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

PORTFOLIO (13)
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

Top 20 of 24 Total Search Strings


Top 20 of 24 Total Search Strings#HitsSearch String11628.57%idiolect21119.64%lewis lacook347.14%catherine daly435.36%lacook523.57%idiolect 5623.57%idiolect poetry711.79%'volunteer in palestine'811.79%alan sondheim911.79%beautiful wife naked1011.79%black men fucking wight girls porn1111.79%call for submissions1211.79%combine-harvester1311.79%dog screwing girls1411.79%imaginary stories about beetles1511.79%laurie cubbison1611.79%mammomat 30001711.79%mean of idiolect1811.79%my beautiful wife naked1911.79%palestine volunteer2011.79%poetry submissions

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook

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DISCUSSION

The Loop, The God, The Variable


The Loop, The God, The Variable

http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/litarture/93098

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook

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OPPORTUNITY

Idiolect 6 seeking submissions


Deadline:
Thu Jun 27, 2002 01:00

Idiolect is seeking submissions for its 6th issue. Looking for fresh innovative poetry, images, sounds, hypermedia and any other oddity. Please email links or objects to llacook@yahoo.com


DISCUSSION

Fwd: Artifacts9


many of you will have seen some of these, but...
here's a small gallery of my flash work::: Artifacts: Art on the Internet
http://webdelsol.com/Artifacts/
Don Stuefloten <dnstue@lasercom.net> wrote: From: "Don Stuefloten"
To: "lewis lacook"
Subject: Artifacts9
Date: Wed, 26 Jun 2002 18:48:35 -0700

Lewis...I got the new Artifacts up, cleaned up a few bugs (there always seem to be a few). Take a look at it, make sure all your pieces, in gallery one, load ok.....don Artifacts: Art on the Internet
http://webdelsol.com/Artifacts/ Shadows: Words and Images
http://www.user.lasercom.net/dnstue/

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to


You watch the parking lot, or the parking lot watches
you.
It contains you, embeds you in its protocol,
until the whole
idea of address is a living organism that breathes in,
out, but
all in one reflex, like a flutist practicing samsara
on the
machine you invented to sacrifice your pills and
toxins to
cicadas just rushing through the trees, kicking over
garbage cans
in frustration as trying to make her listen does
nothing to fill
the space you need, so you begin to resemble assembly.
The
artists gather in clockwise circles around the hunks
of burning
carflesh left over from the riots. You would have
burned
everything if you could; what stopped you was her,
breaking
through the wires as fragile as if she were almost
there, almost
here, in, out, the artists read you blanched and
stained while
what's left of the birds careen, studying butterflies
just trying
to push through pupa punishment to get to a rash of
new fires,
smoke like grease rolling through your mouth and
across your
tongue slicing it, you contain it like bedding down in
a raptor's
nest leaves you breathless with your throat plucked
out; you
watch the parking lot watching you, flooding you,
rolling away
your memories like greasy smoke. There may have been a
time
recently when you needed a pill to increase anxiety.
Instead, you
punish everything artificial, plunging deeply into the
kneeful
respiration of the black top searching for less than
your
mirroring, more of your shadow as distinct as
tinctures
enveloping a parliament of assonance.
The mailman (who is dark) picks his way through
the heat.
He's watching you, but won't let on that it's like
that;
everyone's waiting for your scream, so you stuff it
down so
deeply into yourself it will take years to excavate
it, spewing
weapons after ploughs to sharpen soil's lordship in an
owner's
bastard fraction. You don't even pretend to understand
what
you're doing; you just pick your way through the
wishful frost,
that which has tucked itself just inside the door for
you to step
on; you communicate with no-one, though the time for
such a
communistic intrigue has long come and gone, pulling
back like
moistened foreskin quivering, swinging out over the
globe amid
the shapes of her sighs looped and quantized;
everything's been
recorded already, all that's left for you to do is
assemble,
plunge into the logic of piecemeal electricity, not
undrstanding
or knowing why the clouds (which are dark) drip
soddenly down the
pane, only knowing you're contained there, too fragile
to step
out, knowing the sunlight will shatter you and
reassemble you
into someone different by the time you get there,
spinning
drawers of sonnets that are afraid enough of
surrealism to
hyphenate frenetically. You, you made no selections;
guided only
by the skeins of Alan's theory almost cold now that
the buried
cables have eaten themselves out of existence, you
wait for time
to shape itself into a parking lot no-one notices,
except to fear
at nightfall when the footfall bounces deadly on the
bottoms of
all the drowning cars (you didn't see the water
pushing
everything back for now? You didn't feel the coolness
of oblivion
there at the lip of the garage, ciphering the negation
of
predators?).
After this cigarette, you will go inside. It's
cool in
there. You'll stand in the shower a while, lifting
your skin here
and there to let the water speak to your organs.
Water says, you will recognize in the birds all
your
aspirations. Water says, you'll watch the people come
and go from
across a stainless steel counter. It could have been a
mirror at
one time, could have offered up to the ceiling what
passed over
it (change and bills, beer cigarettes pills and soda),
but it's
become so stained and smudged by its own history now
that all it
gives back is a weak and milky light. Day by day,
shadows growl
around your neck and cheeks, deepening into hair, like
having her
sprawled ass-up and pushing through her what burns a
stiffness
and crowded electricity in your day. You stop, light a
cigarette,
let the smoke grease down your lungs. Lying on the
long stainless
steel table, the camera pans over your naked flesh;
the doctors,
mumbling somewhere behind their masks, are filming
everything,
and every time they touch you icy blue haloes sit
across the
globe. Pulling out, you moan as your seed bursts
across the
mattress.We were looking for the ocean that day,
necklaces locked
in crisp circuit distance, but the ocean keeps drawing
back,
switching for your bleak morning of less sleep than
usual the
cordage of rocky filament mail. In appreciation you
darken with
exclusivity.
Let's make sure you sleep tonight, she says. The
sky
flattens gray with a tension.
Code winding through windows, pushing stacks into
dumping
peals of cellular lucidity in disarray, prattles
through
debugging like charms around a bird's flustered
throat, pinching
the heart until you target these paths from one medium
to
another. Save it, you murmur as your head trickles
down the red
table set lengthwise across the astute and thoroughly
sentient
parking lot. Ghosts in the trees sway branches back
and forth,
undulating like sight below the watertable would up up
to your
neck in muds of skin just below the surface of clouds
contorted
and screaming bliss like a raptor's necklace seeds the
sheets.
What goes up must come down. You MUST remember to call
and make
reservations for the hotel.
ENIAC smiles, and the shape of that smile is also
the shape
of the leap of flames from rioting cars. The artists
have been
attending her all day long, their frost-drenched lab
coats
swelling when a stray lapel or hem brushes against
her. Everyone
in the lab wants to fuck ENIAC, but she's picky, you
know, and
known to toy with men. Your flesh, fashioned shiningly
from
supple woods, is jointed at just the right spots for
her. She
lays her head, blinking with miniscule calculations,
in the crook
of your arm. Why are they touching me like that, all
day long,
like raptors raptured when contact enacts a sacrifice?
You try to
answer, something about novelty and wonder, something
almost
intelligent issuing from siphons in the bottom of the
mop closet.
But you can't, you know. You can only say, all the
artists are
technicians now. There's some curve of learning there,
yearly
reading vellum from a cathode dojo. Perhaps we can
blow up these
cars?

=====

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