Picasso's Pugalist Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All I can really say is that my new face
Looks like Picasso got punched,
And that’s okay: a little crooked, like President
D$ck, unsymmetrical, but big,
Like Dolly Parton’s tits- Some things which
Are real: speedy motorcycle, hearse’s right-of-
Way, sea-shanties which stormy areolas mermaid:
The phone rings from another planet,
Or demoted Pluto- I think its just you, but it never
Is: Solicitors, tax collectors, sisters.... Rivers
Run to the sea, but that is not where you can find me,
So for very long I’ve been reading naked in the igneous
Rockslides of her undraped back, crooning-
Video games say I’m overweight, but they’re stupid,
As the hands arrest empty Michigan, your groom’s
Flannel tuxedo accordions- When you didn’t answer,
As you can see, it was a Holocaust, a default,
The bankruptcy of a favorite super center- The trick
Lady’s overweight shoulders shrug, and we light off
Fireworks: Semis honked, this is the great America stretching
Its independence until it wakes up in the morning;
Then I pantomime questions I wish to ask you, as my dogs
Begin the jumping games of amnesiac foxes,
And from bashful angles my face stares back at me like
An unsymmetrical mansion, something I grew up into,
A tire swing’s ellipse into the arcade of branches,
I hold up to show everybody as they try to guess who it is.