Red Tin Noodles

The bets are really big; it’s the last hand.
He needs either the nine of spades or four.
Just as he’s about to ask for one card,
comes a frantic knock upon the door.
"Call the police," he hears a man’s loud voice say,
"Down the street some guy just shot a cop!"
As the others all run out to witness,
he grabs the deck and puts the nine on top.
They’d been playing all night into morning.
It must be now pretty close to noon.
Late October day in Dallas, Texas.
Who could know their lives will change, and soon?

Zeb collected Kronen. He had several passed down from his great grandparents,
whom he’d called ‘Hessa" and ‘Squadroon,’ for no apparent reason. He’d been told
that they were from ‘the old country,’ somewhere in Austria, but got confused and
used to tell classmates they’d once owned a kangaroo farm. Zeb would embellish.
His parents, whom he called ‘Fizza’ and ‘Mazier,’ (he liked Z words) told him Kroner
were hard to find in Utah and suggested a new hobby, or perhaps religion. Of course,
Zeb combined the two, and began to dig in the woods, perhaps looking to unearth
Kronen or to find Australia. What he did find were bones, animal bones which he
would assemble into sculptures, usually a pattern of interlaced Z’s. But one day
‘Fizza’ said, "That looks like a human femur you’ve got there, Zeb." And the police
were contacted. Following the investigation, which did, indeed, prove ‘Fizza’ correct,
Zeb became interested in forensics, stopped digging in the ground, and dug instead
into textbooks related to the field. And Zeb is now the highest ranking crime scene
investigator in Utah. Mormons do get murdered, it seems, but not nearly at the rate
of the general population. Around the office, Zeb is known as ‘Agent Z.’

When Wade was in eighth grade, having shown
some prowess with the instrument in his school’s
band room, he persuaded his father to buy him a trumpet.
They were not a well off family, so the instrument was used,
but Wade was very appreciative. His musical hero was
legendary jazz great Dizzy Gillespie, he of the puffed cheeks
and bent trumpet. After several months of practice, Wade decided,
to better emulate his idol, to take the horn into the basement
and bend it similarly in his father’s vise. He succeeded only
in snapping the bell off his trumpet, leaving him, basically,
with the world’s first valved kazoo. His father was furious
and adamantly refused to replace the horn. With some minor
modifications, Wade was able to get sound from his ruined instrument,
and became proficient enough to entertain at parties, school revues
and even on open mic night at a local club. A couple years later,
using some inheritance money from his late grandfather,
he funded the manufacture of an inexpensive tin version
which he patented as the "Jazzoo." It sold surprisingly well
as a novelty instrument and provided enough money to pay
for four years in a local college, studying musicology, and
to earn the begrudging respect of his father, who insisted thereafter
on calling his son "Dizzy," a nickname that stuck for life
and which Wade quite enjoyed.

I’m a font of iambiquity.
My rhymes are quite persnickety.
I often use pentameters
to shatter some parameters.
If you hear that I’ve been rhymin’,
find a tree and just start climbin’.

Inauguration day.
The clouds won’t go away.
The sky above D.C. is almost dark.
There’s protest down the block
from people still in shock.
The contrast to the past events is stark.
One remembers J.F.K.,
and what he said on that great day,
flanked by Jackie and the poet Frost.
Now there stands this man,
orange is his tan.
One can only think that all is lost.
As he lays his small hand on the bible,
model wife beside, to take the oath,
one thinks of his history of libel,
feeling grief or disbelief, or both.
"Lock her up," and “Grab her by the pussy,"
shouts an angry voice within the crowd.
"Someone beat that man," says our electee,
“Hurt him badly, do your country proud."
So begins the year of our undoing.
Silence is the order of the day.
Under this, there is a violence stewing.
Build a wall around yourself and pray.

My new year’s resolution
is to start a revolution,
to turn the tide
against this fascist wave.
There’s only one solution
to insure evolution,
to send this despot legion
to its grave.
Take to the street,
tear down the walls.
Negate defeat
when history calls.
We must risk all,
including death.
We fight for right,
’til our last breath.

She breeds like centipedes.
She feeds. She needs. She bleeds.
The suffering mother of millions
aims high, perhaps even quadrillions.
Her womb is a room to so many,
it once earned a line from Jack Benny.
Her milk, if collected in jars,
would reach half the distance to Mars.
She has sixty daughters named Millie,
and unisex thousands named Billie.
Though none of ’em strays from her sights,
there’s hardly a handful that writes,
Her life’s been spent spreading her legs.
Who knew she’d contain all those eggs?
There’s sixty-five daughters named Janet.
Her spawn are all swarming the planet.
God bless you, good mother of millions.
Surprisingly, most are Sicilians.

Can you write me a prescription,
doc, for some dilaudid, please?
I heard it helped with Elvis.
I have trouble with my knees.
And maybe a few percodans
would help me with my head.
But if you’re running low on those,
darvon will do instead.
Of course I’ll need some valium
to quell this morning shake.
I always wake up groggy
from the sleeping pills I take.
And, while you’re at it,
opiods and pill form THC
would really ease my ailments,
doc; they’ll be the death of me.

T’was the night of seismics
that we all lucked out,
seeking entertainment
in the underground,
came upon a dark
spontaneous cabaret
even all the locals
had been mum about,
where we saw a small girl
with a broken leg
sing so eloquently
on her fishbowl life,
it was evident that
we had all been changed.
First we cried and laughed
and then we signed her cast.

Kind castles create bland rulers.
The harsh flag scoffs at victory.
Prepare to die by poison ideas.
The armor of the future is speed.
Pure evil is the fulcrum of doubt.
Get over it: forget the Alamo.
Loose troops sink ships’ shapes.
Bomb patterns make lovely quilts.
A nation of spies has much in common.
Death works well as a diversion.
Peace is the luxury of also rans.
When the blood market wanes, open veins.
The only good gun is a used one.
Defeat is the posture of disease.

Pebbles married Pogo and upgraded to a swamp.
Scooby Doo and Snoopy had a wedding with much pomp.
Daisy Duck wed Road Runner; it happened much too fast.
Sluggo married Orphan Annie; it’ll never last.
Dennis hitched with Lucy and got into S&M.
Elroy Jetson/ Little Lulu; hey, good luck to them.
Archie did choose Betty, left Veronica in tears.
Dilbert married Mary Worth; he’d had too many beers.
Dora the Explorer ran away with Richie Rich.
Underdog at last made Pretty Polly his true bitch.
Steve Canyon finally came to earth, eloped with Brenda Starr.
Daffy Duck, en route to chapel, got hit by a car.
Tinker Bell (this hurts like hell) wed crazed Woody Woodpecker.
Betty Boop and Alley Oop bought their first double decker.
Sure, there’s guys who’ll never marry, just to name a few:
Bluto, Beetle Bailey, Goofy, Hulk, Mister Magoo.
And many a cartoon woman will stay an old maid,
sure the Jugheads of their world simply don’t make the grade.

Some nights, I just want to drink some Drano.
The world feels like one massive backed-up sink.
I wonder if I have gone insane, oh,
what’s the use is often what I think.
But alas, some intricate reflection
will convey life’s beauty to my head.
After a bit of introspection,
I realize it’s no help being dead.
There are things to do to make life better,
even if it’s on a minute scale.
When the world around us is on fire,
everyone needs to pick up a pail.
Safety is, indeed, the seed of numbers.
Sanity will often tip the scales.
History says when the power slumbers
truth can knock their carriage off the rails.
And so, tonight, I’ll go out draining,
but not in a self destructive way.
Evil at the moment might be reigning.
But, like always, they will have their day.

Nodding to computer radio,
light years from the a.m. of my youth.
Cousin Brucie fell, alas, to eight tracks.
Vinyl beware of cassettes, forsooth.
Reel to reel’s dying protests were tragic.
CD’s were the new audio rage.
Quality of sound touted as magic;
this was dawning of new airwaves’ age.
There have been a hundred more perfections,
touted in the press and magazines.
On the other side there are defections,
rejecting these shallow hipster scenes.
In the end it all goes back to vinyl,
despite imperfections in the grooves.
Something in the turning seemed so final.
As if music sensed our final moves.

Oh Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
Just leave some megatons beneath my tree.
My Russian pen pal asked you for the same thing.
And I don’t want him to have more than me.
The game we play is mutual destruction.
And I don’t know, dear Santa, if you’ve heard.
But this will always end up in a dead heat
if mass annihilation is assured.
So Santa, please bring me some nukes for Christmas.
I’ve been a little naughty, there’s no doubt.
But if you don’t deliver what I ask for,
I’ll buy your factory and phase you out.
The nuclear arms race has been neglected
for many years now, but must be resumed.
A wave of paranoia is expected.
An end of life scenario presumed.
Hey Santa, I’m not kidding on this wish list.
I’ve got a lot of generals prompting me.
The fate of this world hinges on your presents.
I’d better see some nukes under my tree.

On Clough Road when I was a child
we had some maple trees.
In fall the leaves lay on the lawn,
in places to my knees.
My dad would rake this dried debris
into one giant pile.
My friends and I were then allowed
to play in it awhile.
We’d run and dive into this hive
for all the afternoon.
And when the kids were called away,
they’d always whine, "Too soon!"
I’d come back in the house all leafy,
notice Dad’s chagrin,
as Mom would tell him cheerfully,
"You’ll have to rake again."

Listening to John Cale,
thinking of Foghorn Leghorn.
Might have a fever.
Early morning skull swells,
looking to extricate eyeballs.
Sinuses screaming with graffiti,
yellow-green protests on germ warfare.
Hacking along to every song,
pillow wet with sweat, feet of ice.
Crazed thoughts magnify and pulse.
Scratches on the wall obtain meaning.
Pain can be a prod toward greatness,
sleeplessness the realm of a new clarity.
Push on, O virus-induced mystic.
Hurry now before the pills kick in.

I walked into black plastic arms and it felt like home.
Perhaps the hard green soldiers had taken this beach.
The beehives formed the outer edges of the strike zone.
Every day the new best song came out. No fear of death.
Just acceptance, and the next parameter of strangulation.
Tightropes were passe but necessary. They were the very very.
Feedback returned us to our cages, where we sniped at each mirage.
The jail was an igloo of coconuts, the sauces our own aspirations.