The Opulent Playgrounds On The Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Prayer flags in the tassels and salvos of bad weather:
And I am the only one in my family that got up high enough to
Ever have to believe in them:
Summating the green summit with the yellow background
Woebegone,
And somewhere way down there a sommelier selling wine
And nursing her just born child:
And then all of the night alone in the hotel masturbating as
Succulent as honey with scars on my face,
And the cars telling the hours on the road outside:
While all through them I just kept doing this, keeping some
According to myself, and trying to start a fire with the singular
Vibrations of whatever familiar friction that I knew:
While Alma had crossed the frontera and settled down,
Pregnant with Michael, herself safe and warm in the world,
Her soul surrounded by a wilderness of family that swore to
Protect her as the wolves smiled at her naked trees;
Until finally I climbed down from the forbidden heavens, recognizing
Her- tired off peeping in at the nubile stewardesses behind their
Flighty transoms always on the move:
And I loved her, and called her up my throat like blood from a
Yet vanquishing wound: and maybe she answered and swam to me
For a little while, but gave up- her immaculate body so tired and brown:
But she loved me anyways, I guess- back in the old neighborhood
That she called me to- and played with me and bought me things
Until I was finally a fireman hung outside, exhausted,
Letting the kitten climb up its exasperating trees as it tried once more
To suck the wonderful paps of the opulent playgrounds on the moon.