SOCRATES IS A MAN

Language is a word. The coffee, thick and tart like
rain if sex
were kiddie pool, finally finished and in your hands
to warm them
up. In the same direction as synchronicity, a car
outside turns
over as the central air kicks in. It's about that
time.
"Language is a word" is a sentence. The central
air, black
and sour as if rain carried a violin case down Eryk
Salvaggio's
street, kicks in every window of every abandoned car
turning over
in the steadily unbruising dawn. Your warm hands gaze
longingly
out the window. The kiddie pool, having been open all
night,
finally shuts off on a rush of spastic crenoline jets.
In case
you were wondering, all women are mortal. The time at
the tone
will be.
"'Language is a word' is a sentence," she writes,
quite
pleased with the cleverness with which she has
subverted the
objecthood of the previous sentence and virtually
uttered a novel
thought. The rain spoke with a slight lisp, revealing
its lower
socio-economic origins; it had been promiscuous in its
youth, and
now, older, had retreated into a well-worn piety that
felt like
cars turning over and bursting into flame. All the sex
in the
house has molded, and must be thrown out. That happens
in these
climes; the children, exhausted after night-swimming
until the
rim of day, slip back into their caskets, sated until
dusk
trickles through the hinges again. In case you were
wondering,
you are now completely out of time. So much space in
there I had
to stand still.


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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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