The Self Refusals Yet Easy To Rhyme Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I feel guilty for my liquor, or my love-
I have no faith in the monster making friends above,
Turning out the ilk of psalms, the pasty solicitations,
Thrumming the heart of palms:
I watch her pullulating from the vast pool recessed in
Lazy shadows,
The white man is mothballed, the Mexican still battles:
My chest is scarred by myth and masticating beetles:
They made love vast and hard in the self-motivating
Maw of a hurricane:
And this is what I used to do, but crawl up over the rented
Shingles, place tiny bits of paper against her jaw so
That I might look out over the leaf-flooded pool
At the downed power lines, and the entrepreneurial destruction
Over the vast forest of American enterprise:
It looked so beautiful, the supermarkets glossed over the quieted
Buck of her thighs, so that I might be well-sated,
Fulfilled by syrup and dollar bills, learned to love the quieted
Displacement of rosy seashells- Learned to love restively
Backed up against the drowned shoals of the highest tide:
She is well-engaged, and I am placed inside the imagination
Of a touted brook:
The last line is stolen, or it is misplaced, the hieroglyphs
Misspoken, my love erased:
The vast gulf of palmettos, the truncated strides in the armpits
Of cypress, the fresh-water otter cracks open the song,
The house wives are rented, and the canoe floats over the
Shelter of dead-men or the vulnerable homes of fresh water
Terrapin, like the ink blots of meta-fiction,
The last choreographies gilded like goldfish in a middle-class
Pool yet refusing to rhyme.