Day 6: Goat Songs

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.

[Syllogism:

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.