked at
kickball;
something of his vulnerability disgusted me, the
growling father
who was larger than sunshine in a splotched t-shirt
drawl, the
mother nervous in her inward renovations, the nova of
retardation
bloating his sister the sunvisor in talk about taking
my shirt
off, over his cousin whom I kiss first and deeply. I
was fat
then. Then I was sick; with wine, with poetry, with
virtue if you
will. I didn't want to control us but I did; my movies
were Luke
Skywalker action figures I never wanted to be dueling
electrically on a crumbled kneelength wall in the
backyard (the
old people shimmy down the outer railing with the
squirrel
dichotomy fluffed-up and foaming–more or less, he
said, and the
chatter was ringed with water precious and low in
these days of
St. John's Wort, wherein I watch the parking lot
dissolve
rapaciously in the only direction there ever really
is, in in
in), the duel was mine, old lady, your announcements
sheaved in
palm and carried house-to-house (I have a
responsibility to the
reader to tell her that these are reports on the condo

asscoiation, which is a living or corporate retreat
from the
embolism of traffic on Staples Mill) in dual rapport,
black
cherry flavor of gingko in the coffee I wax over
sawing this
branch on which I swing.

=====
http://www.lewislacook.com/selections.html
Personal Sitee-books and web art(http://www.geocities.com/llacook/index.html)

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Comments

, Karl Petersen

( lines restored .. they were unreadable )
89 lines / 928 words / 5395 lewis

On Wed, 12 Jun 2002, lewis lacook wrote:

Which means what? Of course, I'm "kind" (listening,
over the sunspasms of my parking lot, to children hidden
somewhere in the trees at play), I "listen" to the text (which Bob
fucks from its sticky box, Breuckl-groin'd as Unicef fetching teflon
fingerfoods) as it uncurls like burning sensuality from the husk-
nerves just jangled by machine problems, like being born in 1970
(this was the year Black Sabbath…), but where does that leave
her? With glasses, which means (signifier) that she's smart; the
brown creek rolling almost dried to the expanded banks across her
belly, warm like birth, which (signifier) in 1970 was a November
etching on metal's guitar-based saturation: back then, asshole,
it wasn't even called "metal," it was "rock and roll," and you
can't kill it, no matter how much networking our two machines
together can seem like mesmerism in semic clash (not-signified:
in fact, 'tis only the peaks of an utterance we feel here,
listening in through the blacktop trees to the smell the sun
leaves as it runs down the sky, though I stand point-blank with
the horizon and headTippedBack crane to swallow it, like a
toothbrush embedded sleeplessly in the head). So she goes away,
eventually, like the rain immolates all those foursquare drawings
we charted in chalk at the sidewalk level; she leaves with her
warm belly, and the circle of retarded kids (signifier) are left
to play kickball instead; remember the cross-hatched hide on
those balls? The hollow flaccid pock that sounded when foot
connected with velocity, rolling ever closer and just at that
angle into air? I thought I could control it. I'd close my eyes
or fix its passage cleaving air furrowed like frost as it rose,
and I would try to draw the ball closer to me waiting in the far
fields (this is where those odd and lonely trees are that I
befriend, pissing my bellyful of Mad Dog or Wild Irish Rose into
their roots: riding our bikes to KMart on weekends John and I
passed through the good neighborhoods where our denim and our
long hair rotted like sweaty entropy, and I stomp down every
surprise prettiness of flowerbed as vengeance for
something(signified)), try to get the ball to land in
my arms, disconnected.

Meanwhile, Claire needs an upload of mp3 for her domain,
which extends from one end of the space-without-space to the
other (business?), and which I wake to dip into only temporarily.
The lot's calling me from behind milky walls; in the morning the
sun and the heat are weaker than at night, which is all ablaze
with her and I here, hanging below the poor old woman above us
who keeps falling and breaking her bones (she's gone again now,
and the wind rushing through the lot working picks up trash along
with it, crimped kleenex and crumbled Dutch Master jackets). Here
there is no trash, everything's burned in need of living engine,
everything's genuine and painted over with smoothness
unresembling scratched skin in red unburnished furrows

(business). Sometimes I dream about how I got here,
relieving the brothers who split the sky with their pristine and
purified darkness, taking dewrag duty on my own pursuits as a
rupture that quite slowly swells whole again: I wish I had every
tear of someone's left me on disk or CD-Rom, then I could
reapply them in all the mess and message of crystal, wear them like I
wore them walking howlful into nights it was clear this one or
that one didn't or couldn't love me, and I was separate from
the world wholly and in fields, listening unstoned to the
nightbirds skimming fragrance of grass dead in the fibers (taking
pills, swallowing ephedrine and caffeine, jazz in my hair as
dawn rustled the suburbs and out blew the exquisite birds,
going somewhere as an escape, as I stared down the barrel of
my time stuck to blacktop and embedded in my mind). This must
have started bouncing the dusty basketball with its hollow
pock that sucked my hands dry alone, thinking first of movies
I'd make somehow or scribble invisibly over the inner head
dealt with. I'd send Kevin away, who was my best friend who sucked at
kickball; something of his vulnerability disgusted me, the
growling father who was larger than sunshine in a splotched t-shirt
drawl, the mother nervous in her inward renovations, the nova of
retardation bloating his sister the sunvisor in talk about taking
my shirt off, over his cousin whom I kiss first and deeply. I
was fat then. Then I was sick; with wine, with poetry, with
virtue if you will. I didn't want to control us but I did; my movies
were Luke Skywalker action figures I never wanted to be dueling
electrically on a crumbled kneelength wall in the backyard (the
old people shimmy down the outer railing with the squirrel
dichotomy fluffed-up and foaming–more or less, he said, and the
chatter was ringed with water precious and low in these days of
St. John's Wort, wherein I watch the parking lot dissolve
rapaciously in the only direction there ever really is, in in
in), the duel was mine, old lady, your announcements sheaved in
palm and carried house-to-house (I have a responsibility to the
reader to tell her that these are reports on the condo
asscoiation, which is a living or corporate retreat from the
embolism of traffic on Staples Mill) in dual rapport, black
cherry flavor of gingko in the coffee I wax over sawing this
branch on which I swing.