S-X With Ghosts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A dour search for houses haunts me
If I go into new places where the tourists are
All sleeping,
And admire the green copper cannons crowning
The fort, which I’ve written of but never polished-
I say, give me a shot from liquor or a gun,
Or good friends who will never tell, but
Always smile,
Give me a good girl with just two good legs that
Could run a record mile,
And the anonymity of the perfect form fluttering like
Storm clouds of sun birds from each of my
Masturbating fingers, a grandmother who doesn’t
Judge me who is always looking up in the blue canopy
Of a southern shroud,
And a place for me to rest and bowl between classes,
Void of the human life of this era,
Of Mexicans who jeer me because I drink green beer
By the pool after midnight, weeping; and they jeer,
And give me good constant labor,
A mother and a father who almost understand me,
And the gumption of two faithful dogs- Then, without
Anymore conjunctions or spells from the lips of conjugations
Of ancient languages I’m not good enough to understand,
Give me paranormal extracurricular activities upon the
White satin sheets of an underage virgin while she is fetching
The eyes of boys so far away who will forever be too young
To die.