Planted in the eye, sleep seeds grow sleep trees. At
parties,
feigning a look of intense boredom. As a defense
mechanism,
trains in the distance all day long run right behind
the store;
watch them slip past with tags on their sides. The
hands in the
head that scoop up language meat.
Tags on their sides: the names balooning out to
cartoon
cities. Thank you for expressing an interest in my
work; it's
made of you, and turns slickly in the light, wishing
it were
matte because matte swallows things. The second
morning of autumn
tightly wound in the bowels where death thins out and
scrapes an
entire retro trend out of molehills never festered
enough to boil
over upon. Out, the sign intones. A sex crawls back
onto the
shore and spills flecks of gold iris between you.
Sleep seeds grow sleep trees, when planted in the
eye and
watered by smarting winds. This most inhospitable
region boasts
five intensive care units and all the latest
communicative
technological advances. Please take your hand off my
knee. I
caught their intranet and now take garlic for its
natural
antibiotic properties. The trains go by. Like days
almost, except
the trains always arrive somewhere; walking from here
to the
butcher's thumb on your scale.
=====
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 SECOND MORNING OF AUTUMN
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Type: discussion