Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

This blue thunder and its
agonizing tributaries forks
before me when i
smoke my way home
Predictably it rains nasal stitches
on mary’s red umbrella
until I walk into a sign that says
no outlet
I wonder where
the ends of lines go
I didn’t mean to hurt anybody
Laughing the other
side of my nose
to garbage piled behind some
houses i see and of sudden
torrents land slowly easy
pouring down