Blond-Headed Solar Flare (Or Until The Cows Come Home) Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Vibrant green acrobats who touch my lips
At the end of their Catholic censer- and
Then pool away just as gleeful as sunbirds:
And if you think that is sweet,
You’ve never read Baudelaire,
Baudeliare- anoint his feet with ambergris
And valentines: Stick fat pedaled to the crèche
Where the immaculate brat is sucking with the
Cerulean diamond ants at the end of the pool,
And Jordan’s sister is taking it off: Like a pornographic
Raven in love with the grateful dead-
And the lawnmower breaks off the steal horned cenotaph
Of some prehistoric Pedro or Don Juan:
And you don’t want anything to do with me,
Except to put me up on the shelf of your bull pen,
Raisin eyed: I don’t even think you like having sex with
Mortal men; and I don’t want anything to do with you,
And I laugh at you from the sun-splintered roof of
My genetic truancies, all my flares taking off at once,
Hoping to be saved by a blue shift, by prettier girls from
Saturn: So spit in your tin and ring your bells until the cows
Come home,
If you read me but not Baudelaire; it’s all you’re worth,
Blond-headed solar flare.