The Awful Rosaria Of The New Day's Immortal Reveal Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There is nothing left to handle.
People either believe in me or they don’t,
But I wish they’d all stop looking at me in
That old familiar way,
Because its all now almost over,
When I was just beginning to get a handle on
It: Learning how to paint my own mandelas,
Learning how to put independent colors to each
Letter of the alphabet:
Now I have nothing new for them.
Now I am hung-over and out of business and
Sleeping on the concrete besides the insouciant traffic.
I’d almost stopped mooching off my parents.
I’d almost bought a gun,
Or become a multi-scarred god the way the universe spins.
Now, an agent asks for ten pages of my two weekend
Manuscript; but when I look at myself in the mirror
I know it will not do, and she has already turned
Away from me and disavowed her womanly vestiges
Beneath the spread arms of the cross.
She became a bird or something, but f*ck
If she didn’t look good going the way I knew she’d
Always have to go in the end:
Like a beautiful heron or something, a goddess,
And me the drooling idiot looking up into the awful
Rosaria of the new day’s immortal reveal.