Jill Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I want to die: I want to die by the useless cause,
The ceaseless cause;
I want to be Mark Twain and set sail,
But I’ll say anything to take over this planet,
To swim in your innocuous pools,
To look beautiful to you in one ways or another’s.
I want to be more to you’s than you’s brothers,
While the poets sleep like the erections of
Dissatisfied mountaineers forced down in the despotic
Weathers of discordant storms:
I want to wreath myself in your arms, and wake
Up as something professional,
And charmed:
I want to swat your backside funny, make it rosy
And run it’s honey,
And then alert with you to our Chanticleer alarms,
The fact that I love you,
But I have no arms:
I am a Blackman in his sack, the bushman who got
Whacked,
And Jack who jumped too low,
And who got so burned by that candle stick, oh,
He never came back,
But forever when you thought of him, he imprinted
On your brain’s chin,
So that he became the most chivalrous zoetrope,
The dun honey of your crepuscule with weird tattoos
On his back:
I want to be that Jack.
So what do you think of that?