Up The Skirts Of Grizzly Bears Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Doubts who presume their colors:
The overpasses go slouching their stone abusively,
The airplanes spin in pirouettes
As they all die into the valleys where the legumes are all
Emptied and eaten;
And to take this out in the open and show it to your eyes,
Costs a pittance;
But it is really here, where I’ve been walking,
Trying to fornicate with the pregnant belly of the heavens
Angry at the preternatural abasements of whatever gods
Ransacked her:
And I get to what seems to be the top where the angels
Jellyroll, where their lieutenants with busted hips
And lungs pressed in demand such revelry:
And there are songs, oh gorgeous- don’t you know like
Women painted in oils,
Spilling like goldmines for the reclusive hermits who
Pray to themselves,
As they fingers run like otters in the rivers of their
Seamless employments:
Until all of their days are clouded by that topaz spit shined
For tourists
Who these mountains never remember the names of:
In fact they don’t care: they just sunbathe in their split hair sorority,
Until the lightning kicks in their orgasms whenever it does,
And sets the aspens on fire, and lifts up the skirts of
Grizzly bears,
But that isn’t even what I was talking about.