Red Tin Noodles

Black dog with white paws on a red pillow.
Feathered tendrils of a dream, erasing,
as grey dawn, fanned by rain, laps the windows.
Stumble toward electronics to confirm the world
is still alive: no visible proof. Cruelty, exploitation
and degradation are winning the day’s big races.
There’s a spike in hair products and sun glasses.
World leaders are up in arms about arms.
The living have taken the dead to extra innings.
Somewhere a comet is passing a rocket.
Noise and light do the wave, eternally.
Satisfied with uncontrollable events,
the dog sighs and dives into that pillow once again.

Awake on a win, asleep on defeat,
the competition always raged elsewhere.
Inside, naught but grey matter, ideas splash and spatter.
Yet nothing ever mattered anywhere.
To nod off midst a rally, from mountains, all is valley.
To come alive, the sand and sea divide.
The universal wind blew its music through the skinned,
and sparked an impulse as the power died.
Just walk under a ladder, the world gets ever madder.
The super stitching breaks, the core revealed.
The inside, once united, becomes, alas, indicted.
It’s horrible to see what’s been concealed.

My Medicaid has been phased out,
and I will die, without a doubt.
Republicans have just rung my death knell.
Obama Care did give me hope,
but now I’m looking at the rope.
Red senators, I’ll see you all in hell.
Trump Care will cause thousands of deaths,
and, as we take our final breaths,
we’ll hope that we are martyrs bringing change.
The gall of one percent to usurp the government
is damnably cruel if not deranged.
Fight the power never meant so much at any time
as it does these days with government so steeped in crime.
We cry out, the euthanized, to this regime compromised,
crawl out now to save us from this wave of slime.

Dorothy’s hallucinating again.
The telltale stare.
The bulkhead stair.
Playing the game, rolls a six,
then boxcars, sixty-six. 666.
The Oz number.
Twister on the near horizon
and she’s outside for the dog,
a heroine to love and sing with.
She’ll get help, as always,
a team to talk her down,
to deal with the witches,
dancing elves and talking trees,
ease her through the vibrant colors.
Get her back home safely.
And somewhere, perhaps,
she’ll find a true wizard
who’ll finally help her
get this flying monkey off her back.

Willie Mays days are here again.
I traded my uncle the right to life
for his extensive stencil collection.
Now my art career can begin in earnest.
First sign, "No Borgnines,"
writ large above the barge
below the pail cathedral.
Let the thought police follow me.
I haunt dead ends.
I fill in lines on all merge signs
and imprint James Dean’s great face
inside the O’s in STOP. Go wild, child.
Don’t let me see you crying
in the breakdown lane.
The cruelty of roadways is the century’s curse.
Nothing worse than no place left to go.
On the one-way streets, I’m drying sheets.
The portrait of Che has a lot to say.
I lost my head in thinking blue and red.
I hope I can get mail while I’m in jail.

Hazardous waste
has piled up to my waist.
It’s just a simple taste
of worldwide doom.
It seems our end is based
on on-line cut and paste,
and now we all are faced
with satan’s broom.
Sweep away our history.
Keep at bay the mystery.
The life we knew so well
has gone to hell.
When the final bell shall ring
we’ll remember everything.
And our story will boil down
to buy and sell.

Happy Fathers’ Day. The hours melt away.
Only two more left to sell these cards.
Door to door we’ll go,
knocking, don’t you know,
selling reminiscence and its shards.
And it’s Daddy, Daddy-Oh.
How I love you, head to toe.
Your boots are just the fruits
of love’s sweet stand.
Your seed made me what I am,
schizophrenic and, god-damn,
now I’m playing
in an anarchistic band.
Crash the government.
Bury in cement.
Wash the old world
down the unfurled path.
Come out living clean
in the new world scene,
let the dirty bastards
take a bath.

His fingertips are raisins in a certain light,
like fingerprints that just survived a twelve-round fight.
His knuckles often swell and sometimes they will ache.
And if he tried to throw a curve, it wouldn’t break.
The hands that had the flex once of a lithe gym rat
would blister now just swinging his old baseball bat.
And that’s just what old age does to extremities.
When adding in the damage to the feet and knees,
it’s clear the days are gone when he can play at sport,
unless it is restricted to the walking sort.
To both the long jump shot and perfect spiral pass,
he’ll have to bid adieu and fondly raise a glass.

Grab this dark cloud now and wring it out.
Its tears will be the moneyed mead of oil.
So, shut the lights off, mama, for, no doubt,
you’re gonna have some acid in your soil.
The trees won’t grow, but cars will go.
Some animals will be put out of business.
Extinction helps economy, you know.
You’ll get your bobcat sandwich down at Quiznos.
Who cares about the ocean or the chem trails?
Who cares about the fish; they’re just a fad.
We’re talking greed right off the old pro tem rails.
Where history’s concerned, we’re just plain bad.

He’s got a fistful of fight but his hands are so small
that to battle makes not one shred of sense at all.
He emerges bloodied from every dust up.
He howls like a wolf then he yowls like a pup.
He’s clearly the loser in his every bout,
but no one’s been able to knock the man out.
He’s back in the ring on the very next day
throwing jabs at the world and just swinging away.
He showers opponents with insults and lies.
When faced with his losses, he simply denies.
His handlers convince him that he is the greatest.
Performance, however, would hint he’s a sadist.
In his corner his trainer and great cut man Bannon
persuades him his power is like a loose cannon.
And so he continues, bruised, dazed but still cocky.
He’s sly and persistent. And our future’s rocky.

I longed to see
the cupcake of your smile.
I thought you were
my mommy for awhile.
You pushed me on a swing
until my head was lost.
Of course I’d follow you
at almost any cost.
I’d trail behind
your skirt tails like a pet.
I’d kiss you ’til the world
was soaking wet.
And then, at night,
when you turned off the light,
I’d cry and cry
’til you were back in sight.

Six weeks ago I bought a gross of ghosts.
I thought they’d make tremendous party hosts.
I didn’t realize they’re unionized.
Before the sale I should have been apprised.
They’ll only show up for approved occurrence.
And now they have demanded health insurance.
Not only do they expect room and board,
they want clean sheets and linens, oh my lord.
And if one feels his pay is in arrears,
he, without warning, up and disappears.
I feel that in this deal I just got burned.
And it seems that ghosts can’t be returned.

Dusty milk spots remain
on the old barn floor
where we used to play tag as kids.
They were the safe zones,
like baseball bases,
where one could not be tagged.
Problem was they were oft below
the very cows that made them,
necessitating a baseball-like slide,
feet first, the old-fashioned way,
in order to reach them.
And, in doing so, one had to avoid,
by all means, getting "udder-faced."
To get tagged and "faced"
was a disgrace that might be
talked about for weeks.

Echo soundlessly inward
beyond vegetable borders
of limited dysfunctional reality.
Confound irretrievable memory
descending genetic ropes
toward fathomless new beginnings.
Explore erased capacities.
Ignore external duplicity.
Delve, unshelve and declassify.
Investigate, extrapolate, dematerialize.

(for Dr. Benjamin Spock 5/2/2903)

We’re caulking up the cracks in the facade of our reason.
Environmental factors aren’t responsible this season.
It seems that all the wear and tear is coming from within,
‘tween where propaganda ends and outright lies begin.
Minds exposed to massive doses of prepared corrosion
tend to teeter on the brink of shut down or explosion.
Bandages and blindfolds offered as some kind of fix
only tend to obscure the base nature of their tricks.
They’ll sell their own brand of madness as a healing factor,
led not by a ruler but a simple two-bit actor.
Hammer, nails and sweat prevails, but only with a vision.
Workers, come together. You don’t deserve this derision.

Up at three a.m. again, sittin’ on the can.
Sweatin’ out all last night’s gin, worried ’bout the man.
He shut off my internet, even killed my phone.
Am I frightened? Yeah, you bet! I am not alone.
Police are like a strike force now, armored law god’s sons.
In the street, it’s pow, pow, pow! Everyone got guns.
Me, I got no weapon bigger than a kitchen knife.
If I go out steppin’, I am bound to lose my life.
So I barricade the door, block the windows, too.
Got no food, can’t reach the store. Not much I can do.
Things look bleaker every day. Soon my blood will flow.
Even if I get away, got no place to go.

Where you can see Van Gogh’s Q-tip: ear wax museum
She always complains about her high rent at the DaVinci apartment complex: moaner leaser
What the Xerox thief figured he’d do in court: Copy Cop a plea
Sox Hall Of Fame catcher patted down at airport: Carlton Frisk
Russian leader snubs Trump’s hotel while in NYC: Putin in the Ritz
Best gloves to wear in a dojo: karate kidskin
Famous CNN woman host has a frivolous day off: Maddow lark
Hoop star Kobe’s private roadway: Lane Bryant
Erle Stanley Gardner’s novel about attorney Perry’s time in the Marines: Mason jarhead
The red headed stranger’s entire music catalog: full Nelson
Physician’s photo session while posing atop reddish-brown horse:
sitting of the doc on the bay
Best backup singer ever’s info survey: Emmy Lou Harris poll
Is this currency good in this country?: wonder bread
Hideaway sleeping device caught in swirling flood waters: eddy Murphy bed
What Sir Edmund Hillary said when warned that Tensing had put on some extra pounds:
"Nothing he could weigh would scare me away from my guide"
Former fireball pitcher Nolan won’t let his own boy behind the plate when he’s pitching:
don’t let the son catch you, Ryan
"I Am Woman" singer’s dominatrix prop: Helen Reddy whip
Anyone who overreacts when winning a pinball game: Al Pachinko
Irish singer Morrison trying to flag down a cab: Van hailin’
New Starbucks treat made with horse milk: pony espresso
What Sergio became when he won the Masters: cheery Garcia
Bigfoot planning to sneak into camp to steal food: hairy plotter
Patient accidentally pees on the floor, covers it with hospital gown: johnny on the spot
If action actor Dwayne Johnson had male triplets, what he would call the last born:
third son from The Rock
Richie Cunningham portrayer’s butt: Howard’s end
What the wicked witch said to Julia Roberts: "I’ll get you, my Pretty Woman"
Selling "Tea For The Tillerman" CD’s on the street: Cat Stevens hawking
Spill mayonnaise after reading 33 pages of music: Miracle Whip on 34th sheet
Social satirist Mort’s preferred mode of transportation: Sahl train
When Robin William’s alien character worked for a pest control company:
Mork from Orkin
Scottish singer Donovan’s pathway in Oz: Mellow Yellow brick road
An extreme diva’s favorite season: prima donna summer
He sang the sea urchin version of "Venus": Frankie abalone
When one needs M&M’s to get through the day: candy crutch
New non-fiction tome about trends: faze book
" Folsom Prison" singer meets "Pet Detective" actor: Cash and Carrey
Magnum P.I. star allergic to gluten: Tom Celiac
Family Feud star Steve’s new sleepwear line: P.J. Harvey
"Rock Around the Clock" singer’s funny book: Haley’s comic
Fan base of legendary Looney Tunes voice artist Mel: Blanc generation
What the cowboys wanted to do when they spotted a field of large black birds: rustle crow
He sang the dog version of "I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends": Joe Cocker spaniel
Sing-along long distance runner: Mitch miler
The game that infuriated Art Garfunkle: Simon says
Favorite late night host of canines: Jimmy kibble
Mozart’s flatulence problem: classical gas
What they called Lancelot when he got insanely happy on Easter morn upon receiving marshmallow chix: gladdest knight and the peeps
Beauty contest for women with broken limbs: Miss Cast
Largest eel ever caught in Holland: moray Amsterdam
French king who was a real shit: Louis the turd
A very sloppy DNA splicer: Gene Hackman
Last climb before Dogma Mountain: Faith Hill
Big purple hot dog for kids: Barney Frank
What you call a pale man in a speedo: Whitey Bulger
Catholic church’s highest ranking kangaroo: Joey Bishop
Worst job at the International House of Insects: gnat turner
Late beloved Boston Pops conductor reshingles : Fiedler on the roof
Electronic book exposed to a gale: Kindle in the wind
Color of well-functioning brain: sane grey
Derive no pleasure from hypochondriacal aches: I get no kick from sham pain
Horror movie wherein monster emerges from a charred peanut:
Creature From the Black Legume.