For A Birthday Of The Gods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will live for a while
A skeleton with rum in my gut—
With thoughts
At the bottom of the sea—
An orchestra so far away from
The wreck of the Titan as to go utterly
Unnoticed—
Just the bare bones down in the waterlogged
Trenches without any other metamorphosis:
With old girlfriends up upon the mellifluous
Stage, singing their hearts
Out to kings and their reindeer:
And when they get out, a gentled thunder shower—
But, anyways, I do not have to die for my young art—
Because what I write isn't good enough anyways—
And I don't love with white girls, anyways—
And if my muse was venal, at least she was Mexican—
And I stole the virginity of my thirty-one year old
Wife if that is at all possible,
As the heavens pretend to cut the sky like a knife
For a birthday of the gods who do not even believe in
Themselves anymore.