Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

The air becomes difficult to move through.

Coughing sweats out marijuana and amphetamines heightened like a cat’s skin impulsive and propuls’d or lonely like a car pulling up in front of the house flattening talc birds. Everyone’s walking the weather crumpling shadows of full-bloom’d leaves strewn on C street. There is also space as that architect’s empathy thaw’d the rawness in the throat or lovely like a car stepping out from its driver as becoming sanguinely precipitation.

The shadows of leaves are like a cellophane. Everyone’s pulling over their own eyes the seizures amounting to toll.

Something everyone wanted to tell you is: let me be kind to you let me a rain aim’d across the intersection. Let tens curl rust like lifting quadratic tarps. Feline impulses received among sore nodes thicken the difficult to move through whole shoulders of fields of orchids of water. Everyone’s inflated taste buds.

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