The Ugly Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This soul is ugly- but it is my muse, lost in
A church where the rafters are burning-
And water snakes and eels are in
Her grotto,
Junked by stolen bicycles, while I kept nodding off
And robbing things,
Pretending that this was something excellent,
Like a Navajo that I once drove across the reservation,
Celibate for life,
Drinking from the checks of her tits- the ships
Turned to stone all around him-
Somehow believing that they would take him to see his mother.