Wood Chimes

It's all too complicated, or complex
I never know which or what or why;
Is that the Oak Leaf shouting the words
Or the 5-year sleepless nights down

South, thick wet hot; thirsty for some
No, not water; nothing too reasonable -
Red red wine should slow the neural effects,
Until words drop like drool from numb lips.

What was it I said before she departed
From the televised speech and touched upon
A note Battle herself could all but will
Into her voice; What? Was that a broken noise

Of shattered panes of glass? It happens.
Shit happens. So comforting; I now can sleep.
I now can collapse into a deep wine-cooler
sleep, waking to the slobber on my sheet.

I mentioned it was all my fault? All I know
Is much to confess. I mean; didn't I just
Pass the church's test? It was bearable.
I bet the church don't know what now is best.

McDonald's or Stouffer's? I've seen my share
Of two-year old's celluloid fat scrunched up like
A hair-squiggy from 1988. What? You watch
TV? Don't you know your soul will surely die?

Single vision would be nice to have. I allow
Double. It's the least I could do for me
or for you. It is the very least to not dry-heave
Awakened to another sweat-toothed August day.

Now is the time for all men to stop, to hear.
(Ah, yes, I know; now is the time for women too)
We've had our share of dark European beer.
We've heard the Ballads; we know what's new -

We stood like Harps; we followed our minds
Left only with mirrors and old wood chimes...
I feel drawn back to loaves of flat bread,
Drawn from the stains of my tossed hotel bed