Robert Rorabeck

Freshman - 935 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Birthday Wishes, Of Course - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tired rooms in opulent boredom,
And today I drove through the Zuni nation:
Our tax dollars had bought for them a hash of
Repetitious houses,
And I thought of you: Oh, Erin,
My flower of evil, as I ate sweetened popcorn
And drank guava nectar,
And dreamed up new dire novels of incest and
And waited to get all the way home into these
High brushes to get drunk safely and to think
Of you;
And Monday is your birthday,
And all the boys know the road courses of your
And I am just doing this to put myself to sleep,
To sate on the fermented sugar cane what you
Would not give to me,
That you would not settle down upon my bed
And bare my name and your breasts,
Because even now I am sick and I am dying,
And the day is long and hung over the canals like
Dirty folded sheets of laundry,
And the blue gills are eaten by the alligators,
And the fallen cypress don’t lead but to no where,
And I’ve said I love you, Erin,
But no one reads this anymore,
And the seasons are obsolete where I used to find
You in, the feverish pornography of junked cars,
And no one gives a damn,
When the words are mortal and not fully hung;
And I’ve already said I loved you,
But my pitch went foul and you were too beautiful
To swing, and waited with baited breath for a
Better artist and friend chiseled at the usual gym,
Blowing out your candle with his tongue,
Knowing which way you come,
And the words I’ve told you,
You couldn’t possibly care to know.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, July 12, 2009

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