The New Precambrian Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I make good practices at anonymity,
In fact I have succeeded, for there is nothing
More important than to be the unthought of
Spittle on the lip of immortality;
If I should put out my hand, she should not
Come for she is already married,
And quite bored by my undeadly sports,
And so I go down the easement to the canal
Which is allegorical for the border of death,
And I look at the alligators soporific membranes,
And wonder if he will take me across,
Or eat me on the way: The better part of
The world is underwater, and maybe she loves
Me unconsciously, pitying the scarred imperfection
Of my artistic visage, and I should write all of this
Down before-noon, and let the penultimate desire
Crash, begin to ponder the simple sports of food
And sex, and there she goes running in shorts,
And I will go down to the valley and rent a video-game,
Something to put my fingers on, an experiment
In the old illusion of movement and stillness.
I know I should not put down another word,
Because it will not make me a dime, or catch her breath,
But I do,
And I do again.... And the alligator awaits the new
Precambrian, as it eyes do not blink,
Even as my eyes close.