Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

When I can hear the birds cars growling down
C street and Florida Avenue tiny high-pass
lengths of rhythm walking melodic lemon
naming kills some of us in some small way
but small ways walk us upright man in a white
wifebeater slicing edges of his lawn trickles
down the curb cigarette balanced in his pinched
mouth spitting out white wives of noise whole
loaves fat with sunshine I can hear the birds
pick at them

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