Red Tin Noodles

He falls down a lot. But that’s cool.
Just smokes a cigarette on the ground
and mumbles something existential.
He’s got a nickel- plated whiskey flask.
But he can’t find it. Must be in the pocket
of an old zoot suit, somewhere.
He’d play his horn, except his teeth fall out.
He’d snap his fingers, but he broke his thumb.
The broken hipster was hot back in his day.
But now he just seems dumb.

My alter ego is in prison.
He acts out more than I.
In his early days of crime,
he’d wink as I stood by.
But things got really out of hand.
He thrived on doing harm.
Bad moods could lead to robbery,
bad dates, a broken arm.
And if it rained on my parade,
he’d go off on a spree.
It got so bad that even dreams
created jeopardy.
I rest a whole lot easier
since he is behind bars.
But sometimes I still feel his pain
at night, despite the stars.

I saw you crossing lanes
while on the whipped cream line.
Such a bold infraction
often brings a healthy fine.
Later in the forest
I spied you shooting mousse.
Then I realized your problem:
sugar junkie on the loose.
I certainly can sympathize.
You see, I am the fellow
who long ago stooped low enough
to snort a box of Jello.
So I could be your sugar king,
and you my sugar queen.
We’d rule the streets.
We’d eat dot sheets.
Look out on Halloween!

My skeleton’s skin has taken me in;
it’s told me lies, in front of my eyes.
It’s shaped my days in a thousand ways.
It’s helped me out, and without a doubt
I wouldn’t be here; it’s made that clear,
if I didn’t play ball. God forgive us all.
There’s a little white room where we
seal our doom. There’s a big black door
labeled "nevermore." We can step inside.
They’ll say that we died. And our thoughts
compiled will be stripped and filed
into reference books for both spies and crooks.
And our history will be lost at sea. Amen.

A miasma of misinformed mitochondria
were swimming in a pool of DNA.
Put on some suits, gadzooks, you’re
risking hypothermia, said a neutron
who was sitting far away.
It is no use, this is abuse, said a flagellum,
who just happened to be paddling by.
I challenge you all to achieve mitosis,
said a cell who was quite obviously high.

We are in the middle of an electoral play.
Romeo and Juliet have long since passed away.
Hillary and little Marco fell before the sword.
Lyin’ Ted and Lazy Jeb were just cast overboard.
Now the king is fighting off his own appointed men.
Bannon, Flynn and Manafort. The south will rise again.
He dreams it all, a wonder wall, across the southern border,
a monument to arrogance, an ode to law and order.
He twists his lies to alibis, he tortures truth to end.
He will be tried for all his sins. The devil is his friend.

Here’s your receipt for all the whippings you took
back in a former life, when you lived by the book.
Yes, it is hard to relive pained memories.
But harder yet is to walk on your knees.
The overseers’ undertakers overtook you at last.
Don’t let that change your life. It’s all in the past.
The fate that ruled you then has since been amended.
And to your soul a new end has been appended.
You’ve put some tough time in. Now much is owed.
Stand up and walk your path. You are unbowed.
And though the book has changed, it still needs rewriting.
You hold the pen and ink. Now come out fighting.

I’m opening my birthday cards, most of ’em from smart asses.
They got their points, my achin’ joints, I can’t see without glasses.
I can’t outrun the bus no more. No, and I hardly walk.
And people note my missing teeth whenever I do talk.
The doors to my brain’s filing cabinets often now get stuck.
I simply stare, lookin’ for words and then just say "No luck."
My wrinkles fight with wrinkles to find space upon my face.
My moves which onetime were so smooth are now devoid of grace.
I sometimes don’t remember things it’s said I might have said.
The hair grows from my ears and nose but not atop my head.
My body’s filling up with splotches, brown and white and red.
I read the obits every morning, make sure I’m not dead.
My words come out unfiltered, people say, "You can’t say that."
My strength is on vacation and I sleep more than my cat.
When I look in the mirror, I think, where’d that young guy go?
The parts are all lopsided, looking like a Picasso.
My thoughts oft stray to bygone days, back to ‘Remember When.’
If I was born a dog, by God, I’d just be turnin’ ten.

It would be a superb score in golf.
And barely get me by in an exam.
But as an age it makes me want to rolf.
And that’s the age it seems today I am.

It is a proper car speed on the highway.
A decent price in rupees for a bun.
And I have done it well and I did my way.
But doin’ it from here will not be fun.

It is the temp I’d pull out my Bermudas.
And it’s a proof I’d like in alcohol.
But now I’m old and swim with barracudas.
And seventy is not much fun at all.

The cat loves to play with a Q-tip,
a little baton he can flip and chew on.
He’ll hold with his claw and just gnaw and gnaw.
He’ll work on that thing ’til it looks like Don King,
its head shaped to a point like a paintbrush or joint.
He’ll shake back and forth and then fling the tip north,
and on very good nights, he’ll aim for two sites,
the tub or cat dish: he’ll flip it and, swish!
And if feeling proud, he may say so out loud.
There’s no going back when your cat’s talkin’ smack.

We cheered ’til the crowd went deaf.
The war had been won in our minds.
Electronic gods were declared dead.
Aliens at last returned home.
Water was free again and
trees had agreed to be sown.
The bright yellow flag waved once more.
And then somebody threw a switch.
And the air was sucked out of our lungs.
Boll weevils large as basketballs
rained down upon the unsuspecting land.
A tidal wave of blackish haze
descended on our memories and dreams.
The world again was prehistoric, flat.
If seen from outer space, it most looked
like a poker chip on fire.

In the bottom of the barrel, the cream of the crop
languished, bruised, whipped and horribly folded,
busted crowns and halos all about.
The Crux Busters signature, plain as the glass
on your face, a blood oath written in pig latin,
a swarthy demonstration of demonic device.
At Crux Busters International’s yearly love fest,
nearly four thousand disappeared, mostly members.
"Remember to dismember" was the current theme.
Pay the dues or you lose.
It’s an all-night red light special in the death bin.

You are the cat’s pajamas.
You are the dog’s bow tie,
the extra L in llamas,
the owl’s nighttime eye.
You are the sow’s silk purse,
the horse’s lucky shoe.
You taught the bird to curse,
now he’s a cockatoo.
You are the rabbit’s foot.
You make the goats all dance.
You make ’em all stay put
with just a sidelong glance.
You make the mink’s coat silky.
You make the pigeons coo.
You make the cows all milky.
Yes, I go wild for you.

I’m looking for some glue,
but all the tubes are empty.
In the kitchen, aerosol cans
hiss and try to tempt me.
I’ve stolen vodka from next door.
I’ve smoked a pipe of stems.
I feel like meaning’s matador.
I need some M&M’s.
If I were in Ecuador,
I could just eat some plants.
I’ve even heard there are some
hallucinogenic ants.
I’ll eat lead paint,
I’ll swail, I’ll faint.
I’m looking for a noose.
But now my stomach hurts
and I’m afraid my bowel’s loose.

Jack and Jill went out for supper at their favorite diner.
Jill was wearing her best dress and couldn’t look much finer.
Jack drank two large Bloody Marys along with his meal.
But Jill abstained; she didn’t like the way booze made her feel.
With her food gone, Jill slid across the booth into his lap.
Jack leaned in for expected kiss, instead received a slap.
"You didn’t eat your peas," she said. It sounded like a scold.
So Jack obliged and cleaned his plate, although the peas were cold.
When they got home, Jill crossed the room, arms open for a hug.
But Jack burped loudly, said, "Oh shit," and threw up on the rug.
And there it sat, a Christmas-looking pile of green and red.
What both hoped was a pleasant night went right downhill instead.
"I’ll fetch a pail of water so that you can clean that mess.
I’d help you out but I don’t want to get it on my dress."
As Jack bent sadly to his task, he heard her hallway yell:
"I’ll be back in the morning. I can’t sleep here with that smell."
Jack thought, "My life’s a living hell," and something in him died.
Next morn, Jill found him dead in bed, apparent suicide.