Cheese Sandwich Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pugnacious wit of the settlers’ blood
Eventually paved America:
Discovered Wal-M*art, invented presidents,
And cold turkey with mint jelly;
All the glassy men have fallen in battle;
Broken jawed,
Even the brightest were scalped by/for the prime minister’s
Male pattern baldness,
And I stand now below my major professor,
Blow him a tuna kiss from my ass;
Out of Chaucer’s trumpet, erupting not unlike Dante’s Inferno,
Notice he has a photo of himself and Bobby Bowden,
Signed in the red bricks of Doak Cambell Stadium.
My pillow- on the 50 yrd. line with a box of wine.
If I was a better poet, my IQ would summit Everest,
And I would experiment with Verlaine
In the Montemarte district of a bankrupt airplane:
Punch my wife in the belly, and cut off my ear
For the stewardess with the saline park bench;
In this time of year, the wolves are hungry;
They’ve only had a cheese sandwich for lunch,
And the foals are crying like horny virgins all across the
Windswept valleys;
It is fifteen years too late to meet Rimbaud,
And Baudelaire is too busy hang-gliding upon the
Glued clitoris of my infantine high school’s ferny courtyard;
The novel incumbents are grinning for photographs as they
Release the hybrid wolves into the gated community
Of affluent used car sales men and failed Olympic gymnasts;
And now I am out of time, for though these words are free,
They are part of a curse, and, like everything else I sneeze,
Will turn back to pumpkins and rats,
As soon as the clock strikes midnight, the skeleton drinks
His wine, and Dorothy pulls back the curtain on the emerald humbug.