Red Tin Noodles

Uncle Sham pulled nickels from my ear.
Always smelled of cigarettes and beer.
Told me once that he’d buy me a horse.
It was just a plastic toy, of course.
Sometimes he would bounce me on his knee.
That made me sore and feel I had to pee.
One year we had our family tree collated.
It turned out he was not even related.

O, eggs in your yellowy pile,
approaching the color of bile,
we honor your wedding with bacon,
with oatmeal the witness,
stirred but not shaken.
And there stands serene orange juice,
right next to black coffee,
a colorful truce.
Presiding over this MacGuffin,
all slathered with Smuckers,
a split english muffin.

Some say that their hairy arms
are not amongst a man’s great charms.
But some insist that if they’re braided
then the look is quite upgraded.
Some claim shaving is no trouble
up until your arms grow stubble.
Seem’s the issue’s best averted
if one remains long-sleeve shirted.

Eve was teed off at her guy.
He said he wanted apple pie.
She was extremely discontented.
Fire wasn’t yet invented.
Adam said they could adjust,
maybe use some leaves for crust.
Eve said no way she would bake.
"Why can’t we just eat some snake?"

Never curse a nurse.
There could be nothing worse.
No matter how you feel,
they’re there to help you heal.
They’ll treat you with compassion
although you’re out of fashion.
They deal with blood and feces.
They are one special species.
List nurses high amongst your loves.
They’re living saints in rubber gloves.

(for the nurses who helped me
through the last eight weeks)

Father Time, it’s no crime
to be growing older.
We’re all weathering away,
tethered to life’s boulder.
As we age, comes a stage
where that rock rolls faster.
Everyone’s a slave to time.
No one is its master.
Skin gets cracked, body bowed,
footsteps come much slower.
Everything now seems a load.
Voices all get lower.
Soon the clock will wave its hand,
as if in goodbye.
Hourglass is out of sand.
Comes the time to die.

There is no common use
for the hue chartreuse.
And even more obtuse:
what does one do with puce?

Some seek fame and some seek culture.
I want to adopt a vulture.
Some need structure in their day.
I incline toward birds of prey.
Some like boys and some like girls.
I like birds who eat dead squirrels.
Some like cold and some like heat.
I like wingspans of eight feet.
Some like dancing cheek-to-cheek.
I like bald heads with a beak.
In my vulture paradise,
I would scatter lunch, dead mice.
I don’t want to be its captor,
more its pal: me and my raptor.

Boots Poffenberger played in only fifty-seven games
but arguably had one of the all-time baseball names.

Frank Baumann’s ’60 ERA was league-best two-six-seven.
The southpaw never matched that, his career mark: four-eleven.

Billy Rohr was one strike from a no-no in first start.
An Elston Howard single broke the Red Sox lefty’s heart.

Nelson Cruz was not a basher back when he was clean.
But PED’s turned him into a round-tripper machine.

No hot water to get into.
No wolf at the door.
Furnishings are sparse but they will do.
All night sounds of knocking knees,
pokeweed whistles "More."
There is absolutely not a view.
Here the blue moon never sets.
Roads all lead nowhere.
If it’s peace you’re looking for,
you will find it there.
Your bed may not be too soft.
It’s a lower berth.
Pillow might feel like a rock.
Blanket’s made of earth.
Say goodbye to apple pie.
Hello cabin in the sky.

The tolerable threes quickly turn
to the frightening fours,
then fiddling fives and
by slick six they’re roaming outdoors.
A brief blast of sovereign seven,
then ennobled eight starts to leaven.
By nay nine they’ve picked up a pen
and write diatribes by terse ten.
Enlightened eleven may see a growth spurt.
And by tortured twelve they perfect throwing dirt.
All hell then breaks loose in tense teens,
as if they’d consumed magic beans.
God knows if they make it to twenty,
you will have been tortured aplenty.
At twenty-one they turn adult
and join the establishment cult.
It’s then they avoid you like rabies.
Your only hope left is grand babies.

Polar bear got nowhere
to go once the ice all melts away.
They’re just bears. No one cares.
‘Til they come to your backyard
to play.

My tap shoes are tapped out.
My clogs are clogged, no doubt.
My wingtips have all flown
away with herringbone.
My loafers just look tired,
my brogans uninspired.
My cleats are dull from sporting lull.
My car shoes got hot wired.
My sneakers snuck away
because I would not play.
My boots all need new heels.
My roller skates lost wheels.
My sandals were all swiped by vandals
somewhere by the sea.
My hush puppies were chewed by dogs.
So now my feet run free.

Hacks of all nations
repair to your stations.
Some sentences need to be written.
Severe degradations,
misconstrued quotations,
to puncture the shy and once-bitten.
The front page must rage
with outrage and opinions
that make the poor populace chatter.
All life is a stage
to our bit-playing minions.
The truth of the script doesn’t matter.
The more we make bleed,
the more they pay heed.
They’re eating lies out of our hand.
The headlines that yell
the loudest will sell.
You kings of the worldwide newsstand.

If I could write like Dylan,
I’d give my soul, god willin’.
I’d kill to write one "Maggie’s Farm."
For "Winterlude," I’d do some harm.
I’d chop off both thumbs and a toe
to pen a "Desolation Row."
Could I create "Masters of War,"
I’d live out life as a crack whore.
I’d do penance for all who’ve sinned
for just one "Blowin’ In The Wind."
I’d even die for just a smidgen
of his songs about religion.

(Bob went electric 7/25/65.)

I like baked potatoes,
and lettuce and tomatoes.
But I don’t like tornadoes,
unless they go to Oz.
Those munchkins are delicious,
and flying monkeys vicious,
the wicked witch pernicious.
She’s got that ugly schnoz.
In Kansas there are sisters
who pray for coming twisters.
Their god is like a wizard
behind his golden veils.
They all wear ruby slippers.
Their hymns are like woodchippers.
The words are all "I’m melting!"
There’s holy water pails.
Religion’s like a water spout,
tends to scare the most devout.
Better worship baked potatoes,
in the skin or out.

McQueens are walking, hand-in-hand, Steve and Butterfly.
Funny how celebrities pair up after they die.
There’s the Powells, handsome couple, Dick and Adam Clayton.
And the Taylors, Liz and Robert: didn’t know they’re datin’.
Lovely Leigh gals, Viv and Janet, always taking showers.
Lyndon Johnson loves to walk with Van amongst the flowers.
No surprise in Art and Henry Miller hanging out.
Same goes for the Harrisons, old Rex and George, no doubt.
Then there’s seeming mismatched fellows, Tom and Ollie Hardy.
And the Carsons, John and Rachel, though both like to party.
Spending quiet time is fun for Karl and Harpo Marx.
General Robert E. and Pinky Lee can cause some sparks.
Marilyn and James Monroe are quite the regal pair.
Rosa’s always teasing poor Bert Parks about his hair.
Bea and Chester Arthur like to watch reruns of "Maude."
While Pernell and Oral Roberts argue about God.
The Bailey Couple, Jim and Pearl, agree to share her dresses.
Michael and Mahalia Jackson seldom share caresses.
Some psychic bond has drawn together Jeane and Willie Dixon.
But Dean and Mary Martin’s friendship needs a little fixin’.
It’s a good bet gossip columns in the after life
would be most surprised that Ginger’s now Fred Rogers’ wife.

I am pleased to be here now
as the head of this great class.
I know my marks were good,
but I am no more than you.
We all had a good time.
We all learned what we must.
Good friends were made and lost.
Not all of us loved gym.
I hope you kept your books
for true words will not fade.
Go now and live your lives.
This day will rule your dreams.
For those who did like gym,
good luck to you.

The message in a bottle
flowed like flood tide down my throat.
I felt as if I’d lost an oar
but didn’t have a boat.
I couldn’t see the shining sea
from this far on dry land.
But several more damp messages
might make me feel some sand.
On second thought, I felt I ought
to push down on the throttle.
I didn’t need an oar or boat
but just a bigger bottle.