The Choirs Of Angelic Gutters Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going this way,
I really want to be beautiful, admired
And hung from galleries in flattering fame;
Or, to discover words the hit their mark and
Sink like arrows,
Like a necklace of grinning alligators tossed into
The over-blooming park:
This is the way we should come, ostracized
Yet beating from the pep rally royally bruised and
Wearing our own colors:
Kissing and crawling like overly sated bees all over
You mother when you weren’t looking,
Giving the divine privilege to do, the correct change
And the correct adjectives to describe the smell
Of steadily pattering rains
On corrugated metals and other malleable things,
Like dreams of the homeless men orgasming in their
Effluvious gutters, the metamorphoses of inalienable
Things, backed up and shoeless with their homes,
Going down by the ways of their steadily tearful streams,
Paper boats folded up by geishas and pressed lovingly
By your churches, the choirs of angelic gutters,
Going this away, attribute to the sea;
And in the morning they have sung all their mute secrets
Into the ears who were busily dreaming yet of the gardens
Their souls had dressed up and asked dates to,
The indescribable ballrooms they would have liked to out of
Insatiable habits attend.