Ejaculations On The Green Carpet Of A Thirteen Year Old Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I thought to hang out with you today,
Angel of clichéd genitals; I thought to become a basketball
Star of my high school, and take you out to lunch
To sashay beneath the epileptic streetlights and the protuberance of sun:
Here, I’ve written things up and down my skin never
Knowing certainly what the next word will be, but that is yours:
My skin and all its scars are your prayer flag, this tattooed patriotism
Sending young men off to war; clammy thoughts come to you like toy soldiers, dripping zinc
With their bayonets and wounds: Fix them!

There is nothing perfect in this scheme, nothing mathematical,
And when I nock on your inner-city door they say you’ve gone off
To pursue a dream: In college you knock on wood, you
Exercise, and underneath the somber rays you run until the
Maples display in their deciduous strip shows, chorus lines of
Hard working cherry and dog-wood.
Now all these things I’ve put into a bottle and skipped it on the waves,
And tonight I will fold it up into an airplane and send it off the cliffs,
And over so many insouciant graveyards you will never know
The generations, how the scientists said today that comets scattered
Diamonds so that women would start wearing fur coats:

This you will never know: every word that has come to me bubbling
Up like oil in my entrepreneur fields I’ve pumped,
Silky ejaculations on the green carpet of a thirteen year old:
I put back the scars,
And lay my son across you like a beam, so you might go to and fro,
Showing off your legs, competing in roller derbies, cutting out snowflakes, changing very little
From decades even while whole conglomerates fall, sickles and bears
In a red field. And this is the third stanza of my most recent fit: Since
Christmas I’ve started a novel; I am waiting to hear from a literary agent,
And if I learn to fly it will because you gave me such a current,
And the insouciant tug I get off this vicarious breast-feeding;
And if I must fail, then please forget to give me your fire in a horn of tin
Aslant on the grave, but stay warm inside and kiss the columns of his more
Journalistic neck, and wait for the storm to pass, and then proceed
Into the newest story of your next beautiful day.