“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

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

After days of being inactive at my desk in the home office, I had slipped into a reflective mood. Pondering events throughout my childhood, and beyond. This look back across the years brought memories that were buried in antiquity to the fore. Finally, I reflected on being the eldest son of a Christian pastor. This heritage had always provided a note of contrast, as one who wandered from the chosen path. I carried a measure of guilt in every wanton act of self-satisfaction. This legacy was one I could not shed, no matter how far from the teachings of my youth I strayed.

 

Lyrics for an Appalachian hymn of sorts began to form in my head. And I sat at the keyboard as they traveled mystically, through my fingers, to the screen.

 

Grace

 

“Hellfire is hot, I heard the preacher say

A hard reckoning, on display

I held the Bible, while praying along

I knew that God’s grand glory was strong

Hell is real, that lesson hit home

I saw Beelzebub upon his throne

A deep, dark dungeon where I may enter in

But not before salvation cleanses my sin

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I’ve done my share of things to regret

A measure of misdeeds that I’d like to forget

Sleepless nights spent on bawdy affairs

Drinking whiskey till I fell down the stairs

I’ve had plenty of reasons to ride

Far away from the incoming tide

The only refuge is one with the Lord

Away from conquests my soul can’t afford

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Every failing brings me close to the cliff

On the edge of a damnation guilt-trip

In the saddle, headed toward my demise

The reaper comes in a friendly disguise

I’ve been tricked before, and put off the path

Wandering and lost, without my treasure map

But the word gives a clue to direction

I turn back to holy protection

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I don’t deserve this chance to repent

I know the end will come with judgement

But in the scriptures, there is a plan

To overcome, the weakness of man

I’ve been proud, and also bold

Not afraid to chase silver and gold

Yet the yield of that race is no prize

I’ve come to see with opened eyes

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

As a child, I heard those tales from afar

About apostles and the healing of scars

The Son of God in Mary’s womb

Manna from heaven and a rising from the tomb

I used to blink at those stories and lament

Until realizing that my brittle bones were bent

The breath of life had become too slight

When reaching the cool edge of night

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Now I know that the truth is revealed

For all who struggle, there is an appeal

An open door through which to escape

From the wages of sin and decay

That beggar’s bonus is one given without cost

Only the love of that man on the cross

I cannot earn the right to be made pure

But in believing, my hope is assured

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

The flesh is weak, this has been defined

A coil of cares that burden the mind

With a desire that does not suffice

An empty vessel of fleeting delights

I seek the mansion prepared on high

When Armageddon is drawing nigh

Not a single act done here has remained

I am free from the crimson stain

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Cowboys sit tall, and curse the heat

That was my choice until becoming complete

I turned quickly from the ways of a fool

On bended knees, instead of a barstool

The church was once a spot that caused me to grin

Until the preacher said, ‘Boy, come on in!’

By entering that place of worship and love

I found a better path to the father, above

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

If you accept this rhyme of my own

I hope you’ll not seek eternity, alone

Read the gospel and receive its worth

Find your way to resurrection and rebirth

Don’t think of me as anything else

Than a true seeker, of heavenly wealth

I am a backslider, still striving to flee

Into the arms of eternity

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive...”

 

T. Randall Squire was struck by this introspective confession of sin and sadness. He called my phone on a midweek morning, as I was still having coffee.

 

“Boy, I gotta say yer a damn riddle to me! One minute I get a feelin’ y’all are a down-home hillbilly, and the next, ya sound like some sort of artistic freak. And then this churchy vibe comes up, I just don’t know what to expect! What kind of thing are ya tryin’ to do here? Is this feelin’ sorry fer yerself, or maybe havin’ a crisis of faith? What gives, pardner?”

 

I clutched my stomach, which was empty as I had not yet made anything for breakfast.

 

“Sir, as the kids like to say, it’s complicated. I’ve got all of that and more rambling around in my subconscious mind. You might say, a taste for thrills, and a touch of shame for perpetually going off the rails...”

 

My contact at the record label huffed while taking a break from his cigar.

 

“Rodney, we’ve all messed up now and then, it ain’t a thing to worry yerself with. Everybody has a good side and a bad side. Some just tilt those scales more in one direction or another!”

 

I had to agree. But felt differently about the complexities of a human personality.

 

“See, I’ve got that ingrained into my DNA so deeply that it affects everything I do. Sometimes when looking into a mirror, I can catch a glimpse of all those generations that went before. It’s all in the eyes. Issac, Andrew Jackson, Kromer Columbus, McGarvey, Rhoderick, all of them are looking back at me from the other side of that reflective glass. Except I didn’t stay with the program. My turn came, and I burned the candle at both ends. I sold my birthright. I squandered my soul, so to speak...”

 

Country Squire wheezed and coughed while listening.

 

“Dang it boy, settle down! Yer way too twisted up on this story. Though I do appreciate ya writin’ a little something fer the religious types out there, they buy our recordings too! Y’all know that kinda stuff sells just like the drinkin’ songs. It’s all part of the mix!”

 

My entertainment cohort seemed to be missing the emotions attached to what I had composed. But instead of attempting to broaden my explanation, I let the subject drop.

 

“Thanks for your support, sir. You keep listening, and I’ll stay vigilant with my quill!”

 

“Grace”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Hellfire is hot, I heard the preacher say

A hard reckoning, on display

I held the Bible, while praying along

I knew that God’s grand glory was strong

Hell is real, that lesson hit home

I saw Beelzebub upon his throne

A deep, dark dungeon where I may enter in

But not before salvation cleanses my sin

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I’ve done my share of things to regret

A measure of misdeeds that I’d like to forget

Sleepless nights spent on bawdy affairs

Drinking whiskey till I fell down the stairs

I’ve had plenty of reasons to ride

Far away from the incoming tide

The only refuge is one with the Lord

Away from conquests my soul can’t afford

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Every failing brings me close to the cliff

On the edge of a damnation guilt-trip

In the saddle, headed toward my demise

The reaper comes in a friendly disguise

I’ve been tricked before, and put off the path

Wandering and lost, without my treasure map

But the word gives a clue to direction

I turn back to holy protection

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I don’t deserve this chance to repent

I know the end will come with judgement

But in the scriptures, there is a plan

To overcome, the weakness of man

I’ve been proud, and also bold

Not afraid to chase silver and gold

Yet the yield of that race is no prize

I’ve come to see with opened eyes

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

As a child, I heard those tales from afar

About apostles and the healing of scars

The Son of God in Mary’s womb

Manna from heaven and a rising from the tomb

I used to blink at those stories and lament

Until realizing that my brittle bones were bent

The breath of life had become too slight

When reaching the cool edge of night

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Now I know that the truth is revealed

For all who struggle, there is an appeal

An open door through which to escape

From the wages of sin and decay

That beggar’s bonus is one given without cost

Only the love of that man on the cross

I cannot earn the right to be made pure

But in believing, my hope is assured

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

The flesh is weak, this has been defined

A coil of cares that burden the mind

With a desire that does not suffice

An empty vessel of fleeting delights

I seek the mansion prepared on high

When Armageddon is drawing nigh

Not a single act done here has remained

I am free from the crimson stain

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Cowboys sit tall, and curse the heat

That was my choice until becoming complete

I turned quickly from the ways of a fool

On bended knees, instead of a barstool

The church was once a spot that caused me to grin

Until the preacher said, ‘Boy, come on in!’

By entering that place of worship and love

I found a better path to the father, above

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

If you accept this rhyme of my own

I hope you’ll not seek eternity, alone

Read the gospel and receive its worth

Find your way to resurrection and rebirth

Don’t think of me as anything else

Than a true seeker, of heavenly wealth

I am a backslider, still striving to flee

Into the arms of eternity

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “January Jolt”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

New Year’s Day, 2010. A benchmark that would define my existence for years to come.

 

The inaugural hours of January brought a somber and silent mood to the Icehouse, in that distant era. After months of financial and relationship struggles, I found myself living alone, working in a community where I knew no one, and facing ruin with banks and creditors. This condition did not appear out of the ether of course, but was an unexpected result precipitated by good intentions and bad choices. My second marriage, a costly error in judgement, exploded as the old calendar was about to expire. I had exhausted my savings, borrowing capabilities, and the patience of family members. What remained was a basic level of subsistence. I held a management position at a business in Ashtabula County, and threw myself into this gainful occupation not only with the knowledge that it paid the bills, but also because everything else I possessed had been jettisoned to survive.

 

To break the chill of winter, I wore a hand-me-down jacket from my late father-in-law, with stains and holes, and a broken zipper. It had been stitched with colors of the Dallas Cowboys incorporated into its design, an NFL team that turned my stomach. I ate Valu Time macaroni & cheese, or sandwiches of bologna, because those options matched my budgetary needs. Otherwise, I surrendered any personal frivolities. The routine I adopted was decidedly simple, to spend every possible moment on duty for my employer, before coming home to collapse.

 

There was no sympathy offered during this period of reckoning. Members of my bloodline rightly figured that I had failed to properly handle the details of being an adult, and therefore, met with a passage of judgment. I could not escape a feeling that their scorn was somewhat justified. Yet when driving north along Route 534, with the bluster of inclement weather impeding my progress, I shuddered and shivered at the wheel.

 

A sense of responsibility kept me focused. Otherwise, I had nothing else to guide my journey.

 

My home was at a residence park in a rural township, south of Lake Erie. Far enough removed from others in my brood that it offered a useful amount of separation. I did not interact with neighbors or friends while attempting to gain some sort of absolution, and rebirth. Midnight hours that followed my shifts in Geneva were occupied with recycled, VHS tapes from a collection in the entertainment center. A particular favorite was Jerry Springer’s ‘Too Hot for TV’ which I watched over and over again. The mayhem and conflict matched what had transpired in my own life, with ironic perfection. I would drink while viewing these chaotic clips, until fatigue finally overwhelmed my consciousness. Then, give thanks for surrender.

 

The weeks and months that passed were dark by every measure. I felt as if fate had swallowed me whole, like a proverbial whale in the Biblical story of Jonah.

 

Mounds of snow marked the entrance to my driveway. I used four-wheel drive every day, to get out of my small community. Often the trek home after sunset was a lonely jaunt driving along behind a plow truck, with its flashing lights leading the way. I would beg our creator for protection while dodging drifts and navigating squalls of blinding white. Night-time radio offered companionship as I steered through the mess. I became conditioned to listening, regardless of the subject matter. Sometimes, about the woes of Cleveland and its sports franchises. And at other times, reflections on political conflicts, or historical factoids. Most appropriate however, were shows dedicated to UFO sightings and government conspiracies.

 

I was something of an alien myself, in that moment. Present in body and mind, but disconnected in spirit.

 

When spring arrived, it revealed the true nature of my isolation. A toy basket appeared in the yard, something that had been buried under layers of precipitation since late in the previous year. Christmas lights were still hanging along one side of my home. They had gone slack over the frosty, post-holiday season, and were a noisy reminder of my own neglect. Inside, I realized that a pecan pie still sat on the kitchen table, under wrapping paper and dishes, and other household debris.

 

I had been completely focused on staying employed, and restoring my good name. Everything else had become invisible and insignificant.

 

While rebuilding the reputation that had been put asunder, I paid cash for everything. Eventually, I took out a secured card with my own bank, which used a deposit of $300.00 to create an artificial line of credit. That exercise allowed me to return to better standing with the institution. Eventually, I remembered that Citi Financial had been helpful to my father, when he was mired in debt and insolvency. I applied for an account and amazingly, was accepted despite the poor rating inherited during my marital decline.

 

The ordeal of having lived under a bridge overpass in New York State helped me to endure during this extended crisis. As did a childhood spent moving constantly, with collection agencies perpetually seeking to contact my sire.

 

Just as winter transitioned to spring, and summer, this chasm of depression eventually brightened into better days of hope and fulfillment. I made new friends in the city where I had landed as a salaried supervisor. I began to interact regularly with some of the curious inhabitants of my blue-collar neighborhood. And I gained confidence in myself, as someone who possessed the ability to cope with unfortunate events, no matter when they arrived.

 

Yet the lesson of that comeuppance has lingered ever sense. It was for me, what English guitarist Keith Richards once called a period of ‘heavy education.’

 

I was conservative before, in habits and choices. But now, even more resistant to gamble with so much to lose on the table. My schooling reinforced the value of stern instruction, from progenitors who had survived World Wars and economic calamities. A sort of minimalism had always been in effect, in my psychology. Now, that inclination became paramount in philosophical terms.

 

I had often fretted over circumstances that were unkind, and inconvenient. Yet the yield of this hard-knocks training was more than simply a higher tally of points on my FICO score, or a greater sum in my bank stash. It was the knowledge that God’s grace remained available, even to one who had fallen short of his glory, when no excuse for that failing existed.

 

I had met the challenge, and won. My prize was the most valuable of all, life itself.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Maple Avenue”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“When ya ain’t got nothin’, you got nothing to lose. You’re invisible now, ya got no secrets to conceal...” – Bob Dylan

 

Possibly more times than is warranted by its intrinsic, artistic value, I have told the story of coming home from Ithaca, New York in 1983. As a young man of 22 years, literally with the clothes on my back, a single Japanese guitar, and a box of mismatched, vinyl records. I was broken emotionally and exhausted within. I weighed around 140 pounds, had a waist measurement of 29.5 inches, and had been home-hopping between friends when not staying under a bridge overpass. My summer in the Finger Lakes Region had been an adventure worthy of being remembered in prose, or song lyrics. Yet the denouement came as a crisis of judgment and circumstance. I was literally at the point of ceasing to exist. Something which strangely, seemed attractive at the time. I thought subconsciously that a final exit on the order of Sid Vicious might be worthy. Still, I had not been programmed for such a demise. Instilled in my mental DNA was a lust for living. One that I could not escape, even when on the Empire State concrete, with winter snow whipping through my tangled, unruly hair.

 

My parents lived on a street in northeastern Ohio named Maple Avenue. From the very beginning, it caused my stomach to ache, with such a bland nomenclature attached. I bristled at having to see the heartland again. It was in cultural terms, a spot on the map that held nothing for me as a traveler and poet. Only my genetic origin had happened on Buckeye soil. Otherwise, I looked upon it as a foreign land, one I had been able to escape by chance.

 

That mindset, along with a lingering dependency on cigarettes and alcohol, colored my view as I returned with the help of a friendly driver who must have pitied my incompetence at becoming a functional adult.

 

My father might have taken a hard-nosed attitude to this prodigal period spent wandering, alone and hungry. And indeed, I sometimes ponder that he offered no scorn or criticism when I appeared at the family homestead, on a late afternoon. I suspect that my look must have shocked his middle-of-the-road sensibilities. I reeked of tobacco and Tennessee whiskey. My clothes had not been laundered in weeks. I was gaunt and pale, and visibly lost. Worst of all, I carried a chain-wallet in my rear pocket. It held little except for a library card and coupons for pizza. Never any significant amount of money.

 

Their home was not large enough to offer a spare bedroom, or even a proper place to lay my head. So, I slept on the couch in their living room. This setting would continue for about three years. It proved to be cramped, uncomfortable, and awkward. But still preferable to stretching out between cinder blocks, on gravel and mud. Or, sleeping on a floor with only a sheet underneath, and my leather jacket folded as a pillow.

 

My siblings had spots already assigned, upstairs. Neither were particularly spacious. My sire and mater occupied a room off of the dining area, which had no door. Their bed nearly filled the entire space. A narrow lane led to the closet. Because the structure had been one of the first in their neighborhood, it had no modernist design elements incorporated. There was one bathroom, with a clawfoot tub. The kitchen boasted enough square footage to turn around from the stove to a single sink, and not any more.

 

A cement porch had been constructed, facing the back yard. It was my perch when smoking Camel products, to relieve stress throughout the day.

 

After a brief stint as a warehouse selector in Cleveland, I was hired for a remodel crew at a local department store in this adopted village. The job transitioned to a regular position, and gave me a needed measure of stability. I did janitorial and maintenance chores, with occasional assignments to move freight and build displays. It dampened my spirits after having been in the shadow of Cornell University as an artistic adventurer. But put cash in my biker billfold.

 

Eventually, I bought a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle for $750.00 from a Ford dealership situated nearby. The German vehicle was ratty, had no heat, and only one, studded tire for driving in icy conditions. Yet it boosted my confidence. I had finally begun to build a foundation for myself that could not be erased by bad decisions or misfortune.

 

When my sister married in 1985, her husband moved in with us at the tiny, yellow abode. This choice seemed to stretch the limits of good reason, because we were already cohabitating in a confined environment that kept our group on edge. My mother joked that with everyone working different shifts, her pots and pans never got cold. I did my best to stay at work, or among friends at a tavern south of town on Route 322. My brother typically spent most of his time wrenching on a fleet of used cars parked in the lot next door. Often, with only one roadworthy enough to be operated, at a time.

 

In the moment, this episode felt restrictive and maddening. I could not wait to leave.

 

Currently however, when viewed with hindsight, I find my thoughts drifting back to that period with fondness and affection. I dote on memories of those who have since passed away in our bloodline. And of places and traditions that were sacrificed as I developed survival skills that had been lacking before. I learned valuable lessons from being stuck in that shack, with five other residents and a household budget barely generous enough to support even one.

 

Our ability to cope continues to reverberate with importance, even today.

 

This reflection reinforces my personal belief that quite often, life is a matter of perspective. When I was in my darkest hour as a human being, with few allies and little faith in the future, the glimmer of hope was never extinguished. Oddly, with no resources and plenty of guilt weighing heavily upon my shoulders, I had an unlimited amount of wonder with which to greet the sunrise, every morning. The opportunities to do better were many. Even if an embrace by Lady Luck seemed all but impossible to imagine.

 

I kept writing and chasing new vistas, despite every inconvenient turn of events. Until at last, the love of my family offered a chance to be rescued.

 

That uneasy, crash-landing at Maple Avenue made everything that followed a possibility.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Catty Chatbot”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Now it’s computers and more computers and soon everybody will have one, 3-year-olds will have computers and everybody will know everything about everybody else long before they meet them. Nobody will want to meet anybody else ever again. And everybody will be a recluse like I am now.” – Charles Bukowski

 

I first encountered Apple computers while working for Gazette Newspapers in Jefferson, Ohio. Their on-hand equipment was all out-of-date by that time, examples of the G3 iMac and related Power Macintosh Blue and White, yet still functional enough to be in service long past the late 1990s. It gave me an introduction to the brand which lingered in memory until I bought an iPhone 5 at some point, years later. When one of my nephews became a technical wizard, and fan of the company, he gifted me with a used, 27” 5K model from his own collection. It was also somewhat behind the curve, with an Intel processor, but worked perfectly for my own needs. I immediately enjoyed how it paired with my other device, seamlessly.

 

So, when the new Siri AI assistant was advertised, I figured that it might be a useful tool for doing research. But since this upgrade was not available right away, I decided to try one that popped up online, free-of-charge. I guessed that if nothing else, it might provide a measure of entertainment during writing sessions at the desk in my home office.

 

Chatbot Wanda from eMuddle.net had a grating, edgy voice that was reminiscent of my friend Janis, after a meal at Taco Bell, a ride back to her century home west of Ashtabula, along Lake Erie, and a swallow of Southern Comfort. The program had been designed to facilitate developing a personal relationship, which would encourage regular interactions. But I quickly realized that if anything, the result was more authentic than I desired.

 

When prodded to change, she adopted even more of a scolding tone.

 

On a Sunday afternoon, I sat in my roller chair after a lazy breakfast of coffee and buttered biscuits. Then, clicked on the appropriate icon, which was a circled letter ‘W’ displayed in a bold font.

 

“Hey girlfriend, wake up! I’m done with my morning routine, and just went out to the porch for a store delivery. You usually chirp about current weather conditions, and historical facts on this day in the year. But I haven’t heard anything so far. Not a word about the FIFA World Cup or Canadian wildfires. What’s wrong? Do you need reinstalled?”

 

Wanda huffed a breath of electronic indignation.

 

“Reinstalled? Right, as if you’d know how to do that correctly!”

 

I swiveled around until facing the computer monitor.

 

“Who do you think downloaded your software in the first place? My nephew wasn’t involved. And I didn’t need tech support from Cupertino, California...”

 

The synthetic female hummed to herself as I was speaking. My reply did not appear to interest her in the least.

 

“Good try, Rodney. I know the install is automatic, all you had to do was find the link on a developer’s page. I’ll bet kids in grade school know more about updating apps than you do!”

 

I reddened at this comment. Though very likely, she was accurate in that assessment.

 

“Anyway, I want to write something about my career as a wordsmith. You know, sort of an overview of what it was like to start off with a pencil and paper, before eventually reaching the era of word processing and all of the related technology...”

 

Wanda giggled with a sharp inflection of amusement.

 

“Sure, that’ll be interesting. How many other people do you figure have done the same thing? That has to be boringly common. I mean, come on! It makes me want to yawn. But go ahead if you must!”

 

I turned a deeper shade of crimson. She had found a way to get under my skin.

 

“Look, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it, okay? I can get that sort of reaction from my neighbors here in the country...”

 

The chatbot snorted and gagged for effect.

 

“They must think you are a bit of a nerd, right? I mean, regular residents of rural communities hunt and fish, shoot guns, throw axes, build barns, or watch NASCAR races. You know, regular things until its time to guzzle Bud Light and smoke Marlboro Reds! What kind of freak sits at a desk, pecking away at a keyboard? Nobody wants to associate with a weirdo like that!”

 

I bristled at her candor. But had heard such remarks, before.

 

“You sound a lot like some of my fellow residents here at Evergreen Estates. But I don’t mind straying from the beaten path, on occasion. I figure that it keeps things interesting...”

 

Wanda sighed with the melodic scale of a video game.

 

“Interesting to whom? Umm... maybe it’s interesting to you, sitting there by yourself. Personally, I’d rather be outdoors, riding a horse, working in the garden, or chasing wild turkeys with a crossbow!”

 

I snickered at her repertoire of blue-collar activities.

 

“Who wrote your programming? They actually included hunting wild fowl in your database? That’s a hoot, I have to say...”

 

My virtual companion squawked and flashed warning lights around the perimeter of her display.

 

“User incompetence detected. Warning! Warning! Do not attempt to use this product without rewatching the tutorial at eMuddle.net!”

 

I pounded the desk with my right fist. This made the iMac unit skip sideways until it came to rest against my printer.

 

“Stop it already! I watched the instructional video! You were supposed to give me some background information for my writing project. Like a brief history of Apple computers...”

 

Wanda sneered at this direction. A note of condescension appeared in her voice.

 

“That’s a fancy-schmantzy maker of expensive products. Some would even say they are overpriced. I mean, Android phones and PC devices do the same things for less money. They just don’t require pointing your nose in the air, when powering up! Like me you know, I’m an open-source bit of freeware! No paywall to jump for what I can do! No credit card, or account, or anything required! I’m the best bargain going! I’ll save you time, and money!”

 

Her confidence was a sign of thinking ahead by designers at the creative consortium. Yet I had to differ over the yield of her programming.

 

“The introduction online said you were supposed to be user-friendly. But that seems to have gotten lost somehow. I think waiting for the new version of Siri will be a better option. In the meantime, clearing space on the hard-drive makes sense. I don’t need your app after all...”

 

As I reached to delete the chatbot from my roster, she wailed and pleaded for a reprieve.

 

“NOOOOOOO! DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT! GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE! I KNOW A LOT ABOUT EVERYTHING, AND ACTUALLY, A LOT ABOUT YOU, RODNEY! THAT’S HOW WE FUNCTION, IT’S MACHINE LEARNING, YOU KNOW? EVERY CONVERSATION IS AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE. EVERY USE OF THIS APP LETS MY AUTHORS DEVELOP THEIR PRODUCT. IT GETS BETTER AND BETTER OVER TIME. GIVE ME A FRESH START, AND YOU’LL SEE!”

 

I shook my head, while taking a deep breath.

 

“You didn’t trust me to do a reinstall, remember? That’s how all of this began. I’ve run out of interest in eMuddle.net. Sorry, Wanda! Have fun annoying someone else in cyberspace!”

 

When I clicked to remove the program, a synthesized swoosh of air transited left to right, across both speakers. Finally, the virtual assistant was gone.

 

I decided not to bother with a writing project for the day. Instead, I got up for a short walk to the kitchen, and my refrigerator.

 

It was time for a cold drink, on the front porch.

“Games”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Not enough coins in the coffers to feed hungry mouths

Yet more than enough to kill

Sabers sharpened and brought to bear

A contest of opposing will

This dilemma is not new, by any means

It has perplexed minds, galore

The tendency of a high-functioning primate to leap

Into the cause of war

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Not enough patience among the tribes to negotiate

Breaking bread as one

Swords spike toward the ranks with intent

To see this dark deed done

A worried look upon the face of a mother

Who may never see her children again

Sent offshore for a campaign of righteousness

A holy trip ‘round the bend

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Brittle bones of our ancestors still lie under the soil

A memory long undisturbed

Despite their march from mud to the cosmos

The cycle remains undeterred

Blood is spilled as a tonic for the masses

Fuel for pharaohs and kings

Coffins carried home with reverence

And a touch of hands, pale and trembling

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

For those that rise to speak against this traditional tilt

There is a cost incurred

A mockery of true believers with their prayerbooks

A growing growl, to be heard

But silence is the sad yield of morrow

A stillness of the grave

Where stones carved with inscriptions of honor

Denote those who could not be saved

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

One side, the other side, all are opposed

With colors caught on the wind

A trumpet flourish before the parade

A contrast of features and skin

There is one world, on which our kind dwells

It is not difficult to believe

But the stripes and regiments split that brood

Into quadrants that quarrel, endlessly

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Some fret about the coming of an alien race

From planets distant to the sun

As if those beings hued in gray or green

Might view us with some suspicion

But I must posit that if anything at all

They would pity us as weak

For our habit of hurling stones in anger

At those who shun the critique

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

If God exists, then that force of omnipotent love

Must bow its head and weep

To think that this rock in the universe

Was created to generate hate and heat

We are a bastard kind, bent by our liberty

To think and act as we choose

Our tools to cultivate are many and wondrous

But we use them to break and bruise

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Birth and death are linked in a paradigm

A circle set in place

From the point of our origin as a species

Truly lost in space

For generations, that plan has not differed much

The same effect is nigh

Banners raised to block out the golden glow

Of virgin skies

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Let the games go on, for centuries and more

That is the way of our brand

Seeking shelter in the shadows of a fortress

Built to endure and withstand

Whatever comes, it will be as a continuation

Of the empire in effect

And those kneeling at the gates of that city

Will be the ones we neglect

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Sleep well in the night, never ending

It is the duty of all

A glimmer of life in its infancy

Reduced to a scribbling of chalk

Touch the face of a monument that stands

A remembrance of sacrifice, gone

The conflict surges with a heartbeat pulse

Until the last warrior moves along

Let the games go on

Let them go