The Sweetest Amusement Of No-Talent Gravestones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Back in the embers,
The flowers are smoldering in their
Tins and lunch boxes:
The little girls are scalding, like a prepubescent
Disaster in a fairytale, hot coals populate
The slope of wilder fires,
What hasn’t budded crinkles beforehand
And all of this is a mess. I can’t go for
Walks anymore.
She’s so far away, it is true: Look at her
Kissing in long weekends of
Her professors: This is what I am doing,
Trying to prove myself when
I have no legs:
I live and perform in a sack and it doesn’t matter that
God is snow blind in his breathy neighborhoods
Of his highest tresses-
I can’t sell my poetry, and I’m too far inland
To invest in fresh fruit,
But somewhere the palm trees are swaying;
They sound like all the same things I couldn’t
Say,
Women with their friends and fierce dragons,
Fingertips and lips of ashes- They look good
And powerful and have received offers on their
Sweet houses the sea is reclaiming anyways:
Naked women in junked cars invisible pockets full
Of cash and diamonds;
And this is another hangover for the weekend,
Getting down on one knee and proposing the natural
Empiricisms washing over her tender negligence;
It doesn’t matter, in the morning all will be introduced
To invulnerable pumice,
With elegant walkways and parking attendants making
Fifteen percent on the evangelical tourisms who
Now abound in the old neighborhoods which happened
About that which was our sweet high school
Before the pornographic eruption graduated all that we
Knew into the sweetest amusement of no-talent gravestones.