Mass Produced Souls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Making sex with her will be
Like Disney World,
But she is only a parcel of it all:
The juxtaposition life gives for a 1
Up, getting it done, getting it done,
Getting it done:
The math is solved:
I can have sex with anyone,
As long as her name is her,
Then the life will spread out of her
Legs like a painful garden,
A rock garden full of cactus and ruminids:
The dusk under the canal is swirling,
But I am not allowed to play with him anymore,
Maybe because they think I am a homosexual:
I am not, though I have seen his dong rise
Like an early cock, only because we
Were playing make-believe games of her,
Catching up with her in the waterslide,
And having fun with her virginity until they
Realize I am an under-aged genius,
Destined to be alone in my salinity,
But there are quite a few better men than me,
Shucking it in the army of the blonde-banged
General, getting killed by primitive arrows,
And scat on by Indians who will soon be preserved
In the still-life of narcoleptic parks:
The day goes easy, even though it seems hard,
Because in democracy, anyone can be a pirate,
And all the faces are equal, no matter how
Ugly or domestically situated;
And, undoubtedly, this is not the poem which
Will make me famous, or I will be remembered for,
For that thought is even now scrambling up the high altitude
Cliffs, afraid of darkness and storm clouds,
But I just realized it doesn’t matter now,
For the time will come before my name is indentured in
The drying cement: Given all eternity,
A poet will arise with my first and Christian name,
Robert Rorabeck,
Either here or in Canada, where my name seems to proliferate,
As the ice continents melt, as the democrats reciprocate,
As the republicans refuse:
Who cares about either of them,
This is my name, as she is the muse of my preservation:
Come to me now in my easy basement,
And recognize my salient genius, and take me
As I am, procreate my genius, so that there
Might be little feet pattering about our rooms:
Not mice, or ghosts, but the harbingers of our
Mass produced souls.