Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Fourteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

As a new week began, I found myself stuck for material while working at the desk. Hours passed from morning to afternoon, as I sat staring into the empty void of my computer monitor. Then, as is so often the case, a word progression came to mind.

 

“If I took a leg up to the saddle, and sat tall, against the sky...”

 

This brief epiphany opened the portal. I stiffened in my roller chair, and started to peck away at the keyboard. Four verses of song, and a repeated chorus, came quickly.

 

Once this manuscript was completed, I posted it to my newspaper blog, online.

 

Fallen Man

 

“If I took a leg up to the saddle

And sat tall, against the sky

Would it matter to the one who holds my heart

Would she see that I’m empty inside

I might do the best to prove my worth

It’s a task I’ll take in hand

But when those horse hooves slip on stone

I’ll become a fallen man

There’s no shame for those ones who wake

To see the morning sun

And I’m a member of that tribe

With a blade and loaded six-gun

But when the air turns crisp and cool

I find there’s a different feel

To dusting off a cowboy hat

And turning on my bootheels

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If I found a way to speak

Of what I see when eyes are closed

Then maybe I could cash my chips

Like a gambler, being exposed

But the truth is a strong medicine

One I take with hesitation

It’s bitter in my throat, you see

A rush of bad sensations

I know my place so well from this

A time spent wildly wandering

From coast to coast and back again

Feeling nothing except the sting

Of a jealous girl who took my love

But never had my name

She couldn’t make that leap of faith

And I was left in pain

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If by chance I changed the script

Of a moving picture arc

I’d write the plot in pencil

And make corrections in the dark

But that detail is not to be

I’m riding out, in secrecy

With a gaze into the yellow orb

That will blind my memories

That hopeful hop to another town

Will take me from this place

Where I have failed to prosper

A feeble runner in the footrace

Perhaps when I am no longer known

I’ll take heed of lessons learned

A second start in the anonymous guise

Of a drifter gone ‘round the turn

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

I don’t care for the sounds of woe

No shedding of tears for me

I’ve got no need of a warm embrace

No yearning for sympathy

Every step I took was done

With the knowledge of my path

And now that it has brought me here

I’ll hear the devil laugh

It’s assured that the grave will hold

What’s left of these old bones

Ashes from the fireplace

Of an abandoned, happy home

I couldn’t stay there willingly

When my lady friend departed

I heard the call of eternity

An end to what we started

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man...”

 

The attention span of T. Randall Squire, my contact at the record label, must have been exhausted by waiting. Because he did not respond immediately. A few days passed as I worked to develop other ideas from my personal archives. But on a Tuesday, shortly after the noon hour, a notification popped up on my Messenger app. I had left the phone in my kitchen, while making a ham and egg taco for breakfast. A brief voicemail was waiting when I got up to retrieve the device.

 

The entertainment guru seemed to be pleased with what I had written. But a hint of worry was audible in his voice. He projected a growl of irritation that tingled my ears.

 

“Rodney, y’all have kept up the pace with yer Country tunes, and I’m mighty grateful fer that. There’s just one problem with our little confabulation, and that’s all this nonsense about artificial intelligence. Some folks have started to wonder if ya are a real person, or just a gawdamn hi-tech application! Since they never see ya in concert, I can understand why that kind of bullshit might appear to be justified!”

 

I responded to his call after pouring a cup of coffee.

 

“Sir, I have to say that anyone who’d think I am a fraudulent, AI program must be weak in the head! Some bot in cyberspace would do a much more professional job of mimicking the hillbilly sound for radio airplay. I’m rude and crude, at best. My guitar chops have declined since reaching the point of disability. And I never could sing like Hank Williams or George Jones!”

 

Squire puffed on his cigar and thought for a moment.

 

“Look boy, I get what y’all are sayin’ about havin’ stiff joints and so forth, but I’ve been thinkin’ about us movin’ in a different direction. In the old days, a lot of cowboy crooners would travel with a flat-top pluckster, and nothin’ else. They might sit in a bar and sing all night fer people getting’ drunk or cheatin’ on their mates. It was good fer a few bucks, and it filled the tip jar. A lot of legends were created that way. Give it some thought. I figure it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to try!”

 

The professional promoter was thinking in old-school terms. But I had a different take on the evolution of popular music.

 

“Those dance halls and juke joints were a part of our history. But things have changed now, kids are on their phones or playing video games. The market is not what it was even a dozen years ago. So, if you really want to sell my stuff, then a new way of thinking is required. Look at websites such as TikTok, or even Instagram. That’s where the content creators are going to get attention. The business model is constantly in flux...”

 

Mr. Squire must have dropped his stogie while pondering this suggestion. His tone spiked in volume and intensity.

 

“THAT’S IT RODNEY! Y’ALL GOTTA MAKE A DAMN LIVESTREAM APPEARANCE ON ONE O’ THEM SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS! I CAN HAWK THAT SHOW BEFOREHAND, AND PUT IT OUT WITH SUPPORT FROM THE BIGWIGS! I KNOW HOW TO STIR UP INTEREST WITH ALL OF THEM MAJOR COMPANIES! YER A GENIUS, MY BUDDY! A GENUIS, ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT!”

“Fallen Man”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

If I took a leg up to the saddle

And sat tall, against the sky

Would it matter to the one who holds my heart

Would she see that I’m empty inside

I might do the best to prove my worth

It’s a task I’ll take in hand

But when those horse hooves slip on stone

I’ll become a fallen man

There’s no shame for those ones who wake

To see the morning sun

And I’m a member of that tribe

With a blade and loaded six-gun

But when the air turns crisp and cool

I find there’s a different feel

To dusting off a cowboy hat

And turning on my bootheels

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If I found a way to speak

Of what I see when eyes are closed

Then maybe I could cash my chips

Like a gambler, being exposed

But the truth is a strong medicine

One I take with hesitation

It’s bitter in my throat, you see

A rush of bad sensations

I know my place so well from this

A time spent wildly wandering

From coast to coast and back again

Feeling nothing except the sting

Of a jealous girl who took my love

But never had my name

She couldn’t make that leap of faith

And I was left in pain

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

If by chance I changed the script

Of a moving picture arc

I’d write the plot in pencil

And make corrections in the dark

But that detail is not to be

I’m riding out, in secrecy

With a gaze into the yellow orb

That will blind my memories

That hopeful hop to another town

Will take me from this place

Where I have failed to prosper

A feeble runner in the footrace

Perhaps when I am no longer known

I’ll take heed of lessons learned

A second start in the anonymous guise

Of a drifter gone ‘round the turn

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

I don’t care for the sounds of woe

No shedding of tears for me

I’ve got no need of a warm embrace

No yearning for sympathy

Every step I took was done

With the knowledge of my path

And now that it has brought me here

I’ll hear the devil laugh

It’s assured that the grave will hold

What’s left of these old bones

Ashes from the fireplace

Of an abandoned, happy home

I couldn’t stay there willingly

When my lady friend departed

I heard the call of eternity

An end to what we started

 

The judge’s word hits hard

When there’s no spot to land

Down in the dirt, and lonely

Just another fallen man

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Cell Phone Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

During my first marriage, a difference in energy levels often seemed to cause irritation in the homestead. My wife was older by a decade, and from that advanced perspective, had developed traits that were honed by experience. Her wisdom often proved to be useful during the period that we were paired. But occasionally, she reached a point of fatigue more quickly when we were on the road and staying active. This caused her not only to feel fatigued in a physical sense, but also aroused some emotional distress over attempting to match my faster pace of living.

 

I kept late hours at work, and in the office, wherever we lived.

 

Memories of this conflict are amusing in current terms, because like my father, I met a wall of chronological limitations upon reaching the middle years of a normal lifespan. While I did not necessarily slow my movements, by choice, I noted that keeping up with the tempo I had set became more difficult. As disabilities took hold, this decline in personal velocity only intensified. I fought bravely against the genetic template that was in effect, but when being sidelined several years ago in terms of gainful employment, that condition overwhelmed my persistence. I called it being early to the party, as someone who had been nudged into retirement, and an odd sort of solitude existing on the fringe.

 

At 55, I had become redundant as a participant in the labor pool. But conversely, more active for myself with creative pursuits.

 

When I worked long hours throughout the week, even on holidays and late at night, I still found time to stay current with household chores and social connections. Yet having succumbed to the routine of a senior citizen, that discipline seemed to ebb. Perhaps it was a realization that living alone, and without a mandated schedule of any sort, many things that once appeared to be important lost that designation, completely.

 

This unsettled some in my circle, who were accustomed to the former incarnation of what I had been. No longer a night owl, I became instead a morning rooster, rising with the sun. Responding biologically to the crowing fowl in my head. This adjustment came as a surprise to me, and to those who expected that I would be available at all hours, for adult refreshments by the campfires of summer. Eventually, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pondering a visage that had now become unfamiliar. No longer groomed for a corporate-level presentation while on duty, I had descended into a pleasant detachment from that world of responsibility. I quit visiting the barber, and also, jettisoned my razor. Dress shirts, neckties, and any associated apparel disappeared, in favor of T-shirts and athletic trousers. I took to wearing one of my baseball caps throughout the day, instead of only when away from work. With my joints aching and bones bent by aging, I adopted a wooden bench on the front porch as a favored spot for drinking and interacting with neighbors.

 

The result of all these changes came on an evening when I remembered the reaction of my former spouse to our vexing difference in perspectives. With a generous amount of brewed alcohol in my system, and a relaxed mood eliminating any inhibitions, I decided to place a call for the purpose of confessing the guilt I felt. And possibly, soothing at least some of the old wounds that were left after our breakup.

 

Her previous number was still in service. My voice on her messaging app must have been unexpected. But I did my best to offer a jovial tone of greeting.

 

“Hey Mama Bee, here I am, sitting outside for some fresh air and such. Things get stale inside, I find myself wanting to escape the confines of this singlewide abode. But doing so is more difficult than in olden days, because to be blunt, I don’t go anywhere, anymore. It’ll probably sound amazing to you, but I often find that days and weeks may go by, without needing to leave this narrow space for any reason. I have even given up shopping, after a period of patronizing small, family markets, and places like Dollar General out here in the country. I get things delivered now, it is a great help with my lack of mobility becoming more and more of a handicap. I only leave to get my mail, pay the lot rent, or visit a doctor. Otherwise, I don’t care to roam around as when we were together. My sense of adventure has dissipated over time. I am in an old-man mode of living now, not by choice necessarily, but because all other options are gone. The payoff is in having more energy for writing projects, and research online. I feel it has been a worthy trade from one phase of life, to the next. Yet sometimes I sit here, indulging myself, and remember our lively conversations. We communicated better than most I think, compared to other married couples. It was our forte. A shared quality that I miss in the evening hours, when the craft of creative wordsmithing no longer occupies my thoughts. I become melancholy and sentimental, which is another change from those distant months and years. All of this has a connection to what I saw in my own father, as he grew older. So, for better or worse, I wanted to say that to you, at least with this rambling, recorded note. I hope you are well, and enjoying the role of being a grandmother. What we experienced together was a gift. One that I will cherish, into eternity. Take care of yourself, and everyone. You are still in my heart, always. Thanks for listening...”

 

With my reflective moment complete, I returned to the household refrigerator. There was still almost a full case of Miller Lite on hand, along with beef sticks, pickles, and cheese bites waiting to be devoured. I had developed a routine of ordering items as needed, while sitting with my wireless link, in hand. So the cupboards and appliances were well-stocked. No longer was the thought of having to carry water jugs and cases of food in from my car a major concern.

 

But while sitting by myself, I realized that the audio document left via a phone queue should have included a caveat about my transformation, from a young bull to an older mule, now put out to pasture. I guessed that as things stood in modern times, we would have been much more compatible. Though with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps it was better to have left that truism unsaid. It no longer made any difference.

 

Each of us had learned to cope with what life brought to our doorstep. For that blessing, I felt grateful, and content.

“Outside”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Here on the outside

It’s a place where I dwell

Shaped by the shadows

And the solitude of self

I’ve never seen daylight

Though it’s much to admire

After long hours spent

Crouched here, by the campfire

A night wish made

To rightly be reborn

My beginning, from the end

A stitch for the veil, torn

Until that trek from

Darkness into day

When the waking begins

I’ll gently turn away

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

A refugee from rot

Rooted like a mighty oak

Standing tall on its spot

Branches outstretched

To the heavens, above

Receiving the embrace

Of a magical lifeblood

That same kind of exchange

Takes place when I read

Tales of the old world

Written in antiquity

A path to the past

Paved by those who did not tread

With fear or failing

But courage, instead

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

A familiar plot of land

Metaphorically speaking

The origin of man

A species well gifted

With talents aplenty

Yet a warrior’s spirit

To scatter that seed

I am no different

Except for a twist of fate

I ended up broken

Like a crack in the dinner plate

For years I was trained

But the process had a price

The headmaster relented

I was left to my own device

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

Here on the outside

With the quick and dead

And visions of the vanquished

Swirling in my head

When I vocalize

These things that are witnessed

Then there is a correction

Better baubles to possess

I grew strong in silence

Eyes open, and mouth closed

Watching and waiting

For the pecking of crows

Who feast on the fall

Of a mighty horde

Once great and grand

Now judged by the sword

 

I’ve always been on the outside

A gambler chasing gain

At the tables to win

Simple, and plain

I’ve always been on the outside

A loser at the game

In a world that doesn’t even

Know my name

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Creative Conundrum”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Publishers are notoriously slothful about numbers, unless they’re attached to dollar signs – unlike journalists, quarterbacks, and felony criminal defendants who tend to be keenly aware of numbers at all times.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

As a teenager, I used to ponder the growing lethargy of my father with a measure of befuddlement and dissatisfaction. While in his 50s, I noted that he would sometimes choose to simply ‘tune out’ from family activities. With his oversized, Pyrex measuring cup of coffee, he would sit by a radio tuned to a public station, which offered forms of Classical, Jazz, or Folk music no longer top of mind for fans of popular culture. While listening, he would read a book from his extensive library, or perhaps enjoy a new acquisition found at a thrift store or yard sale. His tastes varied greatly, from theology, to history, to science fiction, so I never knew what to expect. But regardless of the subject matter at hand, this quiet ritual seemed to ease the fatigue which was visible on his face. I reckoned that somehow, the journey of being a son, husband, brother, uncle, parent, grandfather, pastor, and mentor, had sapped him of the inner glow associated with being alive.

 

Only later would I understand that his fatigue was born of action, not weakness. Being busy had given him insight and inner strength. Yet also caused his bones to ache and his body to sometimes seek the comfort of a few moments spent in restful repose.

 

Such thoughts came to mind recently when an esteemed friend spoke about having published a series of books written for children. He confessed taking pride about this status as someone who had their work delivered by a traditional firm, with the skillful assistance of others providing illustrations to accompany the stories, and editing services. Distribution, marketing, and a yield of royalty payments were all handled as part of this contractual agreement. Almost as an afterthought, he included a caveat that this belief in being validated by good fortune was in no way intended as a knock against others who had vended their work through some alternate means. Such as a print-for-hire service, which gives creative producers a range of choices available at an affordable cost.

 

I celebrated this joyful memory with my friend in real time, of course. But later, remembered being singled out for criticism by some in my circle, for using a self-publisher such as Amazon, to create physical copies from my own catalog. These individual naysayers reckoned that because I had not signed a conventional agreement to have my manuscripts placed before the public eye, that it was an admission of illegitimacy. That view seemed to mesh with others who asked a familiar question, if I ever became bold enough to confess being an author of books in general conversations.

 

“ARE YA MAKIN’ ANY MONEY AT THAT, KIDDO?”

 

My one match with a regular printing company had aroused frustration when I saw my items being marketed worldwide, even inexplicably in far-flung venues like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While I could not chase them down for figures on what had been earned. I became stymied by this limited success, under contract and bound to accept my predicament.

 

While living in New York State, I learned the French expression, ‘L’art pour l’art.’ Which roughly translates to the idea that art should exist for its own sake. Or as friends around Cornell University used to say, the dedication to ‘Make art for art’s sake.’ Therefore, the belief that somehow any sort of pursuit associated with the craft, be it painting, drawing, designing, acting, writing, or playing music, is simply a commercial exercise diminishes the overall experience. It is a concept rooted in faith, one might observe. A view of humanity founded on our worth as demonstrated by what we may contribute to the greater continuum.

 

Simply getting a regular stipend for hours worked feels too much like punching a time clock, to this writer. But it is of course, no more than a single opinion among many others.

 

When one of my nephews, who is highly educated and bright, made this common observation about ‘real’ volumes being made by a recognized publishing institution, I directed him to consider the book section at our local Dollar Tree. Every title on their shelves had been originally produced by one of those notable firms. And were now being sold for a mere pittance, in the aftermath. I asked if those products, now being dumped for a sum far below their market value, could still be considered valid? He had no answer for this riddle, but refused to budge from the assumption that having a formal contract in place gave validity to an author.

 

While puzzling over this pervasive viewpoint, I thought about other areas of artistry and their unique standards of worth. Were independent filmmakers somehow bastard visionaries? Or bands without their signatures on paperwork with a major label, crippled and insignificant? Perhaps poets and urban performers were also without merit, despite their creative zeal? This argument was easy to make, but more difficult to defend, in hindsight. What standards truly define legitimacy? And in the case of artistic endeavors, what right does anyone have to judge the impact of a specific individual, or their output? If indeed, it is a matter of numbers, then has everyone who missed on being popular with the teeming masses failed in their personal pursuit of glory?

 

The elder member of my bloodline had been able to publish his Biblical work via College Press in Joplin, Missouri. So for him, such wonder over the value of written manuscripts did not exist. But for me, as a veteran of newspapers and magazines, with much enthusiasm over doing my own covers, layout, and editing, the situation was more complex. I liked being in charge, directly. And, the benefits were increased, as a yield of that hands-on approach. Not only in financial terms, but also, as a chance to hone and develop my managerial skills.

 

As a younger man, I could work myself into a tizzy over such perplexing queries. Often, with a headache and sour stomach occurring as my reward. Yet with this current incident of uncertainty arising, I realized that my sire, in yonder days, had found the right solution to having his perceptions challenged.

 

He simply immersed himself in the pleasures of being present and aware.

 

Papa R. D. would pour a mug of coffee, turn on his AM/FM receiver, and find some reading material. From that point in the day, forward, everything else would cease to be a bother. In my own manner, I have adapted that methodology to serve well, at my own household by Lake Erie.

 

Being busy at the desk is all that I crave.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Campaign Season”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had been enjoying a seasonal fluctuation of summer temperatures on his front porch, as the afternoon arrived. A cooling trend that made being on his bench more of a joy than when the thermometer had reached the marker of 90 degrees, and beyond. He sat with a jug of Kentucky bourbon in hand, to celebrate being at a part of the calendar month where he had no doctor visits scheduled, and no need to be anywhere except outside and drinking. This disconnection from the prevailing timeline made him feel liberated. He did not need to keep a schedule of any sort, or to discipline himself with artificial limits on his activities. He took every pleasure as it came, with no forethought involved. This willful isolation validated him as a loner, and a misanthrope.

 

Unfortunately, other residents in the neighborhood were not willing to allow this quiet time to continue, undisturbed. Evergreen Estates had begun to manifest signs of political activism, and voter recruitment.

 

As the shaggy hermit alternated between swallows of cold brew and brown liquor, Linn Speck approached from his trailer abode on the corner of their street. He was overdressed for the occasion, in a business suit and necktie. A gold, cross pendant was pinned to his lapel. Under one arm, he carried leaflets printed by the local Republican Party. For his own personal safety, he paused at the foot of an access ramp that bordered the gravel driveway. But shouted loudly enough that he could be heard even at a great distance.

 

“LINK! I NEED TO GIVE YOU SOME LITERATURE IF THAT’S ALRIGHT! I’M OUT GOING DOOR-TO-DOOR FOR THE NEXT GOVERNOR OF OHIO!”

 

The disabled contrarian sputtered a wet spew of alcohol, and wiped his mouth. Owing to a deepening state of inebriation, an Appalachian brogue began to color his speech. He pondered reaching for one of his walking implements, to use as a weapon. But decided to remain calm, for the moment.

 

“Keep yer shit, dude. I get wagon loads of junk mail in my slot up at the postal barn. More is definitely not necessary...”

 

Linn flushed red to the point of feeling his pulse beat like a drum.

 

“Look neighbor, I know we don’t usually see eye-to-eye, but this election coming up is really important. Really, really, really important. I want people to think about the issues at hand, and vote smart! It’ll make a big difference in what happens for all of us, next year! I am telling people, ‘Use your head, vote red!’ That’s the ticket to a better life, right here at home! A godly life, and a patriotic one, too! We have to continue the fight against illegal immigrants, drug cartels, and Iran!”

 

Lincoln belched with a raw stench of half-digested nachos. Then scratched his gray beard.

 

“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Speck. Now drag your flabby ass outta here!”

 

The former association leader and church affiliate was stunned by being dismissed so quickly.

 

“Now wait a minute Link, you haven’t even read any of my material!”

 

The retired iconoclast narrowed his gaze and leaned forward on the bench.

 

“Unless ya want one of these canes across yer teeth, I’d suggest steppin’ lively there, bruh! Get that portly butt movin’ before I start swingin’ my sticks!”

 

Linn was disgusted by this threat of force. But chose to be on his way, without escalating the confrontation.

 

“JUST REMEMBER WHAT I SAID! VOTE RED! VOTE RED!”

 

The tipsy boozer had almost returned to his solitary mindset, when Darcy Trelane appeared from next door, in a Star Wars T-shirt, and pajama pants. Her buzzed-off hair was a bright shade of purple.

 

“HI NEIGHBORRRRR! I DON’T MEAN TO INTERRUPT YOU DURING YOUR BOTTLE TIME, BUT I’M PASSING OUT SOME PAPERS FOR THE FALL ELECTION SEASON! WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN VOLUNTEERING FOR A FUNDRAISER ON THE TOWNSHIP SQUARE? WE’RE GETTING MONEY TOGETHER FOR REFUGEES IN GAZA, CUBA, AND VENEZUELA!”

 

Lincoln clutched at his gut, which was gurgling in protest. Then addressed the earnest woman by her common nickname.

 

“Naw, thank ya Miss Poindexter! I don’t get out too much. This is my home base right here. I’m content to stay on my spot...”

 

The stocky, young female nodded with a smile. Then made an appeal for donations.

 

“I get it, old man! But you can contribute to the LGBTQ+ Free Palestine Progressive Climate Change Alliance, by clicking on a link included in my flier. We’re always looking for help! I’m going around the whole park, to tell people, ‘Whatever you do, vote blue!’ I hope you’ll think about what we represent at the ballot box! We need a Democrat leading our state government in Columbus!”

 

The habitual drunkard swooned on his wooden bench. His eyes had lost their ability to focus.

 

“I can’t read a damn thing right now, Miss P! Don’t bother givin’ me any printed material. I’d just toss it in my trash bin with that shit from the dickhead on our corner. Maybe you’ll catch up with each other while canvassing the community. That might be interesting, he’s in the opposite camp from yer tribe...”

 

Darcy shuddered while thinking of the balding agitator with his own stilted pamphlets.

 

“Ugggggh! I can’t stand that guy! He’s a perfect example of why we need a populist, social democracy to protect people who don’t subscribe to that way of backwards thinking!”

 

Lincoln chortled out loud.

 

“I reckon he feels the same damn way about y’all as well! But it is what it is, right? Both of ya can think whatever sounds good. Just do it somewhere else, okay? I’m fed up with all of the shell-game bullshit! Neither side will remember me after the campaign is over. And they won’t lift a finger to help anybody in a place like this rathole of a trailer park! So, let me drink in peace! Screw ‘em all!”

 

The unconventional femme appeared to be flustered and confused. But departed without continuing her impromptu speech.

 

After opening the whiskey bottle once again, the quiet recluse slouched on his seat. Across the street, he could see both of his visitors knocking on doors and passionately sharing their partisan beliefs. In general, the reactions that were displayed matched his own level of disinterest. Though when November arrived, perhaps, that mood of apathy might be subject to change.

 

For the moment, he only wanted to focus on one goal. To be obliterated before sunset. Anything else could wait until a cool, crisp day in the fall.

“Gone”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Gone and invisible

No longer to exist

I’ve been on the edge

But not quite ready for this

It’s a short hop from where I stand

At the back of a crowd

Shaded and shadow-banned

Turned inside, out

Gone and invisible

Right off the cliff

Like the doctor of many faces

Skating in a time slip

Dust from the ashes

Of a self, past-dated

If someone had listened

Perhaps they could have related

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Cloaked in a shroud

Words come to mind

Not spoken aloud

I tried my best to do

What needed to be done

But that task tripped my toes

And left me flat on my bum

Gone and invisible

A see-through affair

No nice notice paid

To an empty chair

It seems a stretch to think

I’ll lose my identity

But that twist of the poker

Comes with impunity

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

A page from the spine

This piece reads more easily

In braille for the blind

With the double-check dare

Of a dupe sold on confidence

A kick to the slats

And a joyful jump of the fence

Gone and invisible

Like I was never here

They’ll debate with good reason

In the passing of a year

My still, silent lips

Won’t argue that point of truth

It’s almost the same

As a needle in a thatched roof

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Given up as a ghost

A figure from antiquity

A notch in the fencepost

No cause can be just

When the yield is a blank stare

A reach ‘round the cornerstone

An inscription, unaware

Gone and invisible

A disproven belief

One long held as foundational

A revelation, indiscrete

Treading on the ground

Thought sacred and just

That’s the wind of a clock spring

Behind inner workings of rust

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Echoes in a hollow head

A crack in the window pane

An abandoned homestead

Drapes torn and frayed

As they hang without purpose, now

Serving here only

To frame the sights they allow

Gone and invisible

I might have expected

My place in the corridor

To be boldly rejected

Not even the kindness

Of a tribute sung in eulogy

That is the happenstance

For a Johnny-come-lately

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

You can see right through me

I have inherited

The name of yours truly

Caked with a muddy glaze

Left over from the march

Of a booted clan on the move

Under the marble arch

Gone and invisible

A flicker of fantastic fare

Imagination lingers

In a crawlspace, under the stairs

There I hid for years

Knowing what would come of it

The wealth of a long life

Marked down as a bad fit

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Not another second given up

That is the ritual

For a seeker who passed the Judas cup

Once the daylight returned

I knew well that night was nigh

And darkness overtook

That glimmer in the sky

Gone and invisible

Back pages that have faded white

No words left to read

A manuscript, gone out of sight

At the zero hour

When the ticker tocks away

I will be granted peace

On this carousel of grace

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone