Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Your favorite frustration, she’s just human
learn to ride those TV heats you got old
under an emoticon’s implied irony; we had
a white Christmas after all, half a gram ridge

Long-haired and sweaty with a growl; someday
I’m just gonna fall over here in this alley
with impacted autoshops refracted in the puddles;
Sure, I’ll die for you; I’ll probably not have made it

to the store, and’ll be pawed by cops, until
you know, I truly have nothing that is mine at all
am just human, like the ones you see on TV,
screaming “Click Here! How did you get to be

so god damned lovely, all the way over there?”
Once someone wise told me I deserved to be hurt
so I started grabbing everything I could, stuffing
There was a pain and it was sex; I fit her in

Filled you with my shape, and it burned; flash
of ozone nosegays bristling in the surf—that’s
dazzling, moonbeam, I just need to lay down
a little bit under the tongue murders you so pleasur’d

Look at me, teacher; you’ll sleep like the dead
Rotting fruit squinting back at you as you push
your way past me and into the shallow street–
some cats when you touch them right will wrap

themselves dug deeply fang’d prickling around
your wrist, and hold there sighing—I know,
the sway of you adjunct to night air, night quiet,
I catch the stars on my tongue and learn what music

means—I’m always kneeling anyway, some density
in purities at this tempo leave you blurry when
Slow down, baby, when you’re looking my way

O Papa Legba, I sat in silence so long
at this fork in the river now I’ve forgotten
how speaking goes and the gestures we gave
those most secret of interludes aren’t tuned
properly in this climate aim at the cacti
the green lethal elixir hummingbirds churn
with the Lake lapping at our heels like a catechism
She’s just humanely knitting some daily thing
“Dead by dawn!” the mailman chirps
I bend down among the reeds and pull cotton burrs
through my smug stigmata It’s the only way I can
make her laugh There was a wind advisory
in effect this morning I play with my hair
This revelation made all the party goers sad
I’m ecstatic to be of service to the natural order
of things really hit the fan I’m thinking about smashing
her cell phone into the wall Later you made Russian
tea cakes out of sweat and swollen jellies from a dew
between your legs, so having forgotten how to speak
ain’t that bad, considering, I mean the food’s okay
vaginas are like starfish In the right light they
catch the tongue on a fugue a glutton for fudge
The skin of the mango on the pulp of the kiwi
ripples and you think about the waves the restlessness
of the Lake tapping all of us on the shoulder
trying to get directions, is that what you like?
Dressing on the side, the surprised smile of the newly dead?

You just want someone to tell you that it’s okay to hurt yourself, huh?
You want to be run through with slow riots of stars.

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