The Moon Or Anything Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So drunk,
I can feel the rattlesnakes slender
Tongue like a pen,
Unwary, licking my palm,
And my stillborn school mates teaching classes
And getting doctorates up in
Saint Louise, well formed;
And tomorrow will be ugly,
Now that baseball is over,
And I’ve had enough liquor for the night.
I just want to masturbate,
But I don’t do drugs:
And the poems are good, but I still cant spell
Bouquet:
There, I just did,
And my muses are both higher in latitude than me,
Though one just so,
And they are so beautiful, like creatures of the gardened
Forest,
They hardly even know; and they will love their
Men venally and sickly unto a ripe old age,
While I continue serenading them from my
Weedy church like a iceberg creeping and biting its
Lip,
Looking at all the tainted fish in this canal,
Trying to figure out how to get to the other side,
To undress her,
And lick her down like ice-cream
Like outlawed taffy,
While still remaining pure,
Like the light of the moon,
Or anything.