Red Tin Noodles

Life is an arrow pointing down,
a signpost from the heavens
to the ground.
It’s sharply beveled tip
reminds you, blood or crip,
that you’re just a prisoner
here on loan.
The direction that you take
don’t matter one whit, Jake.
The dirt will always own you,
skin and bone.

He wants to play your part.
He knows your lines by heart.
He’s got your moves all down.
He’s hoping you might drown.
And every time you sneeze,
he gets down on his knees.
If you should get the flu,
he’ll step right in for you.
An understudy won’t get very far
unless misfortune overcomes the star.

Beyond the beyond
is an everlasting pond.
Above the above
is a branch that holds the dove.
Inside the inside
is a mystery untied.
Below the below
there are things we cannot know.

Old smoke’s been replaced by vapor.
Cigar’s outmoded as paper.
Cowboys no longer ride horses,
drive their UV’s to golf courses.
No stage robbers, cattle rustlers.
Outlaws now are stock fraud hustlers.
The old west has surely changed.
It’s not wild now, just deranged.

I knocked when I was holding pairs.
I fell once going up the stairs.
I had a run but no one cares.
The day after cards is annoying,
the images burning and cloying.
My three on your threes.
I’ll take that eight, please.
The king’s on his knees
in the bathroom
and shuffling again.
Did I lose? Damn the booze!
Well, next week
I’ll break even or win.

Point well taken.
Point well made.
Pointed chin and pointy head.
Match point, set point,
point in time.
Pointed remark.
Pointless rhyme.
Pointer dog and Pointer Sister.
Hey, you, don’t point
at me, mister.
Shaving points
and pointed out.
Point of order!
Hey, don’t shout.
Meeting point of no return.
Points to save
and points to earn.
Laser pointers everywhere.
Next appointment.
See you there.

We’re protecting the future for children.
Our machines just might be their salvation.
We’ll send tanks to the good revolution
and stealth jets to a prosperous nation.
While the usual weapons byproducts
sometimes color our image as ‘meanie,’
for each parent that’s killed in our battles,
each child gets an industrial beanie.

The thought bubble is in trouble.
Tracking thinking, lights are blinking.
Auras pass in chilling whiffs of time.
Put the nation on vacation.
Inner vision rots in prison.
Best to quell the thoughtful, praise the crime.

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

The statue of the laundress
stands in mute assessment.
The day crinkles like celluloid,
producing rodent sounds.
The church league wakes
with thoughts of holy toast.
Garage doors yawn mechanically.
The cool air spits colors.
Sly grass grows around the tree nub.
Somewhere a runner has stumbled,
ankle painfully swelling.
A blue nurse takes too many pills.
One stone in the old wall shifts,
changing everything.
The first word is written
by insects.

Len was a guy who’d get you anything,
komodo dragon eggs to diamond ring.
He’d get you tee times at the best golf course
or any drug you’d need from weed to horse.
He’d get you items home-made or imported.
He’d get you justice if you’d been extorted.
But folks say that his contacts got too weird.
And one day Len just up and disappeared.

Scraps on roof.
Vanishing pockets.
Has bin.
Shoot penguin out window.
Wood shoes need oil.
Baby’s circumference shrinking.
Head of rat.
Halt who stays there.
Muttering rice.
Lick the foursome.
Finite geography.
Passing in.
Sleeps above it.
Phase out handy.
Glass and free chain.
Once removed.

The playground sky brushed by in its amusement
as the birds united in swift flight.
The hard ground played its games of soft confusion
as hours, like flowers, grew petals of the night.

I’m ice cold and my hands are blue.
I feel the wind right through my shoe.
I’ve got no roof or home to shelter me,
the human discard of society.
I’m a homeless man in a heartless time.
I’ve got no money. That’s my crime.
Once I had friends and dreams and plans.
But that world slipped through my hands.
On dark streets, disregards the ruling mood.
One begs for change in hopes of getting food.
Eventually the elders turn to drink.
A man can’t mourn his life if he can’t think.
I just can’t get a grip with fingers bent.
I live in shame but that’s irrelevant.
I eat from trash and pack a cardboard bed.
I fight for life while wishing I were dead.
I’m a homeless man in a heedless time.
To treat a soul this way must be a crime.

Our faction has successfully
the enemy exposed.
It is no surprise, therefore,
so many’ve been disposed.
The body count implants the land
with sullen hidden graves.
The lord abstains, the lord disdains,
abandons earth to braves.
We wake up, then, in dance
and song, in deep security.
The goons pretend to play along.
We’ve pledged serenity.
No bombs go off. No lives are lost.
The band has fed it back.
The drone of history goes on.
The future fades to black.

Left-handed bowling alleys of the future
will become sudden glory things one day.
The roads that drove the tribe to next to nowhere
will be rerouted, find another way.
The pins that fall are most akin to soldiers
in an army of widespread despair.
In nightmares the desert always smolders.
What war can we possibly win there?
It’s a seven-ten split,
and the Earl don’t give a shit.
The Head Pin Temple Lanes don’t make the news.
But Buddha still wears multicolored shoes.

The sin also rises, and sets prices.
The market is paying in beanstalks again,
and the giants of industry wear camo.
The center has held.
It’s the outside that’s spinning to pieces.
The casting of extras has abruptly ended.
Scenery is unrecognizable
and losing interest.
Bears have killed the stockade’s only bull.
They say there’s weeping in the condo silos.
The nest egg’s been aborted.
Newer chemicals now define the meat.
Billions and billions of drones
are alit on the head of a pin,
ready to pop the world.

I’d like to buy a frigate for a song.
The tune would be a rousing little ditty.
The leaders I believed in were all wrong,
went one-by-one insane. It wasn’t pretty.
And now I need a ship to keep me strong,
perhaps to sail away and leave the city.
Ship of state. State of art.
Strip shaped core and shellshocked heart.
The waves of doubt are crashing on the shore,
distorting true reflection evermore.

When licked,
the hand of our benevolent ruler
tasted just like butterscotch.
He often wore a suit
made from what in the west
are usually called ‘jimmies.’
It was his strange custom
when out walking amongst the poor
to spit chocolates to the crowd.
If noted rulers visited,
he gave them peppermints,
invited them to nibble
on his marzipan crown.
Indeed, the queen
was always made of gingerbread,
constantly changing shape and size.
Some days her hair was caramel,
sometimes licorice or marshmallow.
Then, one day, the prince
of candyland was eaten,
throne and all,
in a calorific coup.

The rain claws
dig deep
inside the clothing,
the skin, the meat,
the essence and,
finally, the meaning,
producing a dampness
of spirit
ten days of sun
may not dry away.