Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

All trees are is whispers
from the earth. Today’s sun
can be yesterday’s sun
if you don’t wake up.

He feels a little queesy
weaving eros into the blankets.
It’s best to simply accept
what you can’t control

because the language I use
was left out in the sun
and carried off by animals
who won’t starve, now. How

came you by these convolved turns
of phrase? Most of the things
she’d like to think of as art
are fucking by proxy. In early Spring

potential tensions alleviate themselves
by developing awkward gaits.
I’ll stand at your front door all day
ringing your bell

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