Goat Song: For My Father's God
I know kidnapping was extreme, but how cruel
to anoint acne-ridden teens with oil,
to tell them it is not a moth, but an albino butterfly,
to teach them to covet translucency
even though the ocean always reciprocates
the sky, the atmosphere. Infuriating cosmetic theology,
subjective to light. How cruel to answer,
“If all roads lead to Rome, then why not Athens?” with the extremist
velocity of a wooden stick made for measuring.
Yes I hijacked the bus when I saw them there,
twelve, fifteen, the chorus of youth
gathering at the very altar where once
their kind was incinerated. Spectacles, testicles,
watch, wallet, indeed. My vision is perfectly poor,
but, as some of us lack the physiology
necessary for true genuflection,
I chose action.
1. All roads lead to Rome.
2. Not all continents are connected by roads. Thus,
I do not think we will make it to the amphitheater on time.]
Go ahead, God One, God Two, tell them
all disasters are natural. Even the tomato
wrinkling in the sun will summon proper terror.
All acts will be measured but fail to add up
into a convenient formula, a logic whose gaps
are populated by ribbons of gauze.
Did you see the movie? Lazarus
almost pulled the Christ into the tomb; his gaze
was mummified, impossible to meet. To Lazarus,
only the stinking drunk shall inherit paradise.
All roads lead to holy ruins,
but rather than elicit submission,
I tried to navigate my small flock
by way of the rosy fingers of dawn and wine-dark seas.
A squaw who knew the land was supposed to meet us
at the trailhead, but she was just a Spanish actor
wearing imported feathers.
“Rather than immersion in mysteries, I was only
leading you to common ground,” she explained,
shortly before stepping on a poisonous snake.
Goat Song: A Much Shorter Version
Go ahead, Thing One, Thing Two,
tell that all roads lead to Rome,
but at least show us
to the motherfucking harbor.