Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

It’s a polite town it’s very clean
I can walk past a graveyard to the food factory
and the trees may spin birds’ nest soup from the fastest hens

Natural gas is everywhere these days
On the bottom of my boots smeared on the floor

Watering her nipples with it

feel too that I could sit like a cat in your window
and wait all day for you to come home
–you said, don’t piss me off!

It’s not your average monochromatic love

watched Partch’s furious delusion
imbue the depth in gesture clusters

I’m thinking of talking like moving baby
like calcite threading slowly down your back
–you said, don’t touch me!

for Lindsay

You write directions to the food mart on my hand
The hand knows what it must do

over your chest white sentinels rust like spring buds
The death of the author so kindly disingenuous

at the fish fry I think of us hours before swimming each other
I think of tears blossoming from scolded lonely branches

until there’s a new lake on your grandmother’s lawn
I too am interested in conjuring the living rain

and am losing my fear of drowning
At the fish fry I get lost in the fruit I will feed you

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.