Red Tin Noodles

Grocery store’s the new killing floor.

They should hold the Olympics on that boat in the canal.

And now that he’s in Florida, the nation’s karma pit,

Iceland melted by volcano.

Spring comes knocking at a cold front door.

Cicadas are coming, it’s best be prepared.

Numbers mean nothing anymore.

The poem I just ingested
is already gurgling questions.
But my interests are elsewhere invested.
Digestion has its own suggestions.
My mind has been elsewhere on manhood,
pink clouds passing, silence, and time.
I think I’m still mostly sane, knock wood.
And I’ve cut way back lately on cruelty and crime.
I’d like to die under a large stack of books,
preferably ones I’ve just read.
More likely some Art of the Deal slingin’ crooks
will bash my head in with their spiel till I’m dead.

How dark will be our Archie’s skin?
And will the royals let him in?
We should have changed his name, they said.
But who calls their own child “Jughead”?
They cried about my baby bump.
They bought a chocolate milk breast pump.
They stood there ready with a sack,
in case the babe was born “too black.”
They don’t like “darkies” in the castle.
Even the help is a hassle.
Grandpa Chuck won’t give two fucks.
His late wife’s kid really sucks.
Always fighting with the press,
red heads surely are a mess.
Somehow, it’s Diana’s fault.
Curse her bones! (They’re in our vault).
Perhaps they’ll pull a Michael J
and try to bleach his tan away.
That’s why we had to leave the isle.
The whole affair was one shit pile.
The U.S. will let Archie be.
He’ll get his own show on t.v.
He’ll rail about his royal blood.
He’ll call his grandpa Charles a “dud.”
“You killed my grandma on t.v.,
but you will never get to me!
Camilla is a mean old bitch.
It figures you’d prefer a witch!”
The Queen is just a foppish slag.
The Buckinghams “Kind of a Drag.”

Some folks would put people down.
Others like to pick ’em up.
But the ones should wear a crown
are the folks who love a pup.
Those in need of an ice melter,
are aplenty, get in line.
Head on to your nearest shelter.
Pick you up a used canine.
Rescue dogs are special cases,
victims of abuse, neglect.
You’ll fall in love with their faces.
It might be hard to select.
So, maybe you might pick two,
pug, lab, collie, or a mutt.
One thing’s certain: they’ll love you.
You will sense that in your gut.
Soon you’ll be wondering how
you survived without these pets.
Maybe time to get a cow?
(When you feel this, hedge your bets!)

When insurrection doesn’t work,
try secession, it’s knee-jerk.
If your land won’t serve you well,
tell those blues to go to hell.
Red states can live on their own.
Bureaucrats, leave us alone.
We are not a tiny fringe.
Our numbers will make you cringe.
Texas filed its legislation.
Say goodbye to your old nation.
It’s not really civil war,
just the child of Bush v. Gore.
We’ve got guns and we’ve got trucks.
We’ve got guys who give no fucks.
Libs can have the northern cold.
We’ll have Acapulco gold.
Cruz and Schiff are going to be
this new battle’s Grant and Lee.
Rebel flags again will wave
in the south, home of the brave.
Ultimate division waits.
In our disunited states.

The cats are on the roam
inside their kitty dome,
with bed, bored, string and boxes
they create their self-styled home,
where outside view’s essential
and proximity to heat.
When they think residential,
everything outside is meat.
Their habits must define their day.
Of course they need their sleep.
They check the cracks and pray for prey.
What’s thrown away they’ll keep.

Once upon a winter’s day, a man fell through the snow.
He’d plunged into a well-sized hole, a spot he did not know.
When climbing out proved too much task, he just looked to survive.
The melted snow and frozen plants are what kept him alive.
Alas, the sun appeared and softened walls so he could climb.
He got out ‘fore the next snow fell, seemingly just in time.
Since then, he swore he’d help out folks who found the white stuff scary.
He bought a truck, with blade attached, and became the Plow Fairy.
He cleaned the drifted driveways of the elderly and sick.
Just plow ’em fast and drive away. That was his magic trick.
He never left a message, just boot footprints by the door.
He didn’t need rewards or thanks, not what his mission’s for.
And so it went, another sprite to make the winter merry.
Those who’ve caught a glimpse always shout, “Thank you, Snow Plow Fairy!”

Goodnight kids. O goodnight kids.
It’s time now for going to sleep.
Just drop yourselves down into seams
of dreams and cuddle, all warm, in the deep.
Then wake up in the morning,
to a newly risen sun,
signalling with sighs and smiles
another day begun.
You can dance happily in the animal woods
and swim in the lakes of the clouds.
In afternoons, wisdom, romance and respect
can be worn every day as your shrouds.
And play, then, ’til well into evening,
and read your books unto the night.
The concept of dark that surrounds you
shall inspire your vision of light.
Then sleep will come calling you softly,
and make sure that everything’s right.
Another day passed. It won’t be the last.
So, goodnight, you sweet kids. Good night.

Critter dropped his life’s work down the Walpole Prison sink.
Wasn’t twenty minutes ‘fore the pipe began to stink.
The warden came, said, ‘Who’s to blame?” We said, “Who do you think?”
Then they saw poor Critter, on the floor, face neon pink.
And then he levitated, and the warden gave a gasp,
for Critter kissed him on the lips quite quickly as he passed.
The warden, in that moment, had a grand epiphany.
“As Critter lives, I hereby declare all prisoners free!”
And, as his spirit floated eastward, heading toward Cape Cod,
his captors and his inmates followed, raising hymns to God.
The spirit dance that followed, alas, gained some great renown.
And Critter’s genes can still be seen in jaunts to Provincetown.

Climbing up ladders in a play about dreams,
vague bones in bright costume shuffle
to and from the earth, like wallowing stars.
An artist severs his tongue with question marks.
Fighting is an invasion of privacy.
Sand bodies raise from the march of waves,
turning into shadows from the keyhole of the sea.
As a hot iron dropped on the moss of a silver forest,
the hunters pass, dragging their tools like tails.
This is the hour to hear the beat of bats.
And pity the poor anachronistic moa,
whose preoccupation with life is visibly diminished,
a fugitive from evolution, tracing a thread to eden.

Obfuscating turtle mouth.
Spine weaker than his chin.
Dolorous tone of his lies.
The south just rose again.
Oh, sure, he did just what you said,
but didn’t break the law.
Hundreds hurt and several dead.
Did you see what we saw?
Assassins chasing congressmen
and women in our shrine,
with rebel flags, hand ties and gags.
O, let your love light shine.
The second in command
escaped a proposed lynching scheme.
Did this happen in our land?
Or was it all a dream?
The plotted coup was planned
and publicized for many days.
And it was thus our government
and leader parted ways.
But he will not be punished
or disbarred from coming back,
because of scum like you, you Mitch,
you cunning retro hack.
Kentucky’s known for horses
and its venerable blue grass.
But now it’s known to house by far
the Senate’s biggest ass.