Blue Collar Schizophrenias Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Blue Collar Schizophrenias

Rating: 0.5


If I could live forever somehow
Rectified as a psalm,
It really wouldn’t matter that all my
Best friends are dogs,
And that my latest complexions scribble worry
On my belly,
The stillbirth of my isolated karmas,
And that my poetic images are really not
Much more than blue collar
Schizophrenias:
I love you, I love you-
Isn’t that what I was supposed to sing,
To pull up next to her and rev these engines,
To put my eyes on the cherry sport of her
Jogging legs:
Her name is Erin, and sometimes there are
Storm clouds in the afternoon,
Which wet the equine bodies between the trees,
And I should have my own house sometime
Soon after July 4th,
Where I will begin to daydream beneath the
Stain-glass alders of a new classroom;
And isn’t that absolutely strange: That I should
Be thirty-one and going back to school
For a Ph.D. in Saint Louis, Missouri; and how long
Should I make it before they call me out,
And smell the cheap liquors on my breath,
And find out that I can barely even spell,
That I might be the real reason for the holocaust;
But these lines aren’t nearly even publishable-
They are the sad infatuations I’ve carried on since
Junior high- They are cheap grape soda the fox
Drinks, plump bellied under the broken school bus-
They are her eyes carving caracoles
Like pulling tricks through the despotic cumulus
Over the thorny heads of the grinning reptiles:
This is my thing, my little sport of lines casting into
The freeway’s river: and her name is Erin,
And this is all about her, even as the traffic crowds
And better faces turn to meet hers: These lines
I remember,
And recite just as one of my ancestors getting off
The boat under the burning torch of
Lady Liberty in New York Harbor- Only but the
Freedom of alliterate; and yet I boastfully remember,
Riding a new bicycle through the distended ghettos
Of the reawakened suburbia,
My chief lines- Her name is Erin,
And I am cheaply drunk, but it is love.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
Close
Error Success