Hell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now real in a crooked harem of any sport,
Michelle, because my two good muses are dead:
Give me you and rum and five empty champers,
Give me immortality halfway through high school
In Catholic church with some cypress showing knee:
Do you care that I have gone,
Or that I was only beautiful for maybe a week,
And when I skipped, and when I sighed with my erection
I blew green smoke, and I stole condiments
And thought the sky was really something underneath the
Lunch room where I first came and then ran away underneath
The school bus with that f%cked up terrapin;
And the alligators ranged, and you swung a good backhand and
Performed on the sweet timber boards,
And laid down for the Chinese dragon of any men crooked
Enough to find available;
And I tried out for track for Erin, and was lapped by the
Proverbial black man; and I didn’t care, and spent
The rest of the summer in Arizona watching a house I also
Didn’t care about rising up- Blue monoliths that never
Existed giving me erections which were temporary,
But always tremulous and refurbished in budding;
And then summer again, and oh well, graduation,
But you were a year before me, and your little dog is sick;
And I have obviously given up if tonight you are my muse,
Or I am in Hell.