Long Forgotten Men Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Silent cars like fat women walking
Torpidly,
Not even animalistic through the despotic
Night;
And it is so bad,
This masturbation,
This recessive alcoholism in the din,
Wind-f^cked hills trying to be
Beautiful
To whistle to her legs:
She’s selling lunch,
She has so many children,
And I call myself a genius,
But I cant even spell the word,
And I get nothing done,
Forgetting how beautifully death hung over
Me as I summitted all those dour mountains
In my spring,
While my sick muse was getting married and
Postulating the names of
Children to her various pantheisms all awash
In the spotless glow of
Her household beauty;
And these decade of years feels like a week of
Shakespeare,
Being read to the dogs in the dark:
And I swear that I am doing a tour in Vietnam,
And the caskets come like a wedding party
Being rolled out by our gray uncles,
And I still love you,
While the machetes synch paper cuts into the
Voluptuous jungle,
The steam boats singing their operas to the natives,
And mad men going leaping with arrows
Through their throats,
Their tin crowns lost and being gathered about
By curiously metamorphosing minnows,
Spider monkeys now populating the raft once crafted
By strange,
Long forgotten men.