30.

30.

I stretch dew across the cartops at night. This world
pales in comparison with the next.

My balls burn into my thighs.

Their little eyes are hooks they see me. Watching may
be a part of touching. I didn't want to be so far
away. But when you call I go transparent: I
tentatively abstract from this attraction in your
voice some spinning crazy flowers, and they're made of
candy. Remember?

Max and Lucy wander the neighborhood with wax lips.
They visit the elderly at night. You know how you
don't sleep when you're old.

I stayed awake the duration of my life. Reams of earth
file ill light empathetic topgraphies of canopy moons.


They know a sound you walk on. Bow to the instrument
before you play it.

Strings I think are mostly, air,
nothing concurrent in folds
or pasted-over with serenity, but
you know me when I'm awake: trembles,
stuffs his hands with gardens he
took from you, that one night
washing in behind hundreds, as
he wants you to sing his
sleep across him, part
wet towelettes with a mercury
tongue. Yes, you too
have forked with secrets by now, and
eat the last of your vigor, still
shaking from honest impact, into
daubs of first drafts, pretended
preliminaries of the ceremony, not
caring what falls across to you, except
to sing (here) that sleep (her)
over the dear weight of the fan.
I let accidents happen here.

You pushed me away pushed me away pushed me away. I
went sailing labeled and docile into literature and
all its incessant talk about chords. There were old
men there, about Max and Lucy's age, but none of them
could get it up anymore. I dress like a whore only to
please you.

Blue. Cupping wind. And their serrations. Is an urge
to sense. Their empathy. Like lily tendrils unroll'd
throughout the big city. Turning on. I follow
everything up to and including the letter. Froze
easily. From. A dissolution. Added to. Their recent.
And almost engaging. With suck and mud strokes. Belief
in coherent imaging. Taup.

Spikes of the smallest water
waffle flung nutrition. The spine
as an ivy for Venus not even
with unnatural days. Smoke

sits across from, tousled,
loud; she never sleeps

always, no relief of tension
daubed out with a tongue.
The light has a broad back by
mid-afternoon. I was

naive then, to vapor with ropes
through my pores, to blister and
blossom like drops of salt
in grains of water, announce:
It would be an anguish to go
one day without hearing
your voice Renee. Isn't it

it enough not to be able to
touch you? I whittle nights

sculpting myself into
corners, casting my variables
aside into a core dump
so central to my definitions.
Inside me the functions

pass nothing between themselves,
not even the stealth of trojans.




=====


NEW!!!–Dirty Milk–reactive poem for microphone http://www.lewislacook.com/DirtyMilk/

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html








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