Like Nothing That Was Even Ever Supposed To Be Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Grey headed and nothing more like a
Teddy bear,
I have never fought fires;
I just don’t care to look out for cinders that
Haven’t yet changed their substance to the cooler
As of dead relations,
But I’ll slide down the pole just the same
For Christmas;
I am never a sincere greeting card- I am the
Ruined stained glass you might use to feed a curious
Ball of coral snakes,
If there was ever such a ball;
I hide in my polyester blanket good for starting fires
And swig my glass;
I half perceive novels under this kind of ingendered
Overpass-
My mother pays the bills and watches movies as
I jack off verbally,
Orally: I want to kiss the lips of a butterfly
And experience with it the changing rooms of humid forests;
I want to be fine for a little while,
Within reason,
And then I want to die, become the paper falling from the
Rooms of a beautiful girl’s boredom,
From Sharon’s room, I think;
I want to float all the way past her beating continents,
While her little daughter suckles and gurgles like
A tourist,
Finishing off all of it, this muse that spumes like a natural
Monument;
And I fall across and into her shadow without reason,
Like nothing that was ever even supposed to be real.