Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

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

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