Into The Richest Hillsides Of All Of Her Mexicos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Busting a full pageantry of the male peacock;
Until the heavens have such bliss as to become a church:
And then we can think together reasonlessly
Into the highest Pharisees of windmills: that it all exists right here:
And that it has all been keeping its time alone,
Just to recite into the homeopathic lights of doll houses,
That the tiny fingers of lovers are on their way:
And on the move like the hopelessly helpless fires of firecrackers,
Like the thunderpuss of seahorses along the spines of
Young lovers who’ve all had too much caffeine on their birthdays:
And then I go to the dog track with Flaco-
But other than that, I only have one or two bad habits; and neither of
Them have anything left to do with what you believe in:
But my muse is right here, and mulling over the backs of Salt Water
Terrapin like the tafees of waves through the echoes of
High class amusements somewhere not so far off from the candy land of
The light house; but still far away enough to be on the side of
Dangerous, like fish who have somehow evolved the effect of
Touching their gills, and saying to themselves as they swim away,
That this is not enough- until the games lessen and turn surreal; and maybe
Decide not to happen at all, like the first born child on the graveyard shift
Of an airplane- as the muses who just happen to be from Mexico,
Turn their slender brown asses in bed, and look away from the rattlesnakes
Who are so fully sated from kissing and eating the magician’s rabbits,
As to be fearless and tamed- like the mothers of tourists who have all
Eaten the icecreams and sherbets underneath the scissoring switchbacks
Of my insurmountable ranges; and the mountains who don’t ever have
To say my muse’s name; but, unfortunately, never have the
Class to contain themselves- like rain showers in an orgasm of
Practicing school buses who would like to pinafore my Alma with so
Many souls:
Like butterflies matting to the weathers so far entrenched into the richest
Hillsides of all her Mexicos; and so, unfortunately, Alma, rarely if ever
Do….