Fishtail Redman, Chapter 16: Worship

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Sunday morning at the Taylor County Nazarene Worship Center turned out to be predictably busy. The church was not far from where Krista Pearl lived, and she sometimes heard other employees at her jobsite mention attending services at that location. The group had swelled in size during recent years, with over 500 active members participating. The spiritual head of this communal enclave was a clergyman who came from a school of preaching located in Mississippi. His fire-and-brimstone approach to gospel truths resonated well with believers who needed a contrast from the worldly inclinations of regular folk. Yet when their number was increased by the truck-stop clerk, and her biker companion, a palpable reaction of surprise and suspicion echoed in the sanctuary.

 

Parker Redman sat stiffly in a back pew. He recognized several of the song selections, but when their pastor rose from his spot, to begin offering an inspirational message, there was a drastic change of mood.

 

Reverend J. Fortrell Hageschutte towered in the pulpit. He had the physical stature of a professional athlete. Both tall and generous in girth. Though balding slightly, he affected a stylish coif with careful grooming. His suit was dark blue, with gray lapels, and sharply tailored. He wore a red necktie. Once his address to the congregation had gotten underway, he projected a master’s command of Bible scriptures, and dramatic effects used by many public speakers.

 

“This morning, I’d like to speak about the fires of hell, brothers and sisters. A subject that too many squishy, new-age preachers like to avoid. Hell is real, I tell you! Hell is a place of eternal damnation. Hell is the landing zone for those who reject righteousness and the commandments of Almighty God. Hell is at the bottom of a slippery slope. Hell awaits, for people who make excuses, and try to fine-tune the Word of God with feelgood ambiguities! Hell is there for anyone who forgets their faith when trends and fashions change popular ways of thinking! Hell is ready to punish and condemn! Hell is hot! Hotter than hot!”

 

The flock reacted accordingly.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Krista gave a sideways glance to her partner. She could see that the hard tone and steely logic of this sermon was striking the roadgoing loner as an unwelcome inflection on holy themes. He shifted his position several times, without finding comfort where he sat. Finally, there was a whisper between the two visitors.

 

“Feeshtail, y’all have a darn funny look in yer eyes. Don’t make a scene, boy! I didn’t come here to be embarrassed in front of friends from the travel plaza! Just sit there and listen, maybe it’ll do ya some good...”

 

The reverend continued after mopping sweat from his forehead, with a monogrammed handkerchief.

 

“Hell is the reward for anyone who fails to stand with leaders who defend the faith, and faithful citizens. It is their inheritance of evil. A just punishment which will never end. A fate described many times in the scriptures. Many. many, many times! I stand with godly men and women! I stand with protectors of this nation and its keepers! I stand against the slide into debauchery, fornication, distributing falsehoods, and the lure of sin!”

 

Again, a chant of obedience buzzed from wall to wall.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Parker remembered listening to his father lead services at various churches across Kentucky, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and the Mountaineer State. He knew many of the references by heart, even after years of withdrawal. But the voice ringing in his ears had a sharp timbre of breaking glass. The proclamations sounded partisan and ugly. Not in keeping with how Jesus addressed potential followers to humble themselves, and believe. Even some who had strayed far outside of social and theological boundaries.

 

Krista frowned visibly, as she listened. Fear caused an ache in her belly.

 

“Don’t move a muscle, Feesh! If y’all can’t take anymore of this, we’ll get up and go. I kinda wondered about comin’ here anyway! It was yer idea, remember?”

 

Parker had exhausted his reserve of patience. He threw aside his leather, motorcycle jacket, which left both tattooed arms exposed. Then, he picked up the Bible for Bikers manuscript, confiscated from his cousin’s garage.

 

“Brother, have you ever really felt the joy of Christ in your heart? The joy mentioned in John 15, a joy that is said to be complete?”

 

Hageschutte gasped upon seeing the shaggy, ink-bearing roughneck approaching him from the center aisle.

 

“YOU THERE! FOR WHAT PURPOSE DO YOU RISE? TO PROTEST, PERHAPS? THIS IS A DISRUPTION OF WORSHIP, SIR! NOT AN ACT TO BE TAKEN LIGHTLY! I ASK YOU TO SIT DOWN AND BE STILL! SHOW RESPECT FOR GOD AND HIS PEOPLE! SHOW RESPECT FOR THIS HOLY PLACE AND OUR TRADITIONS!”

 

The wandering misanthrope opened his strange manuscript. He began to read loudly, so that everyone who was present could hear.

 

John 15: 1-17, I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you do not remain in me, you are like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit – fruit that will last – and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love one another.”

 

He closed the tattered book, and folded his hands.

 

“What does the good word say, brother? It says love, it says friendship, and it says joy. I didn’t hear any of that in your screed about hell. There’s a reason that Jesus spoke as he did, to his followers. What reason do you have, for standing here this morning? Is it a love for your fellow believers? Or Christ and his kingdom? Or maybe... nothing but yourself? I ask you to think that over, and pray.”

 

Silence fell upon those who were in attendance. The reverend sputtered and shook, but could not regain control of his event. With a grunt of indifference, he simply sat down on the front pew, while church members began to sing.

 

Krista covered her face with both hands. She had tears in her eyes.

 

“Doggone it, Feeshtail, y’all just made us look like a couple of fools!”

 

“Target”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved
(1-26)

 

Strike the target, send in our drones

Install a Pharoah on his throne

Nation-build, it worked before

Aircraft carriers go to war

The Middle East, a tinder box

World affairs, a school of hard knocks

Lesson learned and then forgotten

We inherit wages, harshly begotten

The hour is late, so we lament

Having witnessed the fall of a government

Without the care of predisposition

We might have influenced the crowd condition

Yearning for a free exercise

Of rights and rules, under a glistening guise

Of a shepherd’s staff, leading the way

With the hope of allies on a better day

Whatever case we made was right

It is our place, our Yankee birthright

To choose and chase as we see fit

Until our next leap into the pit

Our intentions have always tilted well

With no indication of an earthly hell

As the righteous rise of wrath is spooled

Consequences kick like an angry mule

The stable stalled with rotted grass

And eventually, soldiers leave, en masse

Heads turn and shake, with damning doubt

And we wonder what it was all about

A plan of action at the ready

A mission sent out, slow and steady

What is right does not appeal

The can is crushed, under a bootheel

Pluck the jefe from his lair

Leaving the cupboards, cold and bare

Fly on wings that mechanics made

Soldiers pumped-up on Gatorade

Swinging fists and rifle butts

High-tech implements that dig a rut

If our leaders are smart and strong

We’ll leave with more than a victor’s song

Perhaps the gold of an oil tycoon

Or the finest wool, spun on a loom

Whatever prize, that is deserved

A bounty for those that bravely served

Skyward sparks light up the dark

Champions cheer in the public park

A protest spat in the background shot

Cameras capture this conflict, hot

Who is offended by a show of force?

Only the fools who have been divorced

From logic and the line of thinking

Given with a one-eyed winking

It is too much for me to grasp

So, I turn instead to my drinking glass

The television screen is bright

That electronic marvel stays up all night

I sit and watch, and learn in time

As pickled pundits swim in their brine

The jar, half-empty, this is declared

At least the nation was rightly spared

No more fulfillment of a curse

No better maybe, but not any worse

That Roulette spin is a privilege, prized

As prime ministers and presidents roll their eyes

Those lowly of birth, such as myself

Must sit and wait, before restored to health

Yet that duty is not a burden to bear

If I switch off the set, it cancels my cares

A blank screen is all I see

It eases this mood of urgency

A Judas kiss betrays the host

Of faded dreams and silent ghosts

“Two Trophies”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Two trophies on the wall

Each glistening with chance

A dueling feud of opposites

A conflict core, enhanced

The first, a caregiver’s cause

To make our people healthy

Their bodies toned and tanned

Herded happily, by the wealthy

The second, a sharper image

One honed to a combat edge

Selling warfare implements

To those standing on a ledge

Both seekers go in separate ways

They run at coasts, afar

Life and death are commodities

Sold at the world bazaar

To keep them is to kill their kin

An act done skillfully

Fed on made up prejudice

And twists of history

Guilt and shame have been erased

They no longer rule the land

Instead, we have a manuscript

Held in feeble hands

A trillion dollars spent, and more

The cost is of no concern

Battling infirmities

That tempt the worm to turn

And just the same, a poker pitch

Of rockets from the tomb

Missiles and marvels of all sorts

To defend Mars and the Moon

I might have missed the cry for help

I might have missed the clues

But I saw footprints in the mud

Shaped by cable news

The message was important

An entreaty to understand

An interpretation, bold and hot

From an artificial man

That reworked photosynthesis

Created a growing groove

One not literal or likely

Yet undeniably improved

It brought a sense of healing

That seemed strange when pulling the plug

But once the cord was cut

Everything went under the rug

Healthy and wise is the goal

While graveyards fill with grace

Both birth and banishment looming

Twin towers of sordid waste

A grin of goblins, painted

Upon the hallway stairs

Those who hide in such corridors

Are blissfully unaware

Doctors dabble to save the lives

Of believers on the march

But an unfortunate series of events

May still those beating hearts

When that tale has been composed

It will be rightly said

That this drive to dig through dirt and stones

Was an ache for a sleepy head

Guns and scalpels we will supply

We keep both tools in stock

But ultimately, judgment comes

From the ticking of a clock

When the winder is unspun

The spring, no longer taut

Then the sunset will embrace

This careless chase of naught

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 15: Jeep

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

When Parker Redman awakened from his episode of drunkenness and guilt, the garage had turned unbearably cold. The single propane cylinder fueling his shop heater had run empty. With fumbling hands, and groggy eyes, he disconnected the empty tank and found a new one to serve as its replacement. Then, sat before the active flame rail, and warmed himself. After a few minutes, he had stopped trembling. This made it possible to think about heating up water for instant coffee. Something that he hoped would help to clear his head of the throbbing gained from an evening spent drowning sorrows.

 

The wind outside was still brutally cold. Though it appeared to have stopped snowing. He gazed through a small, square window that faced downhill, and saw deer tracks meandering over the white landscape. A telltale sign that while he had been abandoned by his cousin, at least temporarily, nature remained close and attentive. It was enough to break his mood of isolation for the moment. Yet with a January chill in effect, breaking free would not be possible for weeks to come. He could only watch the blustery wrath of Mother Nature, asserting dominance. And engage in fantasies of riding his Shovelhead chopper out of the roll-up door, and onto the main route through town.

 

He had managed to swig a full mug of the reconstituted flavor crystals, when a rattle of mechanical energy shook the walls of his hut. Outside, a yellow, Jeep Wrangler spinning its knobby, oversized tires appeared from below the ridgeline. The vehicle spat exhaust fumes and frozen debris, while drawing closer. Then, it slid into the narrow drive, and came to rest pointing sideways.

 

Krista Pearl cheered and thumped on her steering wheel. Her head blazed with red braids, flinging themselves in a defiant dance of feminine style.

 

“FEESHTAIL! GAWDAMN IT, DUDE, YOU’VE BEEN IN THAT SHACK FER LONG ENOUGH! IT WOULDA DRIVEN ME STIR CRAZY BY NOW! Y’ALL MUST BE HURGRY FER A HOME COOKED MEAL AND A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP. C’MON BOY, DON’T ARGUE WITH ME! JUMP YER ASS IN MY RIG, AND LET’S GO! THERE’S ANOTHER STORM COMIN’ I HEAR, YA WILL BE FROZEN IN THERE LIKE A SIX-PACK OF RED, WHITE & BLUE POPSICLES!”

 

Parker was still only half awake. But his mood had softened after passing out on the concrete floor. His bones ached from the abuse. And his ability to focus on details had been compromised.

 

“Geez, woman, I never thought you’d come out here again! There’s something wrong with a lady that can’t give up on an argument. Don’t you get it? I’m not looking for companionship. As a matter of fact, I’m not looking for anything at all, except a chance to hit the road again, and be gone!”

 

His femme pursuer stood in the doorway, dripping melt from her knee-high boots.

 

“Look, I’m not tryin’ to play y’all fer benefits. Ain’t ya figured that out yet? But I know ya gotta be lonely up here on this hillside. Maybe not fer kissin’ and cuddlin’ - but I bet more so fer a hot meal and a real shower. It’s no fun to be stuck in a hole fer the winter. And I’m bored as hell with watchin’ soap operas and doin’ crossword puzzles. I need to dote on somebody else. Ya understand? That wife-and-momma thing don’t go away just because yer ol’ man went to jail, and yer kid left the nest. It’d make me feel a whole lot more useful to help somebody instead of mopin’ around my kitchen. Y’all need a break, and so do I, buddy!”

 

The biker reddened with embarrassment from her candid confession. He had never heard someone speak so plainly about being in charge of a household.

 

“It’s righteous of you to state your case firmly and freely, ma’am. I’ll give credit where it’s due. I’ll give you plenty of credit for that. Your offer turns my head, I’ll admit it. But I figure in a day or two, maybe a little more, my habits would grate on your nerves. I’m not so personable without a drink in my hand. Actually, I’m very shy. Nobody believes that, of course...”

 

Krista snorted with the nasal intensity of a wild filly.

 

“BULLSHIT! I MIGHTA THOUGHT OF YA AS MANY THINGS, BUT BEIN’ SHY AIN’T ONE OF ‘EM! ANYHOW, IT DON’T MATTER. WE NEED EACH OTHER RIGHT NOW! DON’T DENY IT, WE’RE BOTH KINDA STUCK IN A RUT. I DON’T LIKE IT, AND Y’ALL MUST BE FEELIN’ THE SAME WAY! WE CAN DO GOOD FER EACH OTHER! SO, LOAD YER DUFFEL BAG IN MY JEEP, AND LET’S GET ROLLIN’!”

 

Parker frowned and gritted his teeth. The truck-stop clerk was undeniably correct. By some quirk of fate, they had intersected at a fortuitous time. Neither one of them had a feeling of fulfillment with things as they were, at least for the moment. By sharing their discomfort, they could both engage in a period of rest and healing. But to gamble on that possibility made him uncomfortable. His own history as a wrecker of relationships remained a potent force. He could never sit still for long. Eventually, the wanderlust always took over his brain. The need to be perpetually in motion, as his father was, traipsing from congregation to congregation, preaching the gospel, was part of his native DNA. He could not change that fact, for any reason.

 

“Okay, here’s my take on striking a bargain. Maybe there’s some logic to what you’ve said. We could provide comfort for one another right now. No promises, no vows, no ties that bind. Just a couple of lost souls coming together. I guess that’s no big leap of faith. But let me put down one stack of chips on the poker table. I’ve been restless lately, more than usual. Which is an achievement, as I’m always out of my head, and ready to break down fences, wherever they stand! There’s a tick under my skin. It keeps biting at me. I don’t know why, or where it’ll lead. But there’s something I’ve got to do, while waiting for this seasonal hibernation to pass...”

 

The waitress and dancer nodded, shrugged, and sighed in succession. Then, threw up her hands. She was willing to agree with almost anything.

 

“Name it Feesh! Name it and we can do it!”

 

The motorcycling loner bowed his head, as if saying a prayer.

 

“For papa, and my family... I want to go back to church.”

“Bullet Points”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Bullets in the chamber

A metropolis on the brink

Squandered wealth washed away

Like dish soap down the kitchen sink

I must have seen the king nod out

At least a dozen times

While meetings were met with indifference

Like a clanging of the wind chimes

No one paid much attention

As that naked beast rode by

It caused me to call out in fear

With words that struck a bullseye

But that story went unreported

Not shown on the evening news

This opinion did not mate too well

With the betting line they used

Loyalties rarely linger

They are traded for a curve

Of one side to the other

A slow lane, double-swerve

Whatever turn of fate employed

Sends the gang on a path to fire

In the end, a lonely lead

A headline, soon expired

I thought about this quirky quest

For long enough before

But by the time resolution came

I was already out the door

I quit believing long ago

It was a rite of passage thing

The cracked bell now hangs silently

No longer able to strike and ring

Cast your lots upon the ground

That is what I was told at first

Dice bouncing with fortunes won

On a layer of trodden earth

I wanted to guess wisely

But that privilege took all my breath

So, in the end I plumbed the line

From here to a millennium’s breadth

It burned my cheeks to face the flames

Boldly and in awe

Like a meal of talons and feathers

The crow-meat stuck in my craw

Nothing that I did or said

Changed this odd condition

It left me feeling overlooked

From a beggar’s humble position

Pundits and their preachers

Often feel the need to spar

And if I watch for a sufficient span

There’ll be change left in my tip jar

Obedience is the currency

Of a realm, both rote and rife

Spreading the official word around

As a condiment on the butter knife

It might not satisfy to hear

That the trickster has prospered well

But the duty of a listener

Is to receive what salesmen sell

Therefore, when I want to ask

What happened in the dark

I’ll bite my tongue, tenaciously

And snuff out that foolish spark

The world turns on its axis

And consequence keeps the law

Once I used to be oblivious

Yet not after what I saw

The kick of mules is strong and stern

This I know is true

So, when the ride is over

I’ll go back to flinging horseshoes

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 14: Startup

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

After weeks of working on his Shovelhead chopper in the downhill garage at Grafton, Parker Redman had finally reached a point where starting the motor for a test run was in order. But the winter season and persistent snowfall meant that he could not ride his motorcycle to certify its roadworthiness. So instead, he forced the roll-up door to rise, and then climbed into position for a kickstart marathon, until his beast came to life. He came down on the lever again and again, until finally, enough fuel and air had mixed in the carburetor. With a chuff of exhaust smoke, his reworked, vintage Harley-Davidson began to pop and shake, and rattle the windows. Up the long incline, he could see his cousin standing on the back porch. A raised fist celebrated this moment of joyful exuberance. Then, a shout of glee echoed over the wintery landscape.

 

“GOOD JOB, CUZ! Y’ALL DONE GOT YER SHIT TOGETHER! I KNEW IT WAS GONNA HAPPEN, EVENTUALLY! NOW ALL WE NEED IS A GOOD THAW TO CLEAR OFF SOME OF THESE STREETS!”

 

After letting the motorcycle idle for a minute, he switched off its ignition. Then, took a seat on his shipping crate, with the overhead door still open. He reached for one of the whiskey bottles in his private stash, this time, a glass reserve of Wild Turkey 101. The bourbon went down hard, with a gulp of fire that made him groan and grin. His face flushed with pleasure. He took pride in the accomplishment of completing his repair work. But drooped emotionally when pondering the glistening white that covered everything he could see. There would be more weeks of frost and cold, and isolation ahead. He had not yet been liberated from hibernating in the tiny shack.

 

Visits from Krista Pearl had helped to pass the time, as he labored on this mechanical, renovation project. But now, he suspected that her endurance might have been sapped completely. He had not taken her up on the invite to become a household fixture. Instead, with a polite disdain for companionship of any kind, he saluted her goodwill, and let the offer expire. A shift in priorities was not something he could embrace. He wanted to resume the cause of staying in perpetual motion. Riding here and there, to anywhere other than the spot upon which he had previously landed. He did not want to be used or owned, or kept. Even if that experience might have ultimately given him pleasure.

 

By the evening, shortly before sunset, he was drunk and delirious. Bodean had not bothered to trek across the slippery slope between them, as he guessed that his cousin would prefer to languish in solitude. The rhythm of pouring, filling, and emptying glasses, soon had Parker tipsy and stumbling around the garage. He returned to the library shelf of shop manuals. Then, came across the Bible for Bikers, once more. Holding it in his grubby, greasy fingers inspired pangs of guilt. He felt unworthy to read the holy document in such a condition of inebriation. But as before, it fell open in his hands, to a specific passage that he did not expect.

 

Romans 8: 28-33, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be confirmed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified. What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all – how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies.”

 

Parker trembled with shame and sorrow. He could hear his father’s voice, reading the passage from a pulpit in Kentucky. As a child, that sound had been soothing and comforting to him, at every service. It had centered him on the faith, and grounded his identity. But over time, that indelible stamp faded. It became a timeworn tradition that no longer held value or meaning. Something he shunned and stripped from himself, like a discarded skin.

 

Now, huddled on the concrete floor, his chest heaved with regret. He sobbed openly, though with no one else to bear witness to this personal spectacle. His body shook and shuddered. His eyes lost their focus. He breathed heavily, until oblivion finally eclipsed his consciousness. Then, he lay sprawled on stains of crankcase oil and axle grease. Everything went dark. The sound of rushing winds outside, turned silent.

 

He slept for a long time. Until a surge in his bladder roused the sentient impulse to seek relief, in a remote corner of the oversized shed. Stumbling and nearly falling, he faced the bathroom wall. And found himself leaning in the doorway. Mucous trailed down his dealership T-shirt. He had soiled his garments.

 

From eternity, Pastor Podmore Redman spoke in a familiar tone that still resonated with authority.

 

“Boy, do you remember when I taught Bible lessons right from the dinner table? That was happy work, I did not want anything more than to have a seed planted in the soil, one that would spring up and grow strong in the word. I did that out of love, for you. And even when you embraced the world, instead of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I still loved you. Maybe it was difficult to express sometimes, in a way that you would receive. But my heart never failed in its mission. I never regretted that you needed to learn of your own accord. Because I was certain that one day, the light would shine on you just as it did on me and your mother. Nothing can prevail against that kind of love. Not sins of the flesh, not fate or fortune, and not even the grave. Hear and believe, my son. Hear and believe...”

“Two Sides"

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Two sides, in a perpetual war

Jockeying positions held for a purpose, untoward

Loyalties divided

Insiders dutifully duped and derided

As useful herds of livestock

Tick tick goes the clock

It is not hard to draw conclusions

When thinking has evolved into a suicide solution

A cocktail shaken, not stirred

With elements of ridiculosity, misheard

Chatter chatter, what’s the matter?

The yield of this paradigm is a flat-earth splatter

Gobsmacked and googly-eyed

Like mourners at a gravesite for heroes that died

Partisan rants

Flames shoot wildly, from their underpants

Preaching to the masses

Dissertations in university classes

A hold put upon the daylight

To keep everything teetering on a pinhead’s plight

A rube’s ruse in effect

With invisible investors to protect

They champion the cause, by another name

Of bowling balls lobbed, right down the lane

Crashing on the boards

Pins felled for a final reward

Combat trophies handed out with a sweet aroma of candy

Super-troopers duded up, fine and dandy

Their swords at the hilt

Guarding temples, righteously built

Of bricked, human waste

Dried and seeded with a salt-brine, for taste

This moment in history makes my knees knock together

Watching the march of soldiers in leather

Bootheels clicking, and kicking to the sky

That parade of pomposity brings a tear to my eye

For the republic which could not stand

Heads down, boys – strike up the band

It feels hotter than hades under the lights

A shining beacon of damnation and last rites

Though the duality of this deed

Tells me that I have been deceived

A continuity trick, from turning the page

Printed matter handed down from an earlier age

Black, white, and red flags fly

Those colors calm the populace with hues to deny

Nothing to see here

No one wants to be here

But the birthright of a ranch hand is sure

The bloodline preserved is inevitably pure

Thick as mud, and rainwater soup

Brimming with the consistency of melted ice cream in a scoop

Dribbling and dripping

While long-held principles are slipping

Away, away

Endure this clash of titans, like a garden-hose spray

In the end it comes down to luck

Letters missing from the side of a fire truck

Its hoses, knotted and tangled

Every thinker metaphorically looking for an angle

That will be repeated on the six o’clock news

A stomp of consternation, in wingtip shoes

Following the cadence of kettle drums banging

And the sound of falling triangles, clanging

A prayer said at church

With parishioners left in the lurch

Do not fear what they say

Or an eventual inheritance, on judgment day

Stuff the suggestion box

Change all the door locks

And go back to bed