From The Window Of A Junked Paddle Boat Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am calling again casting the paper-snow
Flakes of my show,
That easy death my grandmother applauded some years
Before she herself died;
I’m doing this like a shell-fish without his shell,
A shoeless baseball player, which is my thing:
The lips of the hurricane are drooling even so far
As this place in Arizona,
And I have my heart out again of its fleshy pocket,
Trying not to dispel the nervous things which are
True, the coy in the lake of a bicycle’s tear-
Trying to fool you into believing that I would kill myself
From the window of a junked paddle boat,
Tossing myself into a feral mouth, leonine or crocodilian
To the applause of the remote control tourism,
For only a second of your eyes- To turn you away from
His fleshy gymnastics by my esoteric poses,
Even the failing of my things I collected for you by the dozen,
To watch them losing color outside the fire of your senses,
To see here for an instant the uncanny inebriation of
My vermilion truancies- How I dance for you, jobless,
Only wanting you, and then to run away to someplace mundane
But sacred, to feel your absence in the sun, the isolation
Life gives like getting drunk in the darkest room until
It burns with all the simulacrum of a beautiful cemetery your
Consciousness doesn’t have be anywhere around to be enjoyed.