Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Ledges hinge; they’re so sharp they can ribbon a softness
on a pivot with votive cleansing—swung numb
through intervals of insolent space, a body totters

crawls through a censor wafting hot fabric like bliss
in a face lit from behind the sun pulling back the street–
the sheets we’ve rinsed intensify to sand-pitch

as a body coming through the tides; the fallen draw
their shapes through crevices languid with sap—pass among
the honey tousled umbilical between us

When I become tiresome because of length or dullness, impossible operations
trawl the thread of estimates, of emptiness; a generous teardrop of Lindsay’s body
banned in most regions of the world, her geographic senses hung with pencil
precision for moist duration of the term; articles and features about animals
allow me to explore with my tongue her cat breeds. I study diagrams, internal organs,
body parts and systems; not too late, I assemble a set of interacting or interdependent entities
forming an integrated whole by combining or coordinating separate elements
exhibiting accord in feeling or action. She’s unused to the English language, using her mouth
to describe the physical sensation of touch; this was developed in England
and south-eastern Scotland during the Anglo-Saxon era to exert pert pressure on
some invading Germanic tribes. She can be within or outside a corporation; I have granted her
a charter recognizing it as a separate legal entity, love cloud having its own privileges
and liabilities; All I have to offer her is special entitlement or immunity
granted by a government. Along the electric borders of my skin, she searches
by full text, by authors parking in secluded lots. They want to go to advanced search.

for Lindsay

The lessons your eyes teach me are worth this cloistering; four walls, no floor, restlessness of sibilant water below me. In Ephrata, snakes singed with arsenic assembled by essence contaminate a hint of dissatisfied intellectualism; how can it be that the book of your lips opens upon me, and a snow-globe crawling with earthquakes reads itself to a shatter on the rocks, drawing the lips of the lake? Its true, I am a feral creature, returned through crushing to a wild where every piece was lost, where living is a castrated creeping through hard lattice cynicism, who missed his mother unweaned and unlearning. I got by with the skin of my teeth, and grew layer by layer this insensate hide.

I’m moved by every muscle, by writhing around the rocks in my way. I eat the unsuspecting.

for Lindsay

An animal backed into a corner wounds the future. Continuously pushing backwards with the legs, it would be much better to learn a fight since the fifth grade and that was against a girl with an image of an elephant behind me. A wounded animal with its back up against you smoldering lost sparks crimping the moon behind swift salmon clouds. The newly freed rivers ran unpredictably; sometimes swift, sometimes sluggish as they braided from the clouds all perfection at once. Do you really think I’m worthy of time? Copyright law wasn’t written with today’s content consumption in mind; how adventure travel kills conspicuous muscle for numerous tasks like the human consequences. A wound in the back of every convenience store could be heard intermittently flushing the plied ice of latent plows.

In an interrogative form, addressed to you in order to get information in reply, the silences display themselves regularly throughout my day.

for Lindsay

Please forgive me if I slip below. While you’re drawing mustaches on everyone’s religion. Forgive me vents trickling down the ashy aisles of your volcano. You trace panic kisses. You who are this fearless cloud. Forgive how I jut lit with trolls over silk water. What are you sprinkling. While you’re thinking about rolling your own. What can you forgive. Meantime I’m cross-legged. Charcoal laughter. Please forgive me if I don’t look at the light. Just to climb up that hill. You who are this inflamed slumber. Empathetic daughter. Forgive me if I’m drafty. The mustaches are all three feet high and covered like Yeti. Wolfman’s white lips.

I’d give anything to be your sketch-pad.