Robert Rorabeck Poems

Accumulating in the wretchedness of their petrifaction,
Stoned in Riga mortis: how will these corpses now enjoy the vacantly
Pleasurable shelters of the structures they deserved
To hold mortgages on: while all of the fireworks shout like
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Drowning in this life underneath the overpasses:
The working girls smelling like marbled steak and marbles:
Her hands like pigeon’s feathers, dirty with fealty:
How will she answer to my mouthing wonder for her duel pregnancies:
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At the moment of existence, drunkenness- and all of the lights
Bleeding away,
Queasily, like in an office of newborns and coral snakes:
And then I get into her car- Alma’s car- and I see the child seat
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Prayer flags in the tassels and salvos of bad weather:
And I am the only one in my family that got up high enough to
Ever have to believe in them:
Summating the green summit with the yellow background
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Dying this way- dying, as the leaves on trees in autumn
Know no more summits: getting jobs at fast food
Franchises,
Forgetting the names of the fraternities of old gods,
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Building up in cornpone fountains:
Building up right here, where the fairies fountain:
And right here, where the rhymes crown themselves, speaking
For themselves,
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And now this all is a tongue who’s just been starving:
And anyways I don’t care;
While if the whales had much less bellies, they would be leaping:
Like mailman at their rare and common song,
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Building up in cornpone fountains:
Building up right here, where the fairies fountain:
And right here, where the rhymes crown themselves, speaking
For themselves,
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Inebriate in the thralls and resting everywhere:
Going over this, like blue birds passing to nest somewhere
Into the unisons of well lit living rooms with
Entire families commingling there; or what it is that they seem
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Nourishing the void of sweet, sweet hobos:
The rimy bliss down by the crocodiles- overusing the
Feral, speechless steps:
And passing the bottle, ringing in the candle lights
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