The Ceiling Fans In The Air Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Everything looks alive on the other side of the canal:
Little boys, you are justified straight into kings;
And I cannot speak, for sometimes I am dazzled by
The pornographies that are right here,
Burning like pages of fire in unmarked cars under the
Sugar pines;
Or maybe I left this in my life right after I learned to
Speak:
I spat on the conquistador’s brow and marched straight off,
Under the usual arcs of the airplanes and the strange
Monuments of unhampered cenotaphs in the sky:
And maybe it was that my estranged enemies felt good
At my abandonment,
But most certainly my abandoned dogs still love me,
Even while I look away, called by the powerful kindlings of
Alma’s flesh;
I am not even good for nothing, but she comes to me, breathing
Like the only fire left on the earth,
And the good knowledge that
Satan gave us, even as the sky felled like the waterfalls of beautiful
Incests;
And maybe we will touch our bodies against our posts tomorrow,
For she is so wild and pure, and yet she knows almost as many
Words as I do in English,
Calling together like all the gold in a flea market,
Like all of the hummingbirds enraptured by the ceiling fans in the air.