Where My Sisters Live Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They give it to me while whichever
Way you’ve been smiling up beside the vaudeville
And the theatre continuing down
To the dungeons where the dwarves and the heirlooms
Are dancing or whatever
In the preposterous mines: and it becomes
Like a photo in a school yard,
And we all get so bummed out, that are school days
Are so echoed,
And the night is not filled with ribbons
Are of plastic barrettes, but, otherwise,
Our mouths are becoming so filled up and down
The highways,
And she loves me, or she loves by the ways that she
Knows to love a gringo,
And I call to her from the hallucinates blooming in
The armpits underneath the cypress
As if decorations for the egrets- and I love her,
But this is just another song not happening to belong
To the angels who haven’t attended their gardens
Anyways- this isn’t even an echo,
But the night continues on into the hubris of the quite
Impossible volcanoes- as you attempt to summit
Anyways, and the highways cross and cross through the
Delusions of the populations of the desert,
Where my father stores his fireworks and the
Instruments of his dark and illustrious worship- or
Where my sisters live, anyways.