Postmodern Poetry – Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Attempted angel with cardboard wings, she said,
but the snow was too brittle, when I tried to fly
was left felt like writhing on your cold floor
alone in the distance. I was running up and down
halls shouting something at the tip of my tongue
peripheral and angular and gratuitous and vulgar
so you just kept spinning on my cold floor for
I forget. Which. But I don’t think memory
when blue stars so ice and ephemeral pant
the walls with streaks of telegraphic speech
goddammit, is my hair thinning? Not so hard,
I’d just put those soft spots in fullness to bed
and was murmured amongst silky lists by
how god did those cartwheels, and left so traces.

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