THE ISLAND ROCKERS
Out on the beach there is a real horizon,
I know precisely where it hurts:
If you look, it's where the sky the water crowds,
And tiny waves flick up and try to lick the clouds.
There's lightning way out there; it happens sometimes
When two blues collide: the other night
Across the smoky lights I watched you dancing--
your eyes were closed, your lips were silently singing.
The band was cranking out the 1960s classics,
Johnny was wailing on his Telecaster:
Across the room you danced for only him to dream;
He draped his notes down across your shoulders.
Each note he played was like a falling star:
They splashed and sizzled out along that razor edge;
Your shirt was soaked, he fell down on his knees;
He crashed your strings, you flinched, and left the bar.
And later on the balcony, I found you smoking,
We both heard distant thunder on the beach.
You handed me your pack of cigarettes, a way to say hello--
I'd offer you a match, but I quit years ago.
Reprise
Out on the beach there is a real horizon,
I know precisely where it hurts, just so:
You handed me your pack of cigarettes, a way to say hello
again,
I'd offer you a match, but I quit years ago.
©2001 Bill Hicks, Copper Creek Records
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ANAZASI PREMONITION
Chorus: It always seemed so temporary,
The daffodils appearing without effort
Beside the winter streets, the golden light
Of February, . . . on a beach.
The winter loomed, a wave, beyond Sierras;
The shadow overhead, but never breaking,
And finally, in March, we headed East,
Back to a land of no illusions, and big winds.
Repeat chorus
Some friends of ours went way down to the Keys,
Scuffing sandy streets and peering into bars,
And on their backs, twisting in wet heat, guitars,
And bobbing sailboats like a parking lot of cars.
Repeat chorus
We struck the other way, to fat Chicago,
We picked up all the work that we could stand:
Shouts and whistles, accordions, bazoukis,
The Hawk circling the Loop and out across Lake Michigan
Repeat chorus
And somewhere along the path to south of nowhere
My vehemence evaporated with the dew;
I'm beating gold to earrings: tiny ancient signs,
For empty ears uninterested in tunes,
Transporting hidden meanings as they jangle,
Of the foretold Anazasi Paradise:
It's shrieking towards us all with each small tapping,
A great wind behind a redrock canyon wall.
Repeat chorus
©2001 Bill Hicks, Copper Creek Records
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