Blue Omen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’m going to kick his ass,
The blue general with the feathered hat;
The bootlegger who keeps you in his silk tent,
Like a giant cocoon on the green prairie,
A stash of alcohol with all those lips and legs,
The new campaign over spilling Manifest Destiny;
Because your c*nt makes me woozy.
Never mind the crown of diabolical Indians
Thorning this vermilion canyon;
And the imported swans bloated in the river’s urine:
They will find us in their time,
And line their satchels with our eastern skulls,
And say we are now the new fetishes
For then there will be no telling us apart,
What was yours now is mine once was his.
Even now they are slinking amidst the fluted reeds
To where the willows bow, like giant ants,
The segmented torso and sunlight, the hybrids
Of men and wild horses and the spotless sunlight:
This is the novel territory we meant to invade,
Though halfway to the ocean is nowhere at all;
The Spanish ghosts are even now spilling from the dunes,
Their ancient rusting heads trapped shut and echoing:
A line of festering insects pontiffied and crossed,
The claustrophobic dolls and neurotic tortoises.
Will I find you there if there is still time,
Nude and bathing in his luxurious decanters:
Filigreed by all the stolen opulence, a transient gem,
An exotic still-life, like the ones half buried in invaded museums:
You legs the knobby trunks for my arachnidan fingers to saunter:
You lips the bulbous muscles of nectared aphrodisia,
The clever metamorphosis we could give our souls,
Before the savage war cry rents the breathing walls,
And tears our organs into meals:
Too late we have learned to fly, an apparent metamorphosis
Of coital enjambment hazardly punctuated with his blue ostrich
Feather perched like an hilarious omen at the foot of the bloody bed.