Through The Throats Of The Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Womb of cards and brick-a-brack
And all of the shoulder’s happening—
Not in the busied amphitheatre,
But in the little city ensconsced beneath the
Pine trees,
Where I want to return to,
Like some post pubescent rebirth:
My sisters saw you even before
You were alive,
And were forced
To relive you
So many times
While my father was to teach them everything
That they would ever happen
To know,
Until one or two of them would die with
Every happenstance or pleasure,
Pressed like the clouds
To their ever coyote lips,
And while this is—or was happening—we
Sway back again,
Dream and day dream of primary numbers,
Of rainbows that happen in the interludes of
Musicals,
Until nothing else has to exist anymore,
And we don’t have to pray to Jesus anymore
For the safety of our unborn children—
We just have to continue writing these poems
To construct some kind of transcendental door way—
As by the reconstruction of our own mind,
They will infinitely let us into heaven,
And we can color by number the clouds
That happen to drift over our own cradles
On Christmas—
As if it was we, ourselves, who were attending the
Birth of Christ—
And not just hoping to make love to his own
Mother, or misstep her own image for
The sake of our muses—
Anyways, it doesn’t matter—
Our first born was born without incident,
And now we have our foot in the door way—
If we write any more tonight or this morning
We know it is only in hallucination,
For even the doll houses lined up in infinite rows,
Choreographed to correspond with sorority row—do not
Give us the infinite right of entry,
But still we enter,
If just to show our first born’s eyes eyes with to
The chandeliers of the worlds he must have been born from—
While the bats nip at the night
Like the first tastes of the wine glass from blind man—
And we don’t have to settle anymore,
Just with this constant thing we seem to be displaying
Just like the monsters—but up in the middle of the
State you don’t have to be aware,
You can go straight to your bedroom—
And to your bedroom to sleep for a million odd steps
Of the dinosaurs—
Infinitely uncountable beneath the spacemen until finally
They can pretend to dream of going to sleep with somebody else—
And the bodies coalesce with the advertisements of
The movie theatres—
And somebody else moves into the places of the happenstances
Of their gardens, and they move along,
Slowly, perpetually in motions,
Like cadavers perpetually being pushed down by
Avalanches through the throats of the mountains.