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

The morning is doubtful before
the sun yawns deep with its yellow
light, soft in the cloudy cot from
which it rises. A prairie warbler
matched in clothes and brightness
sings out to the doubtful morning
its warbling melody.

The annoying cackle of a cell phone
rings, thundering light in the quiet dawn.
The sky darkens with bright song birds,
wings blasting wind against my ear –
whistling new notes to the morning’s
melodious doubt.

Though the stars twist in twinkles
in the holey sky, I can only stare
at the hodge-podge light and cry
with earth-intoxicated frowns. We

know the earth is silent as it spins
but the screams seem to contort me
with their Munschian mouths agape
sucking in the dead skin of life.

Floating and tucked in scarlet covers,
this life tastes like rice cakes
at the county fair – wanting more
salt in the dark remnants of light.

I stare down at the the frosty ground
and wonder where the streaks of shadows
congregate from – where did the light
shut itself in? Who slapped it sideways

Until it crawled on the ground, bloody
and spinning in silence – tasteless?
Light bruised and buried in the ground
cold and saltless in its dead cure.

I pray that the light and the salt
would seep like a mist from the ground
enveloping the dry world in a wet film
of unsuppressed growth, green and gross

like the beautiful vision of algae
snuggled on the bottom of boats
at rest in the dock, locked in tight
progressions of shadowy saltless light.

I stare at the light and the shadows
and the people drinking their hopes.
I walk out into the morning dew, lost
in the salty slips of broken boats.

This world has pulled the blankets
over its eyes and lain
frozen in catatonic fear
that its children will slowly
gnaw it away into oblivion.

The earth has seen its share of shit,
carbon footprints are only yesterday’s
ice age. Surely we may be poisoning
our ability to watch a sunrise
over a distant mountain peak
across the life-bearing ocean
but we hide and watch and laugh
at all the ants scurrying,
gathering food for the coming famine.

I want to be a scurrying ant;
instead I hide and laugh
in great company.

It won’t be long
Before I’ll have
To relearn my ABCs.

This dirty Cabernet
Ridiculously oppresses
Music and Music’s Pleas –

Even in an August Rush
I wonder at my loss
Every word I conjure

Is regurgitated dross.