The Skin Eaters Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Skin Eaters



Nothing kills a good western
Like a Hebrew’s ledger:
And the golden palates in the east,
The android cities
Where electric sheep dream,
Upon the shoals of the nimbus wiring:
There is according to the Lord
A high-legged whore
As tall as the tallest buildings in the world,
With commercial airliners circling her breasts.
The 17th floor,
This she uses as a step to raise her dress
And adjust her garter.
To this the Japanese business men
Swarm the windows,
And heavily dubbed burn out flash bulbs.
From the clouds,
The cowboys cull their herds,
And offer her young heifers upon the
Granite slabs their forbearers chiseled for offerings.
In the dust and sweat the sun devils swirl,
The dancehall girls pirouette,
And Mr. Piano Man’s jangles
Spill out into the street with the drunks;
Decorated by the vultures
And the dying man’s humming of Danny
Boy to the saw’s jig of the carpenter’s undertaking.

The ghost riders down their whiskey
A final time
In the shade of their brims,
Then take off running

As the pale blue boys come knocking-
Soon the free range will be fenced in,
And afterwards the wolves are returning-

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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