Incredibly Further Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fat men are driving across country
In their mausoleum cars.
I jack off into the bright kitchen forest
Of rusty rebar,
And the frogs sing. Of course, they
Sing all the time.
Their favorite stone is topaz, like
Their throats.
They wait for the buses of children to
Get home from school,
And they sing the flume of my serial
Insouciance,
As I curse you with the kisses of my
Far distant dysfunction,
Thinking that you will never know what
It means to be like a pirate,
Sleeping two men to a bed,
Our ancient beards glowing like fuses
From the candles that burn in them
Like lights on a tannenbaum,
And like the ghosts of fireworks that
We scream and whiz banging across
The sea
For someone who was forever in those
Obese cars, always in the air-condition,
And always driving incredibly further away.