Red Tin Noodles

What we found
was a heart on the ground
outside the organ store.
Appallingly pink,
but emitting no stink,
it was squishy but firm,
and beating no more.
It didn’t look broken
or aching or frozen.
It didn’t look restless
or cheatin’ or blue.
We poked some inside it,
but couldn’t abide it.
And then we decided
this pure heart was true.
So we left it behind,
hoping someone would find
a replaceable part
for a heartless restart.

He doffs his own abysmal light
in petty streets of thieves.
He passes by a horse
wrapped in pure velvet.
He scrapes his nail on carriages
that may be made of gold,
and everywhere, in doors,
old men with helmets.
The days are fading in and out,
the air, the crippled leaves,
and everything alive is moving slowly
toward places where the body disappears,
the eye perceives,
the shadows here are somewhat less than holy.

This infatuation
needs examination.
A preference for guns
amongst the thousand funs
indicates a flaw,
even for the law.
Take the rod God gave you.
Bullets cannot save you.

The lizard we beheaded once was wedded.
I must say I prefer iguana breaded.
Of all the monsters, I prefer the gila,
grilled and marinated in tequila.
O, dirty gray-brown scaled dinosaur cousin,
I’m just glad that the noise you make’s not buzzin’.

In his tiny fallout shelter,
singing songs like "Helter Skelter,"
Tom Thumb sits alone and cries,
wondering what decides who dies.
It was late in twenty-eight;
infamy will haunt the date.
Skies turned white and mountains tumbled.
All the human race was humbled.
Now it’s narrowed down to one.
Earth’s new Adam is Tom Thumb,
doomed to live without an Eve
in the nuclear reprieve.
Genocidal apes at last
have evolved a future past.
Tom Thumb in his metal box
dreams he could turn back the clocks.

Multinational jive transponder,
breaking code on a vagrant lake.
On a raft, with an urge to wander,
eating lamb with the need for steak.
All the elements cloud right over,
like the eyes are attacked by night.
Why’d they have to go kill Smokey Stover?
He’s the one guy who seemed all right.
Parameters now blur with meaning.
All the contacts have disappeared.
Former straight things are now quite leaning.
Gossamer is the word most feared.
Telemetrics usurps all the answers.
Water climbs to a higher ground.
Stun the painters and cap the dancers.
Here’s a photo of one last sound.

I’m flabby philosophically.
I’ve joined a cigar band.
We smoke while playing tubas.
The bland must lead the bland.

I cater now to no one.
It’s later than I think.
I’d rather read than eat, alas,
But can’t give up the drink.

I’ve watched in sheer amazement
The dear departed leave,
Then come back just to decompose
Each tenet I believe.

The history of progress
Has doubled back, it seems.
We’re raking leaves from long-dead trees,
And piling them on dreams.

At night, I disassemble,
Re-gather in the morn.
Two times of three, I favor glee.
But sometimes I’m forlorn.

It helps to have good friendships.
A pet is handy, too.
This ‘elderly’ is new to me.
We do what we must do.

Santa’s in a mild depression.
Elves were cut back by recession.
Layoffs dampen his enjoyment.
Blitzen’s getting unemployment.
In the workshop hear the noise
made by all the homeless toys.

Produce breathes life into labor.
Decayed cauliflower wins no hearts.
Take that price tag off my skin.
I live only in consumer memory.
Inventory cannot define me.
Customer satisfaction disgusts me.
I am a shadow, bought and sold,
an old bargain looking for a sucker.
My s.k.u. is like a prison tattoo,
defining me in swapmeet hell.
Do not be fooled by my torn package.
Bring me home: the kids will love me.
Eat me whole, or broken into parts.
Surely you’ve seen me on t.v.
I once was placed this close to Barbie.
That’s not dust on my aged package,
but a roadmap of fondled memories.
Don’t put me down now, lover.
Now that I’ve kissed your fingerprints
forever.

A poet dreams upon a ledge,
while painters pace abysses’ edge.
As bulldozers level mountains,
architects build indoor fountains.
Nothing in this life is certain.
Every answer has its curtain.
Words are said and weapons raised
as the gods are being praised.
It’s been said that all professions
come with their own crazed obsessions.
Baby, you must make your choices
once you understand the voices.
Behind madness logic simmers:
too much light, you hit the dimmers.
All that gold, it surely glitters,
‘nough to give a man the jitters.
Sea to sea see former monkeys
writhing now like power junkies.
That spark evolved from two sticks
has us in our final fix.

Numbers help me free my mind,
cast my troubles all behind.
When I worry about war,
I think sixes, nothing more.
And when pain of hunger scores,
think of eights, in fields of fours.
When pure hatred gets to me,
I must simply conjure three.
When I need to ease the blues,
no sweat, I envision twos.
Feel the need to combat crime?
Here’s the mantra: just say nine.
For specific knives and guns.
it’s real simple: fives and ones.
Seven lives in number heaven.
One last super hero: zero!

Meet mate at seven.
Wash shoes in hyperbole.
Employ the suffering viol.
Shimmer with preordination.
Shelve the crankcase.
Eat more minerals, pronto.
Collapse periodically.
Invent, destroy, implicate.
Condone hysterical bleating.
Disgorge bulbous neckware.
Contemplate, intimidate, validate.
Express pernicious sympathy.
Caulk pejorative arrows.
Combine, fluff, deliver.
Attenuate cosmopolitan philosophy.
Cradle the blaspheming affirmative.
Shrinkwrap yellowed conjecture.
Divide, accelerate, inject.

"Give cheese some pants!"
The war is over,
now that we all have guns.
The new citizen action army
may dress like they don’t care,
but they’ll kill you in a second
if you jive with their peace.
We’ve got several states
that are nothin’ but dead people.
"Peace up, Rhode Island!’
And even though
nobody’s wearin’ bars,
the generals will tell you
who they are.
The lieutenants will mostly
stay inside.
The sergeants, as always,
will mostly die and kill
in even numbers.
And God help the private sector.

I liked the cat the way it was.
With countless heads
and endless claws.
But then I heard
they cloned a cat
who only ate and slept and shat.
Please trade in
your present model.
This time I can’t mollycoddle !

We sail in the morning.
Three flags are the warning.
These crossbones are eloquent.
I’m on for the ride.
Small ship on a rough sea.
This life is not for me.
We rock on a precipice.
The yaw will decide.
I feel like Edgar Allen Poe.
Into the maelstrom we must go.
And as we swirl I understand
I should have never left dry land.
Next time I’m prompted to explore
I’ll look inside and nothing more.
For there is naught beyond the skin.
Meanwhile, I spin. I spin. I spin.

The best rocks roll uphill.
Fire is an animal on the horizon.
Fur is very, very in.
Little roar means hunt.
Big roar means hide.
Wood is good, but tres passé.
He finds random grunting tedious.
He’d rather be alone than roam in packs.
He’s secretly shedding.
And the whole clubbing and mating thing
is just a waste of time, he thinks.
He thinks.

Cantankerous Vichy swans !
It’s best beware of birds
in foreign markets.
To be pecked by voodoo chickens
or bored silly by emus
is not a circumstance
that I could bear.
And so I head
for the shrunken heads,
which run a bit more francs
but are quite tasty parboiled.
When chewing on a rubbery brain
one often feels
a sudden jolt of power.
And as the eyes
loll on the tongue,
staring down the gullet,
one sometimes gets
a brief glimpse of this
blind spot we call life.

While wandering the desert,
I espied a great oasis.
A ballgame was in progress,
Ty Cobb circling the bases.
The Babe was in the outfield
and the Big Train on the mound.
To find a better vantage point,
I looked for higher ground.
Indeed, by the refreshment stand
I found good line of sight.
I figured, being near there,
I might get myself a bite.
Just as I got my burger
and a giant cup of beer,
the crowd all stood as one
and there arose a mighty cheer.
A dubious pinch hitter
was receiving this great hand.
Then doubt set in, there was a hush,
and all turned back to sand.