Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

• See all things as fluid, as data, as information
• See some things nest like vacant jelly in your hair
• See all things as malleable, mediated, filtered
• See some things date back to
• See all things through a lens of strstr
• See some things on your way along the bandwidth
• See all things as larger than yourself
• See some things as smaller
• See it
• See this here
• See it now?
• See through a lense of strstr how all things in this world grep
• I moved through a space of color and depth
• I moved through and bent in my moving
• Wormholes
• I moved through the expression of hands on zither scraping, like a robot
• I moved through all human expression
• I moved along
• The police
• I moved through learning to swim moods as well
• I moved through all the phases of all the things I saw
• I moved to Virginia
• I moved to Ohio
• The President rimming Israel
• See how this foul hole lowers itself to me?
• See how I move through Lebanon, as all things are fluid
• Especially blood
• See how I move among volume like a hole
• See how I move among volume like a hole
• See how I move among volume like a hole

Kitty poo is stepped into, stepped into
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/
drawing lifesize walls on the walls, without
the holes. I wear my own clothes, smell

of myself while walking through walls, smile
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/
as I tip my palms across a Floridean
peninsula, spilling lucky rain. We’ve left them

the run of the house for days, fist-sized
black jettison, and Robert Smithson has yet
to even notice. The son of a Cure lead singer:
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/

he wonders what weave his bones would have
had he been born somewhere and to someone else.
We really do believe in these ghosts of our fathers,
and we really do sleep with our closets shut tight

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The air-conditioners bob on cushion’d water
sleeping along cats that want out. Puck
cries to the window above, expecting an answer,

expecting the pane to slide down and humidity
to dim the tidiness of this diligent cave.
No more confidence than is absolutely neccessary:

Suns heat the skin, the skin heats the soul, the soul
can’t be broken on such thin ice. Stabs.
That window’s open all the time.

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