On The Feet Of The Clouds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am gone now—
A million moons away, going to China—A million
Requests away underneath the Christmas trees
Of a blistering Christmas
As we sell ourselves away—
As we cry out—
For those who are not here—
Who are fanfare and comatose beneath the milky way—
As a I loved you a thousands miles—
As I closed my eyes and pretended to count coup on you
And the lawns stretched out all of their
Greenest mouths for you—
Emerald and other words for green—
As the graveyards lay just right there—a million
Diamonds in a checkerboard of un-played
Dimensions—
And it was all right here for all of this time—
In the unopened story books and the unmouthed rhymes—
But I am going away, while the pictures repeat
Masturbating themselves,
And pissing on the feet of the clouds.