Two Texts


Watching Television News

Intercontinental drift, very light computers, and the sense that I’m willing to put my hand very close to your hand despite the chance it’ll lead to an inextinguishable volley pervades [1] in handshakes, danglings, and the loosest needle threaded through the exchange of the determinable coin—

before preparing my first duck l’orange, I scratched my income into a pink sheet encircled with bowed duckies: when I hear the word decoupling I [2] think of angels falling from the sky desperately trying to release each other, and in rows it seems the plosives [3] determine [4] their own course: opposed Palladium plentitude plove puppy—

guests focus in on just one aspect of the large graphic displaying corn production, pricing, and prediction; that must be why they table three of them, [5] each bottling their own descant counter-melody with a just a tap on the counter: call it making a point or self-humdingering or infantos or ensuring their own insular arc [6] :

call it what your [7] entire body pursues in space when it laughs—this is your water, you are free, the bottles seem to say—do not cover your head or rub your eyes, Formica and soy can still both be forgiven, churchgroups do not really ask too many questions, and you have not been reduced to whistling: but the entire team has arrived and they saved a quenching beverage with your name on it, and in that all the trouble starts right up again:

before you open it, your hand encounters an incredible [8] strength and manages to overcome with the full (true) physiological knowledge such a victory will lead only to, in your newfound stretch, the ability to channel, gild, and warn with each of your hands: these acts in constellation might be your only qualifying qualities [9]

you understand, but the way you subordinate [10] that strength touched that spot on your arm, as though you simply forgot [11] that for your entire life it has been covered in very fine hairs, [12] I imagine that goes on to become not a feature but the catalogue [13] of all future and potential strokes

Weekly Outdoor Classical Music Concert in an Unnamed Municipal Park

I start a bag of muscles content calls into the stream, attracting radicals with the tinker of my applecart.

Nothing beyond the individual builds in the singular, so I trademark our listen whole again, platforming repairs the long hour, whether there is or is no relevant stroke to make. [14]

I will not tell you that you can see this century (out there, floating in the common goat milk, progress tipping toward the end of each decade) because I haven’t really been alive yet and not at war.

This is just my crowd.

I have several instruments performing this limitation, widening unable as I speak.

I can make a whole other sentence: putting the thinnest good forth so both moving and encroachment surface, terminal impasses at a line that senses and destines a composed loosened— I’ll do this from time to time because I love to feel it ripple. [15]

You always cuts the import. [16]

Hello, I say, my name is part of my wooden hand getting to know you. The crack in my upholstery button is a thread loosed. We must trust each other; must we trust each other.

The corners seem to stay very wet. The clock silent dot on the tent. One makes a connect frank. Time to continue and forget outlines cut at fancy triangles. Fancy is still just a two-color machine.

We are so young together, maybe we can sink my feeling that this is how stones hot not just the whole untangled wilderness, where smoldering uproots the under-nosed finds and there will be more quickly than boulders stopgaps like fine wool. [17]

Degrees have always been less important to me than mercury. [18]

Someone’s ice fruits across the skin. A tree bend is a long pounce like the surface of a party owns surface outside of herself and upwards returns the twinkle any harbors confirms in drops. So easily, just up ahead, in the hysterical forsythia we could stretch our second feet out across the uniform texture we’d accomplish in law. [19]


Of course by now everything comments on my new idea but this is just a place to stop in a place to take my place.

I have had this problem with picnics.

Even event contraptions erect correction teeth.

I love you and I cannot stop saying that not to matter how I tried I am hard.

I wish I looked more square in a way that first cartoon idea of the messenger did.

I fear what you did for me is tonal at best.

Sewn down the line like notes across a music-box wheel end-stuck in the sand.

Sand moving fast as a fleeting lip.

Waves tidings undulating fineness quick-blurred.

Suite for the tamperers of whistle and needles and wheeling gasps of proper width before possible short-term homes.

[1] The new CNN Newsroom anchor seems unsure of herself.

[2] I wash my hands after unpacking the groceries.

[3] What is that sound in your head when you think in plosives?

[4] If a sound is a vibration, how do you hear a sound in your head when the sound is not there, being made?

[5] Guests.

[6] This could be seen as many arcs coming together and forming one arc, depending on whether or not the tabled are deep-down in cahoots, and I think they are.

[7] My, actually, if I could just find something to drink that isn’t covered in petroleum.

[8] Unbelievable in the sense that your hand could not have anticipated it or know what to do with it (the strength) until it (the strength) arrived.

[9] What else are you really touching?

[10] Under and then over as in the motion of turning a doorhandle.

[11] Often betrayed by a look in the eye.

[12] Perhaps the stoneware too is a flask and sleep will never happen like this hair.

[13] Life in a series of possible gestures.

[14] My face assumes a look of general calm, bordering on just-happy-to-be-here.

[15] For that reason and because this heat could make me faint.

[16] Sometimes I see writing in my head. It’s just “chair” or “red purse” or “this is a comfortable chair.” This is where the fears bigger than those I have actually faced seem to really flow.

[17] Looking at a family, I tend to look at each member and then back toward the parents. I don’t want to talk to a child, but I imagine how inappropriate it would be.

[18] I am happy to have packed a water-bottle.

[19] Or water.

[20] Because this is a picnic blanket, I think in the throat historical pretending won’t convert our sunken hydrants (petered or peppered depending on how you are gendering this stare at park) and all the under-wonderful volunteers borne by the deferral system full-in-mouth and notwithstanding comprehension and fuses and subtle umbrella dig at the whole need-hole through this one crushed instance; in other words, I’m not saying I just want to give you a blanket and I’m not saying I don’t, I’m just-saying.

Thomas Cook's poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The New Orleans Review, Critiphoria and Delkelekh. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently, Anemic Cinema, forthcoming from Horse Less Press. He works as Assistant Editor at Luna: a journal of poetry and translation.