Redneck Bo-Jingle Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rednecks Bo jingle for rusted stars:
They come in for work: I wont give them any.
Black men come in and buy Christmas trees for
One hundred dollars. They are out and about and
Smiling, and I tell them goodnight and think of their
Perfect skin made from the sweltering savannahs
Of the unabashed kiln: I suppose I’ve loved them and
How they go, picking sad flowers along the insouciant
Highway, even as the mercuries of helicopters of
Hatters of asteroid belt cops search them out:
I don’t look right, and I don’t look them right in the eye:
Ten percent of me is racist, but it is a good portion of
The good half, yet still un homogenized and getting filthy
Rich. Brian has a pin and needle tattoo of a hefty cross
On his left bicep: Or my vision mirrors like a princess:
Her legs skipped parallel beneath the bare-chested reservoir
Of thirsty water moccasins as she ran to the oasis of
Presocratic mythologies: I love her since we rolled together
On the wooly sherbet carpet of preschool, or looked her in
The pastel eyes of sorrow, but we’ll get back to that,
For now I am warm and all right and typing in an RV as the
Traffic streams up and down 441. Today someone robbed
A sub shop and cops on steroids searched the bushes, the
Canal, and the Florida holy, or in that order: I wrote a poem
At 4 am, and this is my second poem tonight. At the library
I read an insouciant book, or it read me, as I repeated that word because it
Is one of the few big ones I remember, and checked to see if
The literary agent has responded. They have not, and I take that
As a good sign. The world is rocking as Pedro jacks off to one of the
Many vermilion honeys, mostly Catholic who came in all busty
Today and as randy as baseball players swinging mahogany sticks
Up in the red anthill of their mounds: I have things for them too,
And video games and a wishing-well, and this is a poem that
Has forgotten all there is to know about unicorns,
Which is the beauty of the girls with angelic bone structures from
High school now all trapped in a shallowness of a fading sea,
Kept not so far away at all; and in those shoals
Urchins mauve and ready, the palm’s stigmata, revealing a
Tourniquet as religious as a pomegranates’ blood, as rich
As a glass of fruit juice she pours for me
Next to the patio in a mote of feature less sunlight
As the Mexicans cut the grass up and down in
Perfect rows.