Robert Rorabeck Poems

In the heathenish country of enslaved white children,
Nine little girls become the martyrs who lead the Christian charge
(Sometimes stark naked,
And other times in blue dresses,
...

I told her,
“I’m the man who shot Jesse James.”
She said,
“Poetry don’t work on whores.”
...

I am nothing, nothing,
And the bloom is broken.....
She has forgotten to check the locks,
And the monster is loose....
...

Far away windows of shattered visions,
The corpses that lie waiting
Inside of your salt:
The Jack-in-Box wound
...

I have the Almost Nation in the back of my throat,
All the armies gathered and defeated who would once
Have rallied forth to capture her, and to tell her those
Voluptuous words which grow in fair gardens or hang upon
...

I like beer,
And cheap rum and
Space ships;
...

Gorgeous hoodlums, who are you:
I’ve seen you walking around in the zoo with
Brilliant stockings and nothing else on except
For your drunk smiles and ray guns;
...

What have I done,
But haven’t looked her in the eye;
If she is a beautiful woman, she doesn’t
Care,
...

Robert’s eyes are red: he is taking off- You
Can get so much of him for free,
And the wind is a dying wife who once kissed the
Upturned lips of his fingers,
...

I give long witness to your eyes
Looking for silence.
Where is your child underneath
The mountain- There could be so many
...