“Matter Muse”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

It’s a puzzling question never easy to ask

A challenging query, a dumb, daunting task

A quiz that may leave us too short on facts

Does it matter?

When I look at the moon, shining pale at night

And remember old friends who used to delight

In the coming of that orb, glowing iridescent white

Does it Matter?

 

As I ponder the pretense of a day to reflect

On bygone misdeeds that today, we reject

And realize that the same is now what we project

Does it matter?

Old bones grow weary, while new ones may dance

Impulsively willing to give peace a chance

But it still represents a moment of happenstance

Yet, does it matter?

 

I sometimes believe that the truth is made firm

Carved into stone like the curl of a worm

Despite those who call it an infection of germs

Does it matter?

The shape of a kiss may look pleasing to taste

But too often that touch is given to waste

A gift thrown aside in a fit of rude haste

But, does it matter?

 

The same repetition I hear every day

A chanting petition when seekers will pray

A plea to be heard by those who hold sway

Does it matter?

Inside of a chapel, with tablets of gold

Or lost in a field, left out in the cold

A backwards benediction, too often retold

But does it matter?

 

Wherever the marker, whatever the clue

The footprints are shaped by the stomp of a shoe

A sign that the traveler was like me or you

Does it matter?

I write as the spin of a top sends me round

Stumbling and falling, upon sacred ground

With thoughts that will easily echo and abound

Yet does it matter?

 

In the pit of my belly, a groan will subside

While pausing to poke at emotions inside

A barrier constructed to repel the tide

Does it matter?

When I fall short of the bar, set up to measure

That failing will keep me from finding the treasure

Which ought to be better than a minute of pleasure

Does it Matter?

 

A flicker of light may show us direction

And offer a path to discover protection

Or perhaps a detour into darkest deception

Does it matter?

A squint to see clearly, through narrowed eyes

Might reveal the luster of a prudent, first prize

But more often than not, it’s a reason to rise

Does it matter?

 

Late in the hour, a chime signals change

With the click of a mechanism, counting loose change

A card-game hustle, with the dots rearranged

Does it matter?

A sly sleight-of-hand fools the sharpest observer

Who clutches at a buoy and a spare life preserver

While tossed on the waves with a manifest fervor

Does it matter?

 

Snails move too slowly to influence the herd

While hearing the squawk of a restless jaybird

And spectators number, too few by a third

Does it matter?

This churning of choices may cause much despair

A crack in the frame of a plush, easy chair

Like a chew of pink gum, getting stuck in the hair

Does it matter?

 

Importance is a myth, when the scholars rebuke

What passes for knowledge, what passes for truth

On the road from Damascus, a solitary sleuth

Does it matter?

Gaze in the mirror, and see what awaits

A reverse of the image, a contradiction of traits

In an age that revives a warring of states

Yet does it matter?

 

Limbs go arthritic, and strands turn to silver

A kick of the heels that puts me off-kilter

And a pressed-paper cone, to serve as a filter

Does it matter?

A nonsense suggestion, said crisp with a smile

A paradox persuasion, a ruse all the while

With no literal meaning, but to send out exiles

Tell me, does it matter?

 

Good night, my farewell address to the few

Stuck in your ears with a bonding of glue

A last breath of sunset, before the falling of dew

Does it matter?

Somewhere I know that the dead walk again

Those who I loved and those who were friends

And even those pikers who did not make amends

Does it matter?

“Trophies”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Well, I’ve heard a lot of talk about, chasing the American dream

But at the end of that assembly line, things just aren’t what they seem

Cause after giving all I had, my wallet was thin, not thick

I got to feeling like a mule, being beaten with a stick

Now, you might have a preference for, one side or the other

But I am going to tell you straight – we’re all sisters and brothers

This land is best when the people rule, and not when takers win

I won’t be one to celebrate getting hit right on the chin

Whatever you believe, is a thing of choice not chance

And I won’t try to change your mind, with a sloppy song and dance

But remember that from coast to coast, we all have lives to live

The contribution that you make is a patriot’s gift to give

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Now Elon Musk is in the news, for all his wealth and fame

And a thousand other celebrities, who play and act the same

But those I call my heroes, are workers on the line

Regular folks with families, who are always top-of-mind

I couldn’t give a damn about, awards-shows on TV

And never have I thought too much of gossips spilling tea

My grandma was a country saint, so far as I’m concerned

She taught me more than anyone, and I was glad to learn

Now that I am standing tall, I’ll think of her and pray

Everything that I became, was because of yesterday

Farmers fed the nation and soldiers fought the wars

And here at home, peace of mind was had from shore to shore

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Trophies have a gleam, that’ll catch the watchful eye

They indicate some kind of worth that motivates, by and by

But once the tarnish of long years, settles on the brass

You realize that a different fate, has now come along to pass

The trick is one that leaders use, to keep the troops in check

The promise of a better day, with their scheming in effect

But once a vote is taken, the same old run is made

They disappear in a fog of fools, like a squeeze of lemonade

When that plot twist for the pawns, becomes rightly exposed

They’ll all find that their bloom, has fallen off the rose

That’s when streets get busy, with laborers on the march

And the sanctity of a sacred home, is truly taken to heart

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Call me an old-fashioned rube, call me what you will

But good hearts have a glow, that evil men can’t kill

Double-talk and backroom deals don’t carry much appeal

Only for the love of God will I close my eyes and kneel

No man who adorns with gold, the people’s house as his

Can hope to cheat the masses with a plan, secretly hid

We’ll see them all for who they are, and not what they pretend

There will soon be a day of reckoning, at the bitter end

Power is a drink that makes the dry throat sing aloud

With a song of citizen sacrifice, to charm the restless crowd

But eventually that magic spell, will lose its metallic sheen

And those who waste our birthright will be swept out, quick and clean

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall  

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Seven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Linn Speck awakened in his bedroom at Evergreen Estates, expecting to rise with a sense of victory boosting his mood for the day. He had vanquished his intellectual enemy up the street with an anonymous act of arson, that could not be traced back to any specific perpetrator. And that desperate strike had finally managed to rid the rural trailer park of its most colorful and contrarian character. He felt invigorated by sunshine that beamed through his windows. With the old drunk eliminated from their citizen ranks, he hoped to revive his push to organize an association of residents, that would help to oversee operation of the isolated property. That cause remained paramount among his priorities. He lusted after the allure of leadership. And believed that by taking charge in the village of manufactured homes, he would inherit his own manifest destiny. But upon throwing pillows and blankets aside, while sitting at the edge of his mattress, a chill in the sleeping quarters became apparent.

Haki, his wife of a dozen years, was nowhere to be found.

 

Still groggy and in need of caffeine, he stomped through the vintage singlewide, scattering anything in his path. The household cat went running for cover. Dust particles blew into the air, before settling in his wake.

 

“HONEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, MAKING BREAKFAST, MAYBE? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME! WHERE THE HECK DID YOU GO?”

 

The boxcar dwelling was silent and empty. He stood alone in the kitchen for several minutes, before realizing that his submissive spouse had secretly made a clandestine escape, overnight. A check of the closet, and their dresser, revealed that much of her wardrobe had disappeared.

 

He fell onto the sofa with a hefty thud that shook the floor. Then, spotted a handwritten note, carelessly scribbled on the back of a junk-mail envelope.

 

“I don’t know how to put this any other way, so here it is, in plain English. I’ve had enough! You were never a prize to begin with, but we used to have something between us, some spark of romance. That made living here something I could accept. But now, all you do is grouse about this community, and the people who live on our streets. You act like a king who lost his crown! But let me tell you, mister – nobody thinks of you in that way around here. Definitely not me! You’re a bitter, balding loudmouth with an axe to grind. Nothing more or less than that! I’m sick of hearing you complain. Maybe when you’ve got nothing but these walls for company, you will realize how much it meant to have a loving partner sharing your life! I want things to be the way they were, but after so many fights and disappointments, I know that’ll never happen. So here’s my plan. I am going to file for divorce, and go live somewhere far away from this little spot on the map. I hope you will be happier with nothing but your own reflection in the mirror every morning. Good riddance to you, hubby! Have a nice life on your own!”

 

The portly antagonist broke out in a sweat. He was dizzy and disoriented, with a surge of blood pressure swelling his face.

 

From the front door, a sharp knocking began to resound. He had barely managed to get up from his plush furnishing, before a shrill, feminine voice called from outside.

 

“Ayyyyyy, gordo loco! Open up already! I’ve got some questions to ask about the fire that happened at Lot 13!”

 

Linn staggered across the room, feeling deflated. He twisted the doorknob angrily, and was immediately confronted by Dana Alvarez, their manager and ownership representative.

 

“This is outrageous! I haven’t even had my coffee yet! What kind of nonsense are you talking about? A fire? I don’t know anything about a damned fire!”

 

The paid supervisor had her shiny, black mane pulled back under a red bandana.

 

“Estupido! Do you think I am dumb or what? Everybody in the park knows how much you hated that shaggy dude on his porch. He had been here a long time. Now the sheriff is calling, and he wants to snoop around with his deputies. That shit gets me nervous, okay? I don’t like the policia, they screw around, and make a mess of things. This dump is already a mess, I don’t need more of that, you know?”

 

The failed association head shrugged and rolled his eyes.

 

“I understand you want peace and quiet. I get it! But what does that have to do with me? I am a Christian man, married with a family, and am a good example to others. There’s no reason that you should be standing here, squawking about that dirty bum who lost his shack! He never belonged here anyway! He wasn’t one of us! He never wanted to join in anything that we did!”

Dana huffed and rocked on her heels.

 

“Look, this is a warning, okay? You don’t wanna talk to me, that’s fine. But I tell you there’s gonna be other people at your door, real soon. Sheriff Rath will be knocking. He’s heard a lot of rumors, there’s a bunch of mierda going around about the fire. You understand? A lot of scuttlebutt shit. Not only did that trailer burn down, but then somebody pissed all over the memorial flowers. That’s some crazy stuff right there. Dios mio!”

 

The overweight provocateur groaned audibly, before gesturing toward their street. He lied skillfully, with the tone of a politician at work.

 

“I’ve got nothing for you, Ms. Alvarez! I don’t know anything, I’m not guilty of anything, and I won’t say anything! That’s as far as it goes! That bastard from our county will get the same reply! A big ball of nothing from me! Nothing, nothing, nothing!”

 

The park overseer lowered her gaze, and nodded.

 

“Okay pendejo, you keep going with that attitude. I don’t care about this one way or another. All I know is that shaggy dude paid his rent on time every month. Now I need another tenant to move in, you get it? It ain’t so easy to find people, with the costs going up constantly, and a big water bill on top of that! Ayyyyyy! It gives me a headache!”

 

When she was finally gone, the flabby instigator returned to his couch. He did not feel guilty for having expelled T. C. Lincoln from their remote oasis. But guessed that in the coming days, his existence was about to become more complicated and unpredictable.

 

He had always been respected among the residents of Evergreen Estates. Looked upon as a seeker of truth, and a steadfast believer in God. But now, he wondered if that period of benevolence might have officially come to an end.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Six)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

The first night by Lake Erie was long and uncomfortable for T. C. Lincoln. Over the years spent in his mobile home at Evergreen Estates, the contrarian loner had forgotten what it was like to sleep in a converted camper. The Econoline van boasted a competent list of accessories for vacation jaunts and road adventures, but did not quite fit his needs as a disabled, senior citizen. Still, being liberated from the restrictive environment of his trailer community was a blessing. He had no neighborhood watch patrols to monitor his routine, or question his quirky habits. The natural environment into which he had entered offered seclusion and anonymity. Due to a lack of regular upkeep and attention, the three-acre plot of his estranged associate had become a woodland preserve, once again. Full of wildlife, and shrouded in mystery.

 

Janis Mays, his hippie companion, had landed at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula, because of health complications. She survived a heart attack and three strokes, but could not gather the strength to resume her favored lifestyle by the water. That downgrade in ability stifled her independence, with the property and century home being left vacant and forgotten. Yet for him, it represented rescue and revival. Despite being expelled from his boxcar hovel, he could hide in comfort among the tall trees and thickets of brush.

 

The wandering drunk accepted his new role as a caretaker with much gratitude. But after only a few days at the abandoned site, he realized that sitting outside, with an adult beverage, was far less entertaining. Now, there was no parade of fellow residents in their rusty cars and trucks passing by, as he lingered in a fog of inebriation. No howling of stray animals, or the combative chatter of marital disputes in progress. No buzzing of power tools, no radios reverberating with rural forms of music, no bark of firearms being discharged for fun. He rested on a repurposed shipping crate, in silent repose. Listening to the gentle sounds of feral creatures who were drawn to the wild terrain.

 

Bourbon whiskey blurred his vision, and sapped his energy. He slouched on the makeshift seat, feeling groggy. His eyes shut slowly, in anticipation of unconsciousness. And then, a notification tone sounded from his hoodie pocket.

 

He had all but forgotten about his cellular device. But upon taking the plastic unit in hand, he saw a text message from Darby Stronelli, who had lived on his eastern flank.

 

“Hey buddy, where the hell did you go? Linn has been over here every day, snooping around to see if I know anything about what happened to your old ass after the trailer fire. But I didn’t tell him anything. And I didn’t! He’s been fighting with his wife constantly, I think she might have even moved out. Is that cray cray, or what?”

 

Lincoln felt a knot form in his stomach. He had little desire to revisit the drama of his former living space, and offered no response.

 

A long pause elapsed as he took a cold brew from his cooler. Finally, another message popped up on his phone screen.

 

“C’MON DICKHEAD, SAY SOMETHING! I JUST WANT TO KNOW THAT YOU’RE OKAY! THE PARK LADY CAME BY YESTERDAY, SHE WONDERED IF I HAD HEARD RUMORS THAT YOUR SHACK WAS BURNED DOWN ON PURPOSE. I DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT THAT, AND WOULDN’T TELL HER ANYWAY. I DON’T TRUST THAT BITCH!”

 

The reclusive hermit clutched at his belly. He had hoped to be distant enough for some measure of isolation from the outside world. Yet it seemed that his separation would be short-lived in duration. With his mood darkening, he turned off the wireless link. Another swig of liquor sent him tumbling from his improvised perch, to the ground.

 

Snoring in the grass, he slipped into a dream state. His erstwhile, Bohemian counterpart emerged from the shadows, to plead for cooperation with ensuring that her land and dwelling would be safe.

 

“Link, ya gotta keep yer eyes on my place! I’m stuck in this gawdamn ward until everything gets healed. These doctors are a pain in the butt! They treat me like a kid, like Granny did when I was growing up. I hate that shit! But they won’t let me go...”

 

In reality, he hadn’t heard from the rowdy female in more than a year. But her persona remained indelibly etched in his memory. They had been connected for fifteen years, at least.

 

Slobbering and sniffling while still lost in oblivion, he reached out to touch her face.

 

“You’re a friend I could never explain to anyone. Not pretty, or kind, or even fun to know. Generally, someone that always keeps me on my toes in any social situations. I sometimes think that it would be better if we never saw each other again. But here I am, back on your doorstep. We just can’t seem to stay away from each other. It’s like I need you, and you need me. How that happened, I will never know!”

 

His unconventional partner cackled gleefully at this confession. It gave her a sense of empowerment.

 

“OF COURSE YOU NEED ME, BECAUSE I AM FREAKING AWESOME! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU, BEFORE THAT GETS THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL?”

 

As he wallowed helplessly in the void, there was a nibble at crumbs in his gray beard. A raccoon had approached him from the property perimeter. This tickle awakened him abruptly, from the realm of imagination. He sat up and scratched his facial hair, to clear the debris.

 

“Hey! Don’t leave yet! It was good to see you again! It was really, really good!”

 

His face burned in the glare of a midday sun. Bird waste dripped from the side mirror of his Ford van. A breeze toyed with weeds and shrubs that surrounded the empty house.

 

For the first time, Lincoln realized that he was now completely alone. A condition that he once found appealing to consider. But presently, made him wonder about his own ability to thrive without being part of a greater continuum. He had become invisible, to others and to himself. A useless and hollow vessel, without any purpose in existing. Except as a component of a paradigm he could not comprehend, in mind or spirit.

 

The Lake Erie venue offered him a chance to catch his breath, and regroup. For the moment, that was enough. Anything more would have to wait for another day, and a hopeful petition for understanding, from a higher power.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Stuck” (Part Five)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

For many of the residents at Evergreen Estates, having T. C. Lincoln removed from their community was an event that passed without notice. A random happening that carried little importance. For those who habitually trekked up and down his street in the trailer community, it meant seeing an empty lot while passing on their way to work duties or other responsibilities. Though the sight of refuse and ashes heaped on that concrete slab did present a puzzling display, among the other manufactured homes that remained. Yet within a limited number of days, there was a visible change at the site. Inexplicably, a makeshift memorial appeared, with crosses, artificial flowers, and various graphic illustrations of the bearded misanthrope. Though placed anonymously on the ruins of his boxcar hovel, these remembrances seemed to suggest that at least a few of the inhabitants missed their unconventional cohort in some sense.

 

Apparently, a few must have believed that the drunken loner had perished in his humble dwelling. That falsehood persisted, despite being denied by property manager Dana Alvarez.

 

But for Linn Speck, the rotund organizer and failed association leader, having his opponent expelled from the park under any circumstances was worth celebrating. At first, he had invited fellow leaseholders and renters to gather in his side yard, by a pit made of cinder blocks, for an improvised campfire and drinking contest. Aimes Hefti, the militia chieftain, was eager to visit this party, along with members of his amateur brigade. Darby Stronelli, who always stayed on the fence in between factions and enemies, came over to swig cold brews and interact with those in attendance. But otherwise, only a small portion of the local population chose to participate.

 

Their cheering echoed in the flickering light, long after nightfall.

 

“NA NA NA NA! NA NA NA NA! LINK IS GONE! GOODBYE!”

 

This cheerful mood lasted until sunrise. By then, daylight settled on the mysterious tributes left at Lot 13. And the balding figure on their corner yawned from his narrow doorway, while enjoying fresh air, and a first cup of coffee. A necessary step taken to ease his hangover.

 

With irritation, he called out to his wife who was in the kitchen, making breakfast.

 

“Haki, come here! What the hell is that I see, up our lane? Somebody actually wanted to remember that booze hound who lost his shack? I don’t get it! Nobody liked that stupid old hermit! He was dirty and cranky, and always looking like a mess, out on his porch!”

 

His spouse had an apron tied over her pink nightgown. And her face had turned a ruddy shade of crimson. Yet she declined to confess any knowledge of the crude memorial.

 

“Well now, someone must have cared about that poor man, after all. I am impressed!”

 

Linn growled until his multiple chins tightened with rage.

 

“I call bullshit! He didn’t have a friend in this development! None of us ever wanted him here! I’m not hesitant to say that having that piece of trash gone is a real blessing! I hope we never see him again!”

 

His wife disagreed. But kept her protest quiet enough that it was barely audible.

 

“Say what you want, but he was a human being, like any of us. He deserved to live here in peace. Not to be run out like a frightened rat!”

 

Upon finishing his hot beverage, the pudgy instigator decided to take a walk up their patchwork boulevard, for a closer look. But as he neared the flowers and portraits, a tingle of need resonated in his bladder. Feeling brave in the moment, he turned toward the heap of charred rubbish, and opened the fly of his pajama pants.

 

A golden stream splashed over the pile. Its uninhibited flow was heightened by a mood of victory. He took great joy in staining the concrete with his own, natural effluent.

 

“THAT’S ALL FOR YOU, LINK! YOU WERE ONE CRUSTY SON-OF-A-BITCH! BUT NOW, THAT NONSENCIAL CRAP IS DONE! DONE, DONE, DONE! YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO BOTHER US ANYMORE! YOU ARE OUTTA HERE FOR GOOD!”

 

Haki felt a surge of nausea in her stomach, while witnessing this miscreant act. She turned away, reflexively, while shielding her eyes. Regret made her double over, in pain. She whispered to herself while standing alone in the driveway.

 

“How did I ever marry a man like him? What was I thinking? I must have been out of my mind!”

 

A final, rebellious kick sent artifacts scattering across the vacant slab. Linn had no patience for anyone who would express fondness for the alcoholic bum. He had been validated by the speedy exit of his enemy, after seeing the singlewide trailer succumb to the overwhelming might of an arsonist’s intent. A message had been delivered, not just to one individual, but also to anyone else who might consider embracing those disgusting habits and traditions. Such people were not welcome in their rural village. Unity of philosophy and purpose had made them strong. Anything less would only put that resilient spirit into jeopardy.

 

As the portly individual returned to his residence on the corner, Maylene Jefka appeared on her front steps. The widowed matron was known by everyone at Evergreen Estates. And respected as a teacher at Sunday School on the township square.

 

She gazed tearfully at the remnants of their tribute to the contrarian outcast who was no longer a member of the group. Then, folded her hands in prayer.

 

“Lord, forgive that man for what he did in anger. Let him understand the error of his ways, and seek redemption. But most of all, look after our friend who used to live across the street. Comfort him as he searches for a new home, and a place to feel safe again. Be with him, as you are with all of your children. Do not let him feel alone. Amen!”

 

Near the shore of Lake Erie, Lincoln parked his custom van at an unoccupied parcel of land owned by Janis Mays, his erstwhile companion from a different era. The wooded acreage had been abandoned for an extended period, with no maintenance or upkeep. Amenities were non-existent. He would have no electricity, running water, or creature comforts. But the boxy vehicle would suffice to offer him a measure of security, until some better venue for living could be obtained.

 

For the first time in recent memory, he was a free man. Liberated, and unfettered by the opinions of others. That alone made every sacrifice he had endured worthwhile.

“Nobody, Revisited”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

Unseen in the glare of a daylight glow

Invisible and unable to directly cast a shadow

I have no presence, no form to fill

This is the yield of a poison pill

Nobody is my name

I won’t cry out to receive a rest

It is better that I linger in the cold and emptiness

My place proscribed by a careless word

Dropping from the sky like a flightless bird

Nobody is my name

 

The appearance I carry is one of regret

Stained with transgressions I cannot forget

And though forgiveness is assured in the scrolls

I find myself failing in neighborhood polls

Nobody is my name

A tease and a twist, once seemed to play

But now I realize that those gifts caused delay

They held back a soul that was ready to soar

With a hand raised to halt what awaited in store

Nobody is my name

 

A kiss on the cheek signified my guilt

It marked me as one who had the wrong tilt

An incline toward opposites, bent in my bones

A curse that made the crowd leave me alone

Nobody is my name

I might have complained, with a voice gone unheard

But that useless pursuit would multiply, by a third

Laid out and laughing, I leap from the cliff

Into a canyon where the vanquished turn stiff

Nobody is my name

 

I saw it once in a western film reel

A moving picture, with midnight appeal

The tale of a cowboy, unknown to the rest

With a six-gun and badge, pinned on his vest

Nobody is my name

Trinity trailed a figure, willfully aloof

And scattered his bullets from the peak of a roof

Forgive me if that memory is not quite correct

It has been too long since the theater was wrecked

Nobody is my name

 

A silent reflection on the silver screen

A magnified mess, contorted in a dream

That imagery does not match my literal intent

It leaves me with a taste of whiskey and torment

Nobody is my name

No matter the plan, I still fall upon rocks

A hole in my heart and a tumble of blocks

Treading over eggshells, with no compromise to make

Sad to believe that my birth was a mistake

Nobody is my name

 

A sobering truth, discovered on a dare

That the man without a home remains unaware

No country to claim when standing in court

No citizen status to stamp on a passport

Nobody is my name

Caught between sides of a narrow route to escape

Where weakness confirms that the hour is too late

And a hunger for redemption ends badly for all

A scribble of chalk on the jailhouse wall

Nobody is my name

 

The tomb may be empty for a savior on the rise

But there is no such brilliance for one with closed eyes

I meet the final moment with a flicker of flame

This candle is snuffed out by a dribble of rain

Nobody is my name

Should you by chance, remember my fall

If pray for a benediction, to celebrate that call

An echo still bouncing among ears in the fold

A story of things not often retold

Nobody is my name

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

With his singlewide trailer in flames, T. C. Lincoln was suddenly homeless and bankrupt. Everything of value that he had possessed had now been converted to a blazing heap of rubble and ash. Only his repurposed, work van remained, to offer some sort of shelter. Yet this calamity represented more than simply a loss of worldly possessions. It confronted him with a sense of being expelled from the junkyard oasis as an undesirable element. A stain on the landscape that needed to be bleached and burned out of existence. For a moment, he stood trembling in the yard, with both disability canes offering support. But after a moment to regain balance, he realized that now, no inhibitions were left to block him from seeking vengeance against his adversary on the corner. As a resident forcefully removed from the continuum, he had the genuine liberty to act aggressively, and without any fear of recriminations.

 

The shadows of night would shield him in this new quest for justice.

 

With some difficulty, he stumbled down the rustic boulevard, to the lot where Linn Speck made his home. The vintage relic was painted in coats of hardware-store hues, bought on sale. It had the crude appearance of an internet meme depicting hardship and destitution. But served well enough to house the rotund instigator, and his spouse, along with a domesticated, feral feline, a tank of goldfish, and a caged parakeet.

 

Signage from the 2024 presidential campaign still hung in the front windows. In the driveway, a foreign sedan loafed on bald tires and bad springs. Its muffler hung low, under the automotive carriage.

 

Lincoln had procured his only weapon from a bedroom closet, while escaping the conflagration. It was an Ithaca Gun, Model 37. A family heirloom, handed down from his grandfather. As he approached the residence of his nemesis, a wild lust for retribution took hold. He was confident and sure of himself as a clandestine presence, hidden in the shadows. It would take only a single blast from his firearm to scatter siding, and alert the occupants of his bold intentions. Then, with a mighty swing of walking sticks, and persistence in his cause, he could even the score.

 

A light glowed in shades of yellow, from over the kitchen table. Both inhabitants of the longbox hovel were standing on opposite sides of their square furnishing. He took aim with his antique shotgun, and prepared to begin the raid that was about to transpire. Yet before triggering his revenge, a howl of female vocalization stalled this push to be dominant.

 

Haki had both hands clenched, and stomped her feet on the linoleum in a desperate cadence.

 

“YOU REALLY BURNED DOWN THAT POOR OLD MAN’S HOUSE! YOU DID IT, REALLY? REALLY? REALLY?”

 

Linn was flustered by this tone of dissent. He did not appreciate being rudely questioned by his marriage partner.

 

“Yes I did! That old drunk had it coming! Nobody likes him being on our street. He’s dirty, shaggy, and ugly! Not our kind of people in any way! Believe me, they’ll be calling me a hero for getting him off this property! Say what you will, but I did everyone in this park a favor by striking those matches!”

 

The middle-aged woman did not agree with her husband. Instead, she shuddered and coughed.

 

“He sits there by himself every day, drinking his booze. Does that really bother you so much? I mean, he never goes anywhere. He never gets any visitors. He doesn’t make trouble for anybody. What’s the big deal with just leaving him alone?”

 

Linn protested until his jowls had turned red. Sweat dribbled from his sunken chin.

 

“He never goes to church with us, up on the hilltop. He won’t come to township meetings. He doesn’t get involved in things like the residential association, except to raise doubts about my legitimacy as a de facto leader of that group. And his political way of thinking is not what we believe. Everybody gets along here, because we all are on the same page. He’s an outsider, and we don’t need outsiders! We don’t need anyone to stir the pot! What we need is good, clean, loyal leaseholders who’ll help make this park a better place! Not a cranky hermit who would be better off living in a gawdamn barn somewhere!”

 

Haki sighed heavily, before taking a seat at their table.

 

“I can’t listen to you any longer! Do you understand how disgusting it was to set his trailer on fire? He’s a human being, like you or me...”

 

Her significant other stiffened with resentment. He did not agree on any level.

 

“HE IS NOT LIKE YOU OR ME! THAT GUY IS A PIECE OF DOG CRAP! I WOULDN’T THINK TWICE ABOUT WIPING HIM OFF THE HEEL OF MY SHOE! HE’S A MENACE AND A LOSER! HIS FAMILY NEVER COMES OVER TO SEE HIM, WHAT DOES THAT TELL YOU? HE HAS TO GET DRUNK BY HIMSELF, EVERY DAY! WHAT A LIFE HE MUST LEAD! WHAT A HORRIBLE, EMPTY, EXCUSE FOR A LIFE!”

 

Lincoln stood outside, listening intently. The loud conversation made his stomach churn with a bout of nausea. Yet it softened his resolve to seek satisfaction. His anger faded as the dispute continued to echo, loudly.

 

Haki wiped away tears, while repeating her objection to the wanton act of vandalism.

 

“Honey, I haven’t been happy with our relationship in a long time. Maybe it took something like this to give me enough courage to admit that to your face. But this is really the last straw. I don’t want to be married to someone who would burn an innocent man’s home to the ground! That makes me sick inside! And it has me wondering if I made the right decision wearing this ring on my finger...”

 

Linn sputtered as his wife removed her marital jewelry in a fit of remorse.

 

“YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS, MRS. SPECK! I AM THE BEST HUSBAND YOU OR ANY OTHER WOMAN COULD HAVE! YOU’LL REGRET LEAVING IF THAT IS WHAT YOU’VE GOT IN MIND! TRUST ME, I KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING! WALK OUT OF HERE, AND YOU WILL BE SORRY! I GUARANTEE IT! ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT!”

 

Lingering in the darkness, their displaced neighbor bowed his head. Tonight, he would be sleeping in a motel somewhere, or perhaps, in his customized van. That shift in habits would represent his first taste of liberty in many years. Something that, until now, had only been a construct of fantasy.

 

Leaving Evergreen Estates behind was not difficult, in the end. He carried no regrets, when turning onto Pine Trail Road, and heading west, toward the junction with a northern route to Lake Erie.

 

A new chapter of his personal story was about to be written. And he could not wait to read what it entailed.