Red Tin Noodles

Nixon had a running mate named Spiro.
Their combined integrity was zero.
Nixon was a paranoid and liar.
Agnew was a goon and vilifier.
Both fled office to avoid a trial,
leaving legacies most dark and vile.
Those who do remember them at all
felt some vindication in their fall.

Most of all, I’d like to thank, the big three, Dylan, Bruce and Hank,
Elvis, Van and Jerry Lee, Cash, the Clash and GBV,
Cohen, Bowie, Brubeck, Cream, Nine Inch Nails and Marley’s dream,
Neil Young and his Crazy Horse, Rolling Stones, Beatles, of course,
Richard Thompson, Bobby Bare, soundtracks, "Oliver" and "Hair,"
Miles, ‘Trane, Mingus and the Bird, all the Wainwrights, first to third,
Airplane, Moby Grape and Dead, David Byrne, the Talking Head,
k.d., Bonnie, Emmy Lou, Kurt Cobain and Fighters Foo,
Willie, Billie, Mel Torme, Spoonful, Eleventh Dream Day,
Warren Zevon, White Stripes, Who, Traffic, Waits and Gil Scott, too,
Stevies: Wonder, Ray and Nicks, Louis Armstrong, Monk and Bix,
Hendrix, Marvin, Patsy Cline, Youngbloods, Taj Mahal, John Prine,
Muddy, Fats and Jelly Roll, Kinks, Paul Butterfield and Hole,
Janis, Woody, Arlo, Pete, Nick Cave on his Mercy Seat,
Led Zep, Creedence and the Jam, Canned Heat, Tom Rush, Sam the Sham,
Smithers, Withers, Townes Van Zandt, Frank Sinatra, Gogi Grant,
Holly, DEVO and Chuck Berry, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, Sonny Terry,
Keb’ Mo’, Shins and Arcade Fire, Simon, Beach Boys, Beck and Wire,
The Band, The The, Sonic Youth, Decemberists, Spooky Tooth,
REM, Cramps, Modest Mouse, Sam Cooke, Bauhaus, Crowded House,
Aretha and Nat King Cole, all the troubadours of soul,
Joni, Joan and all the folks, on the big wheel, they’re the spokes,
blues, rock punk, ska and new wave, music I’ll take to my grave.

Remember the time when our waters were fine,
when the rivers weren’t cloudy all day?
When the fish used to swim in the fresh or the brine,
before chemicals came into play.
But now plastic and oil have consorted to spoil
our great waterways, oceans and lakes.
Stop this madness, and soon, or just say, "Goodnight Moon."
Please do it for your grandchildren’s sakes.

Ten years ago today, my heart went on a short vacation.
It called me in my dream state from a pay phone at a station.
"I’m sitting just outside your chest. It’s really quite a view.
Don’t worry, get yourself some rest, I’ll be back in a few.
Amazing how the world looks when you’re not cooped up in ribs.
I seem to be surrounded by a bunch of guys in bibs.
I think I’ll have a little work to ease my miseries.
I’ll have a valve job and perhaps get four new arteries.
I should be home before it’s dark, so please don’t pass away.
And when I’m back, please promise me, do as the doctors say."
A decade since my chest was opened and I’m doing fine.
I’d like to thank my bypass team. My heart is yours, not mine.

A couple days ago, I miscarried.
Just a little blob covered in red.
Now they tell me it’s got to be buried.
Bad enough my zygote child is dead.
Fetus funerals are the law in Texas.
Strange new rules now suddenly abound.
Bring it to the graveyard in a Lexus.
Throw it with some flowers in the ground.
Priest will eulogize our little Cletis.
They suggested that it have a name.
We just made a guess it’s a boy fetus.
This whole system seems a bit insane.
Plan is when the ceremony ends,
we’ll go out to breakfast with some friends.
And, as this crazed situation begs,
we’ll all order sunny side up eggs.

When the Ray Gun wasn’t on his meds,
he might, off the cuff, say, "Nuke the Reds."
Once he’d shouted, like a baseball call,
"Mister Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
But he wasn’t able to conceal
that he’d made an Iran-Contra deal.
Later, when his brain was giving in,
he was mostly Mommy’s mannequin.
History shows his coin as two-sided.
Many deem his policies misguided.
Poor folks called him old son of a bitch.
But he was a hero to the rich.

Life is the wonder socket,
a pulse of ice and fire
that churns the steam of dreams,
a forest of unbidden shadows’
masked parade of time.
The prayer of clocks
cannot drown the mystery of fears,
their ripped pocket of unending trials.
All thought rides the rails of perspective,
tapering ever toward death’s horizon.
Energy consumes. Entropy enlightens.
A soothing drop in a bucket of fright
is all that the stars will allow.

Suddenly, everyone was wearing red hats.
Those that didn’t were vilified, even pushed around.
Beneath their crimson brims they screamed of country.
People without proper hats were scared to go outside.
They had to sneak around at night, keep out of sight,
risking harm in their own neighborhoods.
Some preferred blue hats, but would never say so.
Eventually, it was easier just to get one, to blend with
those marching about the streets and restricted zones.
Of course one didn’t have to really like them.
After all, it was just a color.

Mrs. Ritz spits out bits of olive pits
from the knitted chair in which she always sits.
Her entire house is filled with strange mementos.
She freely admits addiction to pimentos.
She’s surrounded by her cats, a baker’s dozen,
every one related, uncle, aunt or cousin.
Also in the mix are her two feisty parrots,
who will dance and sing if tempted by raw carrots.
They prefer old gospel songs or Broadway tunes.
One sings like Hank Williams while the other croons.
Neighbors who drop by to see her day to day
say it all seems like an Ionesco play.
Cats run up the curtains, chase around and fight,
while the birds duet on Hank’s "I Saw The Light."

Never pin your hopes on a phantom.
Massage your cliff face daily
and oil all squeaking parts.
Walk lightly on the wire of consciousness.
Sweep street smarts to the sidewalk, then run.
Smash ideas into quarters, re-paste at random.
Settle back, arch spine, climb in trunk.
Don’t ever drink absinthe with newsboys.
Sail blithely over open space bars.
Best avoid magnetic socks with steel-toed shoes.
Push and pull with equal frequency on days off.
Rotate memories from basement to attic.
Give fingers names and whisper to them secrets.
Always blink eyes rhythmically to ska.

Games are mathematics diluted in imagination.
Backgammon a stepladder of pure numbers.
Checkerboard a diamond of bad hops.
All war games are spawn of great lord chess.
Monopoly is the capitalist Candy Land.
Dominoes are playing cards’ plump children.
Probability’s bones made of dice and spinners.
Genetic odds and evens in a helix of competition.
An equation whose solution is dusted with distraction.
And the constant variable of passing time.
It’s enough to make one lose his marbles.

Does watching Snowden break the law?
The government knows what you saw.
Will they now brand you as a traitor,
haul you off to somewhere later?
Once you were a common Joe.
Now you’re in Guantanamo.
Siding with a whistle blower
equates you with a bomb thrower.
Standing up for liberties
now means exile overseas.
Every time you click your mouse,
Uncle Sam is in your house.
Trigger words might make him sore,
then a SWAT team’s at your door.
Goodbye wife and family.
I just wanted to live free.

Get a bunch of lying, cheating
billionaires together.
It’s a bet there’ll be a spate
of money-making weather.
Bonds will bury dupes in debt;
be the biggest bank heist yet.
Who the hell is pulling all these reins?
Benevolent leader’s not the brains.
What’s the price of selling all our souls?
Years of power on the jelly rolls.
Is there nothing we will pull up short of?
Kidnapping, death, rape and torture, sort of.
We play fast and loose with the convention.
Some say that subversion’s our invention.
One world domination’s our intention.
Like a child, you paid us no attention.

A rusting pile of iron ore
lies on the floor for purposes unknown.
Down on the block an old gamecock
has found himself upon the clock and flown.
While whistles sigh and poets die,
the people cry for more or less the same.
Rebounding sound drifts to the ground,
is swept round into corners like a game.
The city’s streets are all swap meets
where cheats and grounded fleets waste precious time.
In theory things are dreary but,
like everywhere, one’s gotta make a dime.
It’s not enough when things are tough
to get by on just trickery and guile.
Sometimes when gods or demons call your bluff,
you’ve got to roam the underground awhile.

Windy and cold and smelling of leaves.
Look to the sky, you can see through the trees.
Chipmunks are storing their harvest of nuts.
Winter is coming, no ifs ands or buts.

Elmer and Daffy were acting up again,
and, as always, sporting firearms.
They were at a rally in the ‘deep’ south,
a sea of bright red hats and dull pink faces.
Alcohol had made their speech incomprehensible.
Daffy: "Sufferin’ suckers’ tax."
Elmer: "Kill da wabbit!" (Roe v. Wade)
Many tee shirts advocated violence.
Daffy’s was the only black face seen.
Women carried signs which just said, "That Bitch!"
It was like a theme park for the mad.
"Build a wall!" and "Keep our guns," they shouted.
When out of a shining clown town car
a cartoon politician did emerge,
the roiling crowd quite simply went insane.

Snuffling is not sniveling
except in certain cases
when said snuffler is grimacing
and making funny faces,
and saying things that sound like lies
and are, in fact, not fact,
and covering with alibis,
a crazed autodidact.
He sniffs because he’s so damned smart.
He snuffles ’cause he’s rich.
He sees the poor as servant stock
and women are a bitch.
Why should he pay his own fair share
when shares can well be stolen?
Why should life be sky blue and green
when it can be made golden?
He’s "wrong." He’s "wrong."
His head is filled with ghastly monarch notions.
His heart sings only greed’s dark song.
Protect the land and oceans.

The song of the crow
was his raison d’etre.
He’d climb a tree, dressed in black,
and recite the words, written in bird.
He never did experience
any great desire to fly.
But every time he passed a cornfield,
he felt a burning hatred of straw men.

Put the needle on the noodle.
Listen to the pasta play.
It’s the whole kit and caboodle.
There is nothing more to say.
Get some penne and some paper.
Fill the tubes with marinara.
Writing this way is a caper.
Sign your work ‘Scarlet O’Hara.’
Use spaghetti as a paintbrush.
For paint, use alfredo sauce.
Flay the canvas in a great rush.
Critics will be at a loss.
You can be a pasta artist.
All it takes is attitude.
Just insist that those are smartest
who make beauty out of food.

John Cale was in the House of Anthrax
before we’d even heard that word called terror.
Terror is the unmoving phalanx of cars
stretched twelve miles short of the city.
Terror is a cloud you can’t describe.
Terror is the sound of engines silenced,
unlimited progress on a flat map.
Terror is the recoil of beauty,
a birthmark buried in hate.
Terror is the unthinkable act
played out eternally as afterthought.