The Discolored Neighborhoods Of Our Anyways Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Truckstop of dis- conjoined senses:
Wishing you were here, anyway, while the automobiles
Procede,
While I am wondering if you have ever seen anything
As beautiful,
As I touch myself, and then the billfolds fold just
Like snowflakes at the rattlesnake’s tit:
While here I am anyways, as the sun enjoys:
Yes, it does, secrets of its success and
Weight lessons: the old
Highschool looks just about the same as your
Old bedroom while all of this time you
Were kissing the persimmons of your young
Princess:
Well here she is: she is, while the balloons inflate
Over all of the old zoos and science mazes;
It all just happened as I supposed,
And then there it was: while all of the old arrowheads
Were lost anyways,
Into the armpits of those anonymous signatures:
Even while she was taking notations,
Plagiarizing while all of the old flags rose their
Heads over the discolored neighborhoods of our anyways.