The Hurricane's Bedroom Of Nightmares Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Isn't it nice,
To be parcelled to the shadow,
And collected unto the unnanounced crepescule-
And to these tawny corners of poetry
To be bundled,
Gathered into the Medusa-ed neighborhoods
That, bewitched, cannot longer be moved-

Imagine all of the school-ed busses,
Marrionetted towards the sun-
And drie-ed huskes of the mangroves,
Diademed forget-me-knots-
Gourds in the supersternal notches
Hung unto the goddesses' napes-

The blood-hungered wolves nip the albastered
Ankles of-

Haunted by a prison of feathers,
Gladness of heroes strung into a story,
Heroes strewned as a sunny-zone of zeroes,
As sunlight licks the salty lips of waves
In a book of wetted poetry still riding,
yet sunken, highly upon the top most waves-

And there she is, a shouldered angel-
Now in her spell, dishevelles the embers-
Her sisters come out of the knots of willows,
And so copious amongst her-
Wings batting a sorority, distending in
Hyperbolic memory-
Somelliers escaped from high-mountained
Memory,

Galloping, unruly,
Faeries pinwheeling as fireworks from the
permafrost of a hoared grave:

Beautified and lavender-ed-
knotting the necks of the roof-men working the
Roofs of houses, tauny men paid to stall the hurricance's bedroom of nightmares:

and it becomes so easy, medicine of alcohol-
Yet again, the cadavers of millionairs lean-
lean backwards,
Eyes spinning-the good luck of capitalism's
self-propelled slot machines:

See, there she is: an echo, a memory-
A hallway made of the tallest of waves.
The beautified ships dance across,
Passengers upon pretending to make love:

And there she goes, metamorphosis as swift as
An arrow-shape-changer escaping the marriage of Jove-Love her not for a little while-
encapsulate her beauty upon an unmasked hill,
The heroes pillage beneath-

And recall her memory, a peony, so surly-
As she opens, a vineyard-yes, raised hand,
Opening, unabashed, as the high school teacher
Addresses the memory of her class:

And the flights take off, un-nosed bottle rockets
Pinwheeling, sticks tied to hearts of open-boys:
Pulling them out of the sunny-rectified windows:
Making their nudy-noses bleed as they are forced
To lick the open-envelops of the developed and
Just so careening sky.