Bouguets Of Liqour, Bouquets Of Lips Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As this liquor begins to cool,
I first pee and then will
Ejaculate in the tall grasses where
The bizarre snow has been accumulating:
Pretty soon,
I will be selling fireworks with the real descendants
Of a trick rider,
And there will be whisky,
And maybe a few high velocity bullets,
On highway 66 where I cried your name
As the competition fired mortars into me,
But I didn’t care,
As I try to figure myself out,
And where you are, and how you might be called,
Especially who you love,
And the anonymous hillocks and mountains
I named after you, as if you gave a damn:
Who do you love,
And if that love is real, make a paper airplane
Out of it and toss it across the canal,
For soon there will be a fire all over here,
And nothing can be saved, Even though there are still graduates,
And strange declarations leapfrogging across
The celibate rivers,
And the wishing wells, the lucid estuaries
Of our childhood high school-
I am only pretending to be drunk, Erin-
But I am every bit the lost child of the gold spined
Story books, and if you are a good women,
With the fermented yeasts stirring beside the breasts
Of mothering cows, do not forgive me,
Unless you dare to believe what I say is wholesome,
And your breasts are the fulfilled dewdrops of the
Pasture outside your home.
There is no secrets to this flawed text:
Every word is for you, dearly longing,
And though I may have to look at unfamiliar women
Tonight in order for me to exacerbate my need to seed the
Earth, and thus nod to sleep in chainsawing snores,
You know every word of every imperfect line
Has been for you, Erin.... If you love me or not,
Inside my little books, I keep on scribbling you
A library which will one day disappear,
Though I am no killer, and have nothing useful to say,
Though everything has been lucid, especially your brown eyes,
And if you feel the need to forget me, do so,
Because I am not pretty,
But I will be around,
And even though tonight I will look at other women
Before I become exhausted, remember you are the only one,
And my hand on my flesh is only for you,
Wishing it was your flesh spoken in warm spittle,
And the engorged strangenesses of your bouquets,
And me saying the pledge of allegiance is for you,
And the flag swaying in your hips,
Which is all, if you gave a damn, surfing in the enunciations
Of your poor but perfect heaven,
In the cypresses and gaudy pastures of
Her uncertain amnesias.