Words That Bloom In Wishful Fountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words are foam-
Words can be inebriation, when they help:
They can be guardian angels,
They can be transportation; If you went Ivy League,
Then likely your words are very,
Very terse and good:
But if you are like me, your words are made of wood,
Like marionettes of boys jerked straight up,
Strange wood-buttoned and lips hungry for cheetah paps;
Words that lay down on long green ejaculated
Carpets,
Wanting naps:
Words of cowboys and words of Indians, words of reindeer
And spikenard and teak bat winged cabinets out in
The spring nearby the fauna of Jordan’s slightly
Older sister, raven black hair, jet black hair- I don’t care:
Hair- Lovely long Indian hair, black-luck,
And hair down there, bee-stung clichéd nipples out for the
Week getting sunny, sunny cheeked-
And I spy with my little word eyes apple pies spitting smoke
From the kitchen,
And I grab one swiftly with my malediction and go down to
The green Astroturf easement under eyes and pierce my
Warm fingers through the warm crust,
And take out a piece of the sinfully cinnamon bust,
And engorged and confectioned stuff of lies and falsifying liquor
Pies,
And wait for the better stuff of creamier words to go floating
Through the ever worshipful sky convinced by the currents
Of other words floating just above my head,
Words I guess I never thought nor said.