Red Tin Noodles

Far away in the nearest corner
where the brown hot orange tree
swung its globe the grass unburned
was shaded green and dark below
the hanging wood. A single bound
dislodged the fruit and stripped it
bare of its appeal. The branches
cold and yellow now gave out and wept
red tears that dyed the land at its base.
It was all so base and we ate like pigs.

(originally appeared in Montage, Spring ’74
as "The people pay to watch me lie.")

He choked at the fishbone market
and froze up the watering place.
His lies were little lessons,
terribly unscientific but frighteningly real.
Sputtering vile mare’s nest!
He sank in his own filthy dreams,
reeking of incense and hollandaise,
his prophesies chipped and unfixed.
He left enough masks behind
to play out the fabrication,
and a suicide note
that turned out to be the bible.

(snow belles shuffling
in their frozen dive,
jock frost chipping
at your glow)

There was never a time like this.
Elves on the shelves, toys for the boys
And girls, and even the animals,
Nipping in secret at the nutmeg bush.
Visions of sugarplums, the little fat red
Gone wild in the midnight sky,
Jelly jiggling his joyful pot with a wink.
Then, howling at the dime store moon,
He flies.
And everything is "Merry."
And everything is "Christmas."
And everywhere on the somewhere side
Of the world, there is a tear falling,
Waiting for tomorrow to dry.

(as seen in "Montage," spring ’74)

I thought I was abed.
I felt it in my head.
The pillow hard but round,
a rock upon the ground.
The blanket leaves and weeds,
sufficient to my needs.
The breeze my temp control,
blown slowly through the soul.
My mattress made of dirt.
I think it’s called a yurt.

The street is wide enough for dreams and sounds appropriate,
suggesting poolside guilt in cellar bars and anglo plays,
with subtle buzzing urged by those who know in yards of green
felt heaven beneath smashing neon stars unrolled through
space and smoke, revealing abject memories of pain,
in the blistering spirit of the road and the low moaning rain
of a blinded sky, wherein a wizard might die, calling for you.

Bob was Bobby ’til he learned of palindromes.
For his living spaces, he sought motor homes.
His history was built upon deceptions.
He’d been to some Republican receptions.
And on his wall a Spiro Agnew portrait hung.
He’d fallen under that man’s spell when he was young.
When asked, he’d always tell some vague connection tale.
The truth was that he’d found it at a rummage sale.
Although he came from wealth and had a large bankroll,
he preferred to live like he was on the dole.
"Rich folks just aren’t cool," he’d heard a woman state.
And so, just like a fool, he lived life second rate.
He died before his time, found in some squalid squat.
Murmuring palindromes like mom, dad and tot.

Kid, they will write on your back,
scratch your name on the walls
with your own petrified eyelids.
They told me and they will tell you
to climb up and jump down.
Stares, vague and lifeless,
will be lined up like book backs
on the shelves of your memory.
Terrific dragons will turn to lawnmowers
and castles melt before the sun.
Push on, push on; the dreaded cry
will become a sharpened knife.
Remember your doorways, your shoe size,
your airs. Crouch low in the belly of dreams.
And always keep reaching.
Someday someone will see your hand.

That I cannot play the guitar any better than I do
after fifty years of trying’s disappointing.
Bad hand neurons.
Brain lanes blocked by Mighty Mouse and Whitey Ford.
My only little league hit was a bunt. Live pitching
was very different from pinkball off the garage door.
Hand-eye coordination disturbed by strange vibration.
Probably "Sweet Little Sixteen." Chuck often took the blame.
And bad sneakers was always a good excuse.

The bespectacled one is out flying his kite,
losing his house keys, adding some weight.
Surely this storm will make the diary.
Poor Richard is, of course, asleep early,
dreaming of swimming the English Channel.
While Franklin’s urethra has been acting up
ever since his strained militia stint.
And these damned buckle shoes don’t fare
well in the warm Philadelphia mud.

All I want for Christmas is a gun,
just like little Ralphie, except real.
Armor-piercing bullets would be fun,
and a barrel made of polished steel.
Santa, bring me ammo clips,
body targets, liquor nips.
Arm me for a firefight.
A silencer would be all right.
Shoulder holster would be cool.
Rapid fire killing tool.
I’ll get a license, keep it legal,
swear upon the U.S. eagle.
And I’ll only use it to defend.
I’ll never kill a relative or friend.

Whose dusty boots are those,
standing at attention
in the car stripped of its plumage
near the desecrated rag?
The ground, so hard in the winter sun,
a pellet in the soft heart
of a warm-breathing deer,
masks death with a facade of glory,
and a worm, frozen to the wood
of an old tree’s casket,
falls without a sound as tribute.
Hubless tires, like so many
travelled eyes among shapes
in this graveyard above the brookpond,
stare at the sky, unspinning,
perhaps forever; and, in their shadow
a stalwart weed pokes its tongue
through the jagged mouth of a rusted can,
mocking the symbiotic plan.
Below, the water, robbed of beauty,
mirroring the hillside’s desolation,
drains drip by drip and drip back toward the heart.
On the last day of October,
I caught the water lilies crying.
Not too long thereafter came the ice.