The goats bleat among

the audience, bleat among --


lines of poetry.

Most of the brine has got to boil away
Most of the air has got to choke you
Most of June I spent in jail again
I don't mean jail, exactly
Up in the pine tree
Red squirrel looking down at me

I am losing control of the language again
I am losing control of the language again

Most of the things I used to hold onto
Most of the things I used to say to you
Most of the ways I knew around the local roads
Are disappearing daily
High in the cottonwood
You were looking down at me and you sure looked good
Hair hanging down in the leaves
Your neck tilted back to make a rainbow

I was losing control of the language again
I am losing control of the language again

We broke the doorknob off of the door  
The door swung open easily
We sauntered into the poorly lit store
and looked around lazily
We stole every bit of candy they had inside
Gobbled it all up greedily on our 3 month ride
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone

You headed out to the getaway car
And hit the open road
I saw something written in tall clear letters on your face
but I could not break the code
We had hot caramel sticking to our teeth
and the only love I've ever known burning underneath
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone

I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone

It's not the barnacles that do all the damage
Figure this out too late
It's not the destination that makes the difference
It's the freight

Everything becomes a blur from six feet away
Get used to this
Every card ever turned over remains in play
Get used to this

Not every wave is a tidal wave
Not every wave is a tidal wave

It's not the mutiny written down in the diary
It's the manifest
Forgotten cargo in obsolete measurements
Anybody's guess

Even the proud, even the very proud
Probably die on their knees
Twin masts out on the open seas
Mistaken for trees

Not every wave is a tidal wave
Not every wave is a tidal wave

We sail we sleep we scry by land
We dig a pit beneath the sand
A place to keep the sun at bay
At dark we rise and find our way

With our faithful companion by our side
Put it all on the table and let it ride
Close to the drop-off on our long slide

The land we left becomes a dream
The ghosts we knew, they rise like steam
They leave some trails against the sky
All but invisible to the eye

With our faithful companion by our side
Put it all on the table and let it ride
Close to the drop-off on our long slide

Call off the search party,
Let mourners wail by the shore

Point to the spot where our ship disappeared
We're not coming home any more

Should you succeed and breach the coast
You tell your friends you've seen a ghost
You tell them all there's nothing here worth dying for
You leave it there

With our faithful companion by our side
Put it all on the table and let it ride
Close to the drop-off on our long slide

I went down to Lloyd center
Looking for you
But a mouth full of anger
Blocked my view
He took your hand
There in the skating rink
God will give him blood to drink

Saw the two of you leaving
I didn't want to follow behind
But I could see the rest of your evening
Burning in my mind
Sky's black
The moon's pink
God will give him blood to drink

I looked over the railing
The ice was white
On the north-east side
Where I saw you and your boyfriend
On a Friday night
I went mining for gold
I struck pure, fresh zinc
God, God will give him blood to drink

All of the aggressive goats fight
To determine the king of the hill
But once rain starts pouring
They seek shelter together
Leaving the victor in the rain

do you think our screens light
will swallow us whole
as it takes our souls and become dumber
as the days grow old?

do you think that fantasy is better
than the fiction of the better,
quickly contradicting our figures?

do you think social media is blinding us,
with each second the lights take us
from our soul to their leader?

Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned tunnels fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,

wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.

Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,

here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks