Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

10/16/2007

talking politics–a limb against a spray of crickets–careful to step over the smell of newlymown grass–curving now confusing light with direction under these newborn starz you could be walking unspooling all the abstract signage–elections line elyria ave electrocutions fluencies- the houses rotate–the trees slither over thirds ashy and barred with civil grimoire aerolae–simple gridwork hurts your mouth rotting your mouth out with soap with rain with standard procedure–barbed and spending red fuses–you too were born of dark water–you calmly grit your teeth as another car passes–moonlight trickling across the skin of the black river–lofton henderson bridge dithered with the steel mill wrapping the horizon in an agony of slim lights–the last of john coltrane crying out–slag hills–like your tongue in context your bones bending backward through your fllesh–a bruised flower-something always lingers after the solvents–within a symmetry of landscapes–you smudge to gesso in sound no louder or round than silk–you’re awed by the tectonics of clouds they almost hurt passing–the trees this autumnedawful with ribs or visible breath–but you’re not really equipp’d to handle space without time–watching the dead ones pushed around pavement by wind–while we pass through the gates of hell coming soon untouched–while we grin up at mauve clouds staining traffic unwound on the atmosphere–while we lope across these whiteboarded houses bob at the edges of our eyes uneasy–winds grind talking from the eaves of these white-boarded houses–these whiteboarded houses know nothing–and knowing nothing has killed jazz for the day–the moon which has been known to kill tonight grazes us with the oversaturated colors of 70s photography–this is also the blue on those shocked faces we see in the clear spans along the edge of a wood–the end of broadway to the end of broadway–the silent lone biker

10/26/2007

09/27/2007

It’s when you fall backwards over gestalt the slim mists synth’d at temperatures purring over one another with bad mouths sucking headlights from a chrome. When thursday morning comes cupp’d in her hands with dead eyes a crippled hatchling and we can either weep or stand up. The sheriff’s cross sheffield anxious knotted furling vinyl banners or fruit intuitive peeling enamel amorousness out of the hollow working of your yellow legs through mud. There’ll be enough light. Enough of red fog jostling your sojourn thighs solemn beauty pop b/ushing like diamonds admire din of newly hued lines. It is calm and normal-colored. In the rusting of leaves a gnaw drawing heat from your groin stuffed with linux and this is that strain of lurking. You’re sitting indianstyle in an abandon’d doorway in sheffield centre and you’re minding your own business and you’re falling through thoroughly sifted these traps in yourself looking on. It’s a wall of trees as far as the eye can see. You love all this open space but that could be a liability. Cars roundly missing the field. Right now trees are only brushed with those colors. And still the moon sways over initiate limbs. You cross the street gazing tranquil around you. You come to where the street ends in a slippery dark. Snapping the pda shut echoes back from the houses. You almost walk into a mailbox. Tgif thank god i’m forgiven. You watch your favorite cat fall asleep forever. He spent his entire life here as the first injection glazes his eyes the next is in the vein spreading disappearence leaving you here to dig that hole. That hole in your hours through which howl the failures the scarred and happy women glazing your eyes over with the sweat of sugar. If you put a hood on you’ll warm as october pinches the earth into rain and almost ice and she calls you almost ice and you tell her to put a hood on it’s cold in these woods when background and foreground pass each other on lincoln blvd. You’ve whipped yourself for lesser gods at streetlights antiqu’d yellow lawless but illuminated with this hard sure candy in your veins glossing citrus and then glossing construction orange on these streets after mists after showers whittled all light thick or grinning profusely humorous. But at the shiloh missionary baptist church but at one o’clock in the morning. These streets are also tunnels and also the color of to want. Empty houses throw their windows onto bare walls.

10/14/2007