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

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