The God I Made You In Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Where am I going, now that the god I made you
In is dead: Because, I’ve drunken bourbon and Pedro
Barely snores: The cars are just in séance,
And I’ve been reading my poems; I don’t know
What any of them mean, but I am listening to
Daniel Johnston and, like he says, “I live for
Love, ” and if you’d let me, I would have delivered
A dictionary that bloomed inebriated in full longevity:
I have, but how unrequited it came; and how many
Times have you let him come inside of you, while
I’ve spent myself fruitlessly onto this page:
How many times! That I should no longer care,
But vagabond from Florida, and Colorado, and take-up
In vacated residences of the distending rich, and
Drink all of that forgotten liquor in sad cheer for you:
This is what I’ll do: I’ll steal the trinkets by which
I continuously hope in catching your eyes, but will
Not send you anymore flowers: You are cheap and
Hungry, and I will catch you by that color which
Reflects best underwater and by moonlight; and by
This I’ll come, and love you, and build fun with you,
By either snow, or by sun; and it matters not what sex
You have even now apposed to you: I’ll come,
As I’ve said, but first I’ll go to sleep now into a yard
I do not own, where I certainly do not belong,
And then I’ll come.