Henry David Thoreau Whistles At The Girl In Blue Jeans! Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I really want to touch
The cliché of your golden ransom:
Oh yeah, hemlock,
Also other pain killers like-
Shark’s teeth like little good luck charms
On the wingspan of airplanes-
Cereal prizes;
And really want to camouflage in your
Requiem:
The forensic panorama of your lips-ticked
Bite-marks….
I want to become the one trick pony who
Catches your eye,
Who leads you all around, roaming,
Strutting stiff in your wood-chip stables,
All blue and silver and twined up nice,
A pugilist just as handsome as pain on
Ice-
Out on the badland roam of thirsty illusion:
I want to have a wedding with you in
A funeral parlor,
I want to roller-skate with your hand in hand
Like thornless cereus,
Budding foreplay attracts thirsty hummingbirds -
I want to lip-sink, hair-lipped to your punk-
Rock:
I want to have pets with you, and shower
With you, and use your shampoo-
Hot, steaming enterprise!
And clean you proportionally
To my love- Rub you raw;
And I’ve had a little nip of rum,
And I’m listening to Joan Jett,
And sometimes I think about hanging myself
Looking at myself scarred naked in the backyard
Sun;
It is so impossible, the equation of the apex
Of your blue-jeaned stride!
But the dogs:
But the dogs love me-
They howl when I’ve left;
I’ve gone to the city to fix you pretty:
But it would mean that I’d not try my hand
At another poem-
Have another chance to exquisitely fail,
Not summit another mountain
To name her after you or
Fantasize about another nun,
Or an aunt, my mother doing dog-fights
And tricks: or I’d put my hand in
Your pocket and make your climax for
Loose change
In an aspen grove:
Has anyone every told you that he wanted
You naked in the back of a wild mountain, Erin-
Oh well, that’s all it is, and soon I’ll be moving
Out, and selling fireworks in New Mexico;
All the little tricks who dissapear beautifully
Instead of money;
But I still really want to be Henry David Thoreau
In your woodsy, throbbing
Walden!