Red Tin Noodles

Good morning.
Your church
is toast.
Your religion
is jelly.
Your salvation
is scrambled.
And still
you pray
for coffee.

I’m just a gypsy barnacle,
searching for a rock
to lie on, to die on,
as the water laps my days.
Encrusted on this old routine,
I spend my time alone and
thinking, "suction…suction."
How soon the moment comes
for me to loosen and get battered
is just another secret of the sun.
How warm this shell has been,
how cold the sea.

It’s a cold world, but the lights work
and the trains don’t run on time.
And there’s no hope but a taut rope
for a man not in his prime.
Four of ten men on a dark street
are just waiting on a crime.
Some will kill you for a quarter,
some’ll love you for a dime.
And I say charge it all to Jesus.
Put it on the master’s card.
He said to live a life of love,
but it’s just too damned hard.
Our visions of a world above
are cracked and bent and scarred.
So play your hand, dispatch, disband,
dispel and then discard.

My teeth were sent to outer space,
as part of some experiment with dogs
and several poker-playing cosmonauts.
Now I have a growing taste for Mars bars,
starfish,moon pies, sun drieds and plutonium,
which tastes like Tang. An old NASA joke.
At night I feel them orbiting my bed
and in my head they vibrate,
conditioned by their mission.
When I smile, some people call me "lunar"
or "mercurial." But just a few White Russians
and I’m flush for liftoff, re-entry and splashdown
in the dental sea of tranquility.

He’s cornered the bullshit market,
eating Denver mints
and popping pesos madly.
He’s in love with the ruble,
and makes origami wallets
out of thousand dollar bills.
He collects sand dollars,
in case Atlantis rises.
He calls his mother "Drachma."
He takes no Canadian quarter,
and calls the lira lyrical.
He cries out wildly
during stock reports,
and sleeps upon a mattress
stuffed hard with confederate bills.
His banker calls him Big Bill,
but around the office
he’s just known as Buck.

Brendan hucked up a golf ball
he’d swallowed several years ago
after his only hole-in-one.
It was a point of honor,
his threesome insisted.
How was he to know they were insane?
Now at least there’s something
for his trophy cabinet,
even though the cover
of his Titleist is gone,
done in, he supposed, by stomach acids.
Didn’t even look like a golf ball
any more, just a frayed pellet
of wound elastics.
And what was it they’d done to him
in the trap on the very next hole?
He remembered thinking,
"Why, they all have tweezers!"

I shot the night
into ragged quarters,
through a Mexican-Russian
standoff; singing
dirty songs of earthworms
and potatoes, unsteady,
alas, on amped feet,
and playing air guitar
for the ghost outside
the window.

When you’re in a jam,
as I so often am,
it’s best to stop and think
before you start to sink.
Do not succumb to doubt.
There’s always some way out.
Don’t panic or lose hope.
You’ll find a way to cope.
Ideas will take shape
and lead to your escape.
Maintain tranquility.
It’s freedom’s golden key.

There is no zone of safety anymore.
Turn any corner, you may find a war.
The fight may have to do with race,
with underworld or outer space.
The combat may use guns or knives.
It may cost limbs. It may cost lives.
One thing is sure: there is no place to hide.
The world’s a roller coaster terror ride.

It’s a shame computer games
contain so many guns.
Now aliens can shoot down dreams,
agnostics hunt for nuns.
Lucky kids who kill enough
ascend to level three.
Still we wonder at
society’s great savagery.

Diamonds explode into a dwindling sky,
but rain back down to earth as broken glass.
One carat perches on a silver cloud.
While the rest fall on the under class.
The people gathering these shiny shards
realize it’s for nothing that they bleed.
But they are persuaded that these crystal "gems"
are really all in life they’ll ever need.

When waiting for a train or bus,
stay clear of those who spit or cuss.
Despite their soft and furry backs,
don’t pet the rats that roam the tracks.
It’s good to bring a book or magazine.
And don’t pick seats across from the latrine.

Santa’s in a nursing home.
Rudolph conked him on the dome.
It was clear St. Nick was addled
when the reindeer were found saddled.
Elves were working triple shifts.
Toys were being lost in drifts.
In November, things got weird
when the Claus shaved off his beard.
He’d walk the north pole ringing bells,
looking more like Orson Welles.
When he changed his suit to green,
Rudolph had to intervene.
So, this year it’s for the best
if poor Santa takes a rest.
As you lay snug in your beds,
think of St. Nick on his meds.

A Spanish pup escaped the pound
and headed toward the border.
He happened on a frankfurt stand
and dared put in an order.
"I’ll have a weiner. Make it hot.
I’ll need ketchup and relish."
They threw his tail into a pot.
A dog’s life can be hellish.

One day some lipsticks melted
on the dashboard of the car.
It looked like modern art had
carried on a bit too far.
On real hot days this waxworks
turned to dripping mass of ooze.
One never knew when exiting
what color’d be your shoes.

It’s tough when cell mates say goodbye.
They’re men, so they don’t want to cry.
Like brothers who have both done wrong
and been sent to their room so long,
each one knows what their mate’s about,
and suddenly, one’s getting out.
How does a con express his thanks
to one who’s helped him avoid shanks?
One guy showed macho gratitude:
carved in his skull, "I’ll miss you, dude."