Robert Rorabeck Poems

The body really flexes its muscle; I really flexes it enough:
And he got to you really early didn’t he, Alma,
My love,
Even while the airplanes in their pretty bodices touch down on my
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I want to kill myself because I am even now in the penumbra’s
Cage fits:
I want to kill myself because I am even now too far into the
Inevitable fight of the reasoning to the very
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And the bodies are going to feel so real;
And the bodies are going to feel so real and come for me
In the gypsum bong fests,
That nothing else can very well be survived,
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Now they have friends here in the park,
After the footprints have left and the lake is quiet and full
Of manmade secrets;
And maybe there were no promises or rainbows here
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Turning down the road and dousing the
Lights of cul-de-sacs,
And I have run away and so no longer have need for
Any stanzas:
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There are maggots in the stars, and underneath those
Filthy heavens I have been jogging again:
And the sea lights out like an infinite drawer of unruly knives;
And they seem to be trying to kiss the brows of the
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Every night I have to reintroduce myself again to
The somber dreams of unicorns traveling on their infinite quests;
And like your love, Alma, they aren’t even real, but they
Will go down forever even while the castles disappear;
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At my uncle’s fruit market
I told you your eyes were so dark and beautiful;
And you said that my eyes were also dark and beautiful,
And then I bagged for you for the rest of the afternoon,
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Words underneath the palate of a grave,
Crawling like worms, even while there is nothing left
Upon the bones to save;
And quietly the river dreams even through its most
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Somnambulence of dreams, of desperados in the Sahara
Mouthing off again,
And riding busses that appear to be close, but who are miles
And miles away;
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