In The Pulp-Noir Eclipse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In The Pulp-Noir Eclipse



Clouds palaver,
But how should we say it: that
They are having a parade
Over the cliff-dwellings and condos;
Anasazi graffiti:
Isn’t it- I wouldn’t know.
I only went there as a
Tourist- ten or twelve,
Dimes with the heads of
Dead Presidents
For payphones
And valentines etched
In my pockets;
The pretty things that
Never heal,
The left over fireworks
Should we ever sell?
The houses look so pretty all in their rows.
I remember, I used to stomp out their lights.
The housewives look so pretty
Having graduated in liberal arts,
Who went right to the car lot,
Got lit and flashed,
And returned as usual until they were
Satisfied to have gotten their wants:
Newborns all around here,
Lined up to Colorado,
Cooing in cradles or crèches,
Left beneath the cathedral ceilings and
Bay windows,
Where lights like watery rum falling
Somehow as good as forever,
And the everglades landscape the employed
Wingspans of commercial
Airlines;
Like a graveyard
With the lakes its tears:
Each stone propped up extols its silent
Prayers.
They make their movies in the pulp-
Noir eclipse,
Long legged mothers driving home
The goodly impressed school-
Kids;
But I’m a truant around here-
Haven’t you heard me singing this song?
Been sleeping underneath the palmettos,
Just like the rattlesnakes and housecats,
And later on I’ll $crew around in
The neighbor’s garage
To steal and make things, resurrect
Whatever teenage petroglyphs that haven’t
Yet faded;
I don’t understand what they are saying,
But I the only one left so I recon I
Say it,
As the clouds palaver, drink their rum off
The sea and sugarcane,
And then they too carry on.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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