To Be Blond Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stars they vomit into graves
If that’s what they do:
Mexicans can never drink rum,
And when they’re done mowing they stay
Sideways in the gutters
And pet the slick wet backs of newly born
Kittens
And cheetahs, spotted,
As the white Mohawks share the good times
Of sweet spit and harems;
And the sky is a young god of good rock and
Roll,
And the buses are yellow vultures in their
Turn abouts,
And I just want to be loved:
I want to be blond,
And have ice-cream,
And then meet you out in the courtyard to count
The houses of cards
Building up to the clouds,
But
I don’t have good enough patience to write a
Sustainable novel:
I just sell Christmas trees and look at meaty centerfold
And then spend the rest of my time rubbing my palms together
And licking my lips,
Trying my best to jump across the canals without
Getting wet,
Because that is the other side of the world
And that is where the sugar cane burns up from the homeopathic
Throats thousands of them balled like the mistletoe
Of all those coral snakes;
And Sharon,
I love you, but I struck out and its raining and the
Bleachers smell like crackerjacks;
And Erin,
I lost a wonderful poem about you last night,
But you don’t care-
You are laughing at me,
And the stewardesses don’t care
Serving their ice-cream and cleavage to the usual business
Men leaping across the choreographed city states;
The pullulating lights of reindeer pirouetting
In the turn stalls of their usual feeding grounds;
And I can’t spell.
And my engine wont start.
And the mountain doesn’t summit.
And I just want to be blond.