Red Tin Noodles

We think of your spurious garages
robed in the feeble edges of flat tire lungs
your oil cans like robot teats
for monkey wrenches howling around the ominous batteries
sublimated spark plugs and anxious metal pedals.

We think of your lucite panels
your millions of drops of what color is that paint
your manic neon tubes and delicate sockets
plagued with the symptoms of exhaust
all gray-toothed and punk around the nuclei.

We think of your exposed hollows
your pop and jingling clothesline threads of lifepatch
humming ballads on everlasting and conclusion
to your rejected driveways
the impregnable axons of a constricted vision.

You know we are not alone.
Out the window there’s a drone.
Insect nose against the glass,
photographing your bare ass.
Drone, I curse your every blade.
What gives you rights to invade?
Now from sea to shining sea
there’s no chance for privacy.
Keep your shade down, curtain drawn.
One just landed on the lawn.
Just how long before this hobby
intertwines with the gun lobby?
Geeks get that transcendent thrill,
scoring points with each new kill.
A drone is like a robot pet.
Whirled, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

A snake charmer,
whose room looks like a pharmaceutical junkyard,
is memorizing religion on an atrophied wireless.
"Keep pledging that speck of hatred to tomorrow,"
he repeats, while stabbing himself with a number
three pencil. Last night, it seems, he tied his friends
together by the tail and painted lurid designs
upon his leatherette sofa with India ink.
He takes this as an intense subliminal desire
to return to his homeland, but is afraid
the people of Ohio will snicker at his tattoo
unless he learns more about god.

There’s no refuge any more
unless your home’s a tower.
The elite just won the war.
Rich folks have all the power.
Corporate tax gifts passed the floor.
Medicare may be no more.
Billionaires who own estates
dance now behind golden gates.
They’ll drill in the arctic, too;
soon be eating caribou.
Middle class will take the hit.
Merry Christmas. Eat some shit.
Deficit receives a load
youth will pay for down the road.
Say goodbye to wildlife parks.
Load endangered onto arks.
Country can’t be great again
when the wealthy always win.
Ruling classes don’t play fair.
Word out to the poor: Beware.

Comes again the time of plastic wreaths upon the door,
golden popcorn bubbles oozing caramel on the floor.
Cousin Ed, supposed dead, has stopped by for some cheer.
Here’s a shop where if you stop the people call you ‘dear.’
There they’ve hung a bearded man outside the bullet store.
In the hallway, mottled elves complain their feet are sore.
On the sidewalk, Santa Claws just hit you with his bell.
Everyone is merry: "Watch your feet there!" "Go to hell !"
Oh, it makes you want to heave on someone’s blinking tree,
boil a skunk for dinner, cast your cash into the sea.
Wait! Is that a wise man underneath the distant star?
No, it’s just some guy who wants to sell you a used car.

Sancho, Pancho, Gabby, Tonto:
sidekicks, summoned, arrived pronto.
Some were old and some were flabby.
Some were both: we mentioned Gabby.
Some had wheels, most rode a horse.
Not all were western types, of course.
Matt Dillon had the limping Chester,
Addams Family, Uncle Fester.
Comics had sidekicks as well.
Johnny joked, Ed laughed like hell.
Letterman had Paul with glasses.
Clouseau’s Kato kicked some asses.
Fred Flintstone had neighbor Barney.
Jackie Gleason had Art Carney.
Maverick had his brother Bart.
Batman’s Robin dressed pop art.
Moe the Stooge had fall guy Curly.
Laverne loved her best pal Shirley.
Lewis joked while Martin sang.
Jesse James had his whole gang.
George had Gracie, Desi, Lu.
Shaggy needed Scooby Doo.
Mary hung next door with Rhoda.
Luke had Jedi Master Yoda.
Clarabell was Howdy’s jester.
Jack Benny bounced jokes off Rochester.
Tinker Bell was Peter’s fairy.
George Costanza bothered Jerry.
Rocky loved Bullwinkle’s schtick.
Tarzan/ Cheeta: that was sick.
Entertainment breeds sidekicks.
Let’s not talk of politics.

Henry Miller on t.v. right now, middle of the night, old and white
with his memories (his mother hated him for not becoming a tailor).
Some fear has me in its wind. Tonight the first time out of the house in four days.
Cars like menacing drones with their unpredictable minds, people leering,
wearing their habits (death like a brother flows through Miller through Assisi)
with what grace they can muster, or, lacking this, press their faces on the windows
of the moment. Food, like lumps of the earth, bringing the presence of animals
into the caves of the body, flows outside. I am dealing with things as intrusions,
everything but words, reading furiously and hearing everything.
Last time out went slamming from a barroom for this very reason.
Tonight the place has no effect, just a feeling of weight that borders sadness.
Now I must have the radio on (you see). The writer with his cane has gone off,
nothing but exploding autos on the dial. My eyes are attracted to the flames.
For nights the coincidental shadows on this couch have been playing over this body.
Still it knows nothing, yet feels, perhaps, that it does. Sinewed darkness moves time
somehow faster, making it more valuable. The days I have been throwing over,
as if with a fork, while each night, collected and compressed like a diamond,
stands shining behind the eyes. My plan is to sleep through Charlie Chan
and see what happens then. I am very worried about changes in the world,
mine as well as everyone else’s. My preoccupation with life is visibly diminished.
The first show has come and gone, the second on its way. So what?
How many times do we have to say that? Are we so civilized the snow must mean
more than itself? Pop goes the weasel. I dig myself under cover.

Black Friday is the big day of the capitalist year,
where shoppers get to fight and save while wearing riot gear.
The scuffles people go through just to save a dollar bill
make the gruesome scenes in "Fight Club" look a little chill.
Their purchases come home in boxes somewhat crushed and bloody.
Hey, it looks as if you might have lost some teeth there, buddy.
By Saturday and Sunday things have calmed down at the mall.
Your car’s parked so far away it’s a long distance call.
They call it Cyber Monday, but then Tuesday’s just the same.
It’s all the big green cherry of the advertising game.

My uncle was a mercenary in a foreign war.
It was very hush-hush. We don’t know who he fought for.
All he said was he had many notches on his gun.
As a boy I’d see him comin’, then I’d start to run.
Killin’ folks for money is an awful evil scam.
Takes a special kind of soul to just not give a damn.
Later on when he was old, my uncle went insane.
Doctors said perhaps he had some shrapnel in his brain.
I think it was just the memories of the blood he shed.
How can one walk through his life on roads built by the dead?
Killin’ folks for money is the worst of lifestyle choices.
It’s no wonder Uncle Sam went crazy hearin’ voices.

I passed out on the avenue, I fell down on the street.
I swooned under the sway of every drug dealer I’d meet.
I’d smoke whatever came into my hands, from coke to cocoa.
I spent much of my formative days just plain goin’ loco.
There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, my bottom line was low.
I thought that when I died I would be eulogized and so
my legacy would follow me and reputation grow.
But as the years went by I saw this was a great big no.
I was an alcoholic, a drug addict and a fool.
The times that I awoke in small cells should have been my school.
My learning curve was filled with blurs and downright blackout hours.
Perhaps some higher power kept me from pushin’ up flowers.
I’ve had a quad heart bypass and survived spinal infection.
It’s amazing that I still incur so much affection.
I’m good with kids and animals seem to thrive in my realm.
My boat is leaky, creaky, but I still stand in the helm.
Perhaps there is a further shore upon which I might land.
And finally build my castle of a wonderment of sand.

It will be dark too soon for me,
in my small boat set out to sea,
in search of some eternal shore,
more likely on the ocean’s floor,
revenge for lobsters and food fish.
Yes, death’s an unappealing dish,
but, alas, one we all must eat,
with just desserts found down six feet,
and no need now to tip the waiter.
There’s no chance you’ll come back later.

Longtime Benito, the fever dream catcher,
kept in his kitchen a cauldron of brine.
Thus fish were entertained periodically
and from their bones he built himself a shrine.
Forced to the sidelines by random rag pickers,
he felt it his right to get more playing time.
His vision was keen but his sense of smell thwarted.
He’d play for a quarter but not for a dime.
His house was of brick and his bed was of feathers,
donated by birds who were passing in flight.
He wrapped his possessions in camouflage tethers
and felt that the war in his head was all right.
But one day Benito crossed over the river.
He did not come back for a moonful of days.
His door was unlocked and he saw with a shiver
his dear lair had been taken over by strays.
These wild dogs and thin cats were immune to reason.
They would not be swayed by his logic or threats.
And so he deemed this time his space sharing season,
accepting this outright invasion of pets.
The last anyone saw of Longtime Benito,
he carried on his back a pack of his goods.
He sat at the bar nursing one last mojito,
then silently walked off and into the woods.

The local pub burned down today.
There’s no more karaoke.
I know there’s many who would say
the practice is quite hokey.
But those who lift their voice in song
once every Thursday night
don’t really care if notes are wrong,
as long as they sound right.
And all their friends were there to cheer
as if they were a star.
But now there’s ashes on the floor
and no roof on the bar.
And so it goes, the sound of voices
longing in charred wood.
Often times the tunes were bad,
yet the intentions good.

Illogical pit stops
Waste deep in the forest,
Infecting the shrine zone,
Project our dark skies.
When under the curtain,
Where nothing is certain,
While staring at shark eyes,
The festival dies.
There’s no calibration
Or central location.
The law is erased by the lie.
The wailing wind sings.
We’re out on the wings
Of these things we know
Never can fly.
And they tilt toward goodbye.

Tiny blue crystals were everywhere:
in the sand, on the rug, even in the tub,
minute, translucent, thin as fingernails.
We thought that we should clean up.
But this was not our fault.
There were too many, and increasingly
more the more you looked.
And they moved, sliding away from touch,
even popping airward like dandelion puffs.
They formed indecipherable patterns
on the walls; and at the mere thought
of vacuum, broom or mop, they multiplied.
It quickly turned from fun to frightening.
When we went to the authorities,
they said we’d trespassed in a forbidden zone,
but would not be prosecuted if we left quickly
and forgot what we had seen. Tell anyone,
and you will be forever haunted, they said.
Just go now, they warned, And burn your clothes.