Robert Rorabeck Poems

Birthed from the soul of some suicidal great
Grandfather, whose own sire was shot in the mouth
Over the civil war:
So I do these things: teach in a diminutive room
...

Stone thrown from the hands of the outbound
Night—and now where are all of my old students—
I do not know what they are doing,
But I like to wish that they sleep—
...

Arriving reasonless in the center of
The country—
It feels like a washed out fairy tale now
That the girls I will not love
...

It is wearing
Off—this supreme vision,
The heaven of your pornography:
Everything I ever wanted,
...

And then in the rainbow's excretions- -
The metamorphosis of another hero.
Go and see where he is going—
Probably to wrestle some primordial alligator
...

Stone thrown from the hands of the outbound
Night—and now where are all of my old students—
I do not know what they are doing,
But I like to wish that they sleep—
...

Eras of soldiers lining the highways like billboards—
Beautiful delusions in their gears of playgrounds.
And I amidst the tourists of cars—
Waiting for my wife to give birth to our
...

Up where they are singing,
It will be getting later in the valley—
The angels will be outside,
Shampooing—my wife will still be in the
...

Now while my shoulders were at play,
Bending towards gay children and dolls united—
While the fox and the p&ssy cat were sniffing
Towards golden coins planted in the sands,
...

It still happens to rain like this,
Into the avenues that forecasted ablutions—
Even while the pale, blue pilgrims were
Yet echoing to the swing-sets of the wishing wells—
...