“Yes, I Did”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Did you really think that the sunrise would bless?

Yes, I did

Every facet of creation, celebrated in holiness?

Yes, I did

I took it as a promise, made to a child

A fulfillment coming in the afterwhile

Like golden rays of a cosmic smile

Yes, I did

 

Did you really expect to be edified?

Yes, I did

With a conscious climb up the peaks of a mountainside?

Yes, I did

I guessed that doubters would find themselves lost

And those who were able to shoulder the cost

Would inherit the enlightenment of better thoughts

Yes, I did

 

Did you come here, with a heart laid bare?

Yes, I did

A penitent seeker freed from worry and care?

Yes, I did

But now in this moment, empowered and free

I realize that the gifts were always inside of me

To be cleansed and delivered from need

Yes, I did

 

Did you realize that this ritual was a reminder?

Yes, I did

An exercise to clear the path of a wanderer?

Yes, I did

This act of love was always pure in effect

A demonstration meant to focus on the object

Of a sacred rite founded by the architect

Yes, I did

 

Did you read about the glory of a footrace?

Yes, I did

Depicted in lessons of forgiveness and grace?

Yes, I did

If that was truly your master’s intent

Then there is no cause to rudely dissent

When you heed the words written in this covenant

Yes, I did

 

Did you step across the boundary with confidence?

Yes, I did

A bold completion of the sacrifice and penitence?

Yes, I did

I came here unclean and lacking any sense of worth

But now a brighter day has fallen upon the earth

A lifting of this burden, a mighty mortal curse

Yes, I did

 

Did you find yourself at last reclaimed and right?

Yes, I did

No longer banished into the realm of an eternal night?

Yes, I did

The change is one perhaps, impossible to perceive

But is an aroma that brings a prize to receive

A scent of cardamom, carried on the breeze

Yes, I did

 

Did you wonder over names on the scrolls?

Yes, I did

Apostles called from ink stains on the rolls?

Yes, I did

Those who summon the spirit of redemption

Will have a reason to resist temptation

Their faith will be a much greater sum

Yes, I did

 

Did you hear the hour struck by a timepiece?

Yes, I did

A jingle of rings, dangling with keys

Yes, I did

This clue is given so that you may repent

And hear the appeal which was holy and reverent

A claim no conqueror could hope to invent

Yes, I did

 

Did you offer up yourself in a trade for life?

Yes, I did

A better bargain than to battle with daily strife?

Yes, I did

Peace will come as a prophetic award

A release from the judgment of a sword

A code carried on angel wings, spread to soar

Yes, I did

“Empty”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Empty on the inside, where daylight can’t go

A signature of self, sunken in the shadows

This is the consciousness chosen for me

By a chance meeting of minds, and biology

Were those two lovers free to choose what they wrought

I am certain their seed could have been carefully caught

Planted and grown, until a harvest would come

With a celebration of life over what they had done

But this sapling they sired and held in the womb

Caused a cryptic chant on a cloudy afternoon

My name was intended to bring joy when repeated

But soon they discovered that their wish was defeated

My face and its twin, in the mirror reflected

Became a sad sign of goodness, negated, rejected

And with that bad burden of guilt on my back

I carried those books off to school in a knapsack

Like an albatross dangling from a knotted piece of cord

Like a letter of scarlet, this marker, I wore

Heavy it was ‘round my neck as a curse

A warning from those who were not of this universe

Spat upon daily, the custom was kept

No one thought it rude to provoke this effect

I wiped it away, while bowing my head

This callous companion, an unbroken thread

It tempered my thinking, and colored my art

With a curious twist of a paintbrush in the dark

This portrait revealed what could not be shown

A song of salvation, a hymn for a new home

Carried as a tortoise shell from one spot to the next

A keepsake of literature, for a librarian to protect

Cocky and brazen, the mockery would echo

With the cackling of macaws and a counting of crows

This pecking at personalities was part of the routine

I came to accept what I could not wash clean

And eventually saw that my image had changed

From a child born to wander, into a vessel, reclaimed

A soothsayer’s apprentice, crystal ball at the fingertips

A poem on the parchment, a rhyme on the lips

This odd incantation brought much more than relief

It also enabled the career of a thief

Stealing back gifts, that were taken by force

Reversing the ruin, as a matter of course

Generating heat from this moment of truth

Keenly magnetic, and yet strangely aloof

Now that the code of silence has passed

A set of new values are enforced by an iconoclast

With a swing of the scepter, bold and ingrained

A crackle of connections made deep in the brain

Too long was this dormant ebb allowed to endure

Distilled to its essence by a dominance, impure

The keys on a ring serve to unlock this prize

A scripture of penance for the one duly disguised

A leap from the cradle, as liberties hold sway

No longer a babe in the woods, born yesterday

Shrill sirens may call with a temptation to flee

But the worth of a seeker will be recognized, eventually

At odds with the mapmaker’s chart of terrain

A shield from the storms, a parasol in the rain

Ducking into doorsteps along the ancient avenue

A black whisper of coal from a chimney flue

This is the result of a life lived in haste

Not vacant or superfluous, not given to waste

When the hour strikes a chime in the chest of a clock

And incites the ritual of a crowing cock

Then will the grandeur of a goblin go cold

With a changing of guards, the new for the old

The darkness will yield what was held in its grasp

And the coming of age will transpire, at last

This crockery kept for a purpose, unknown

Will be full to its brim and finally shown

As a treasure of tricks, incantations galore

A chessboard cleared, forevermore

Put on display where no eye may close

No tongue will deny this bloom of the thorny rose

It stands as a testament to goodwill, immortal

A step through the looking glass, a jump through the portal

One side to the other, from shame to renown

A pawn for the pirates, now wearing a crown

Never glistening with the glamour of a monarch who rules

But sturdy enough to replicate the tools

Which conjured a miracle from salts of the earth

I am what I am, let it validate my worth

Nobody Reads This Page: “Kindergeschichten”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

When my sister’s children were young, I felt compelled to write tales intended for their specific age group. An act that I thought would reflect a measure of affection for these new members of our bloodline. But initially at least, my good intentions were sidetracked by a tendency to project satirical themes as a method for expressing personal frustration with the human experience, overall. A consequence perhaps, of growing up as someone generally tagged with the mark of being an outlier, at every turn.

 

Outre might have been my given, middle name, had both parents held less concern for maintaining a conventional public image, among neighbors and members of our family. Though to acknowledge that secret tendency in one of their offspring would have been unthinkable for that generation. Instead of allowing my oddities to flourish in the open, they were neatly buried under accepted layers of conformity, learned at church and in a schoolhouse classroom.

 

Thus, my first attempt at creating a fictional, kid-friendly storyline was one that followed the adventures of battling machines, who I envisioned to be similar to the memorable Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots of yonder days. I identified them as distinct personalities, called Conservator and Libertron. Animated warriors fighting for their dissimilar causes, red and blue respectively. This eventually produced a series of cartoon illustrations, which I shared during household visits. These imaginary contests evoked giggles and snorts of glee from my niece and nephews. While making my sibling roll her eyes with disbelief and astonishment.

 

That primitive concept may have passed into memory many years ago. Yet it remains a foundation for my own view of political discourse, in modern America. One needs only to log onto any of the popular, social-media platforms to see this ethos in effect. It is the seductive logic of tribalism, with true-believers facing off over nearly every issue. War, peace, climate change, reproduction, economic matters, education, health care, help for the aging and those who are disabled, and the thorny subject of religious beliefs. All of these have proven to be potent for the purpose of motivating the masses. They dependably drive fundraising efforts, voter registrations, and protest outings.

 

This duality of thinking, either with the left brain-hemisphere, or right, is so ingrained in the culture that any deviation arouses scorn and suspicion among those devoted to preserving the established template for conduct.

 

Those aligned with the blue battle-bot might exclaim that common folk are generally too uneducated for the purpose of self-government. And therefore, require the stewardship of edified masters to regulate their existence. Opponents who stand with the red battle-bot, however, seem to believe that common citizens are too seedy and sinful for taking responsibility over their own lives. Greatly immoral in their deeds, to the point of being dependent upon an artificial, moral code enforced by theologians, to thrive. Each path reflects a distaste for the principle of a nation founded on concepts of free expression, and liberty. But for practical purposes, they channel the energy of pundits and prognosticators into useful canals of psychic power.

 

Those who engage in questioning this eternal contest are doomed to a life in the shadows.

 

Years after my brief experience with dabbling in literature and art for children, I wrote a letter to the Libertarian Party chair which also used satire to convey my opinions about the order of things in Washington, D. C. and beyond.

 

“Imagine, if you will, that domestic politics is much like shopping for a meal among fast-food restaurants in many urban communities. You are offered two choices, McDonald’s or Burger King. Hamburgers are, after all, a staple of our homeland. Choosing one or the other is mandated by the marketplace, as it exists. You must pick an option without complaining! But, are you not a fan of the burger? Your loyalty will immediately be challenged. Is there something intrinsically wrong with dining on a patty of ground beef with accepted condiments and such? Does your reluctance to participate in this natural, one-or-the-other selection indicate a subversive streak? After all, hamburgers have been good enough for generations of our people. Why are they not good enough for you? Think carefully before making your selection!”

 

My manuscript then veered into an overview of other choices that might correspond to this mainstream mode of getting fed. What about Taco Bell? Or Kentucky Fried Chicken? Or dozens of other food purveyors who operate nationally? Our sense of order does not allow for such variations to occur by choice, in the habit of conducting an election cycle. We are a land defined by twin fates in operation. One wing of a bird, or the other. One eye open, the other closed. One hand empty, and the other held full. One foot up, and the other pressed sternly down. Left, right, left, right, left, right. A march of damnation for those who consider themselves to be non-binary, in terms of balloting for officials.

 

My wordsmithing effort received a response of amusement from the Libertarian confab, but nothing else. I got a kind note of thanks which is still somewhere in a file cabinet, here at the home office.

 

My sister expressed her own gratitude for what I had created with a hint of befuddlement added for good measure.

 

“Why can’t you ever be normal, Rodney? It’s like there is something busted in your brain. You always seem to see things differently than I do, or anyone else in the family. It’s weird that you can’t settle down after all this time!”

 

She was correct, of course. Whether because of my alternate viewpoint, or a broken link in between seeing and processing real events, I never quite got the gist of having a typical perspective. That kind of intellectual obedience was not justifiable, in my world. I needed more variety, and a greater amount of experiences to find my way through the cavernous corridors of modernity.

 

I do not know if my comic, battle-bots left a lasting impression on her kids. Yet those oddball depictions must at least have been a component in their intellectual development. Of that, I am certain. And I give thanks to have been there, when it mattered most.

 

Red versus blue; right versus left. The contest will go on...

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dream Encounter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

A dream encounter with the one who departed

Long before our relationship was charted

As an ember gone cold

A surrendering of the soul

I was in love it seems, but lost

Made a mistake that carried quite a cost

One I admittedly, could not pay

Though as a gamble, it had the appeal of an all-in play

I pushed my chips to the center

And took a hit from the public defender

A gavel-strike on the chin

In a contest that I could not win

Yet for a fleeting moment, I sat upright

With my eyes glaring hot, a shimmering sight

And spoke boldly to the magistrate

About what had transpired since our first date

Laughter was the yield of that move

As I realized that there was no glam to my groove

My plea fell like a stone

I left the courtroom, alone

But strangely, some years down the avenue

I see her still, when black overtakes the blue

In the night she is nigh

She descends from the unconscious sky

That visual aid gives me a cause to shake

It hits home like the trembling of an earthquake

As I lie on the mattress

In a state of groggy distress

Tossing freely, as I wonder about the truth

Whether what I see is literally uncouth

Or a simple trick of the mind

A replay of things I had put behind

Her countenance appears as a glistening ring

Bending me in half like a sapling in the spring

Not able to stay tough

When I need to make myself strong enough

To rightly endure

To stay stout, stiff, and pure

That would be an easier task

If not for the rattle of my C-PAP mask

Coming loose

A rush of air pressure mimicking a moose

Its call rousing me from this imaginary meet-and-greet

With the woman who used to make my existence complete

A wrestling match with foes turned invisible

Parts of myself invalid and indivisible

Lobbed into the lake

With a splash of water resulting that finds me awake

Knees up, on the shore

Over the edge of my bed, facing the door

Her face was a clear depiction

Of what I had held while in a much better position

Younger and given to taking risks

Willing to bargain for a cuddle and a kiss

That was my routine

When I chased the glimmer of a twilight moonbeam

On a pier by the edge

Cross-legged on a concrete ledge

Singing softly in her ear

How sad to think that she would so soon disappear

Guitar in hand, strumming sweetly

A message of affection, expressed discretely

Now I am an old relic of yonder days

And she is a prize that I cannot reclaim

Still alive in the highlight reel

That spins like a Catherine Wheel

In my head

A consolation for knowing what I should have done, instead

This leap into the distant past

The veil parting as I find her hand to clasp

And cross the divide

From today into the realm of what still waits on the inside

Jagged slivers of glass remain

That mockingly spell out her name

And I call that notation

While affected by the rotation

Of a world spinning ‘round its axis point

With the priestly power to anoint

And give absolution for the emptiness I feel

When the break of morning stills my courtroom appeal

I am back in my skin again

Brittle bones and a lust for the end

Which is not yet to be

Nothing To See Here: “Community Confrontation”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Matthew 5:14-16 (NIV) “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your father in heaven.”

 

Perhaps one of the most difficult qualities about being a creative writer is that having composed a manuscript, for whatever purpose, this document must be offered in some form for others to read. Without that completion of the process, one is left with a feeling that the effort of expression has been silenced and made irrelevant. Yet in doing so, particularly when the subject matter is edgy or controversial in some way, the results may prove to be less than ideal. As a wordsmith, speaking out is a necessary component of life. But what comes in the aftermath of this cleansing act may be challenging to accept.

 

I faced the possibility of this truism in recent days, when a poem intended to be part of an upcoming anthology was posted on my newspaper blog. Initially, it did not seem to be too extreme in its content or tone. But when I read it aloud, a note of contrarian dissent became obvious. I reckoned that if seen by other residents in my isolated township, this offering might be viewed as seditious or provocative.

 

Reaper’s Harvest

 

“A world superpower humiliated and lost

While international financiers tally the cost

Headline news made, all around the globe

Grim Reaper stands with stains on his robe

A dot of crimson for each life cut short

Swinging his scythe in a sharp retort

Ships sail on the oceans, there to warn

Of consequences for those who do not conform

Yet this bounty is won by gamblers who cheat

A yield of dissent, a yield of defeat

And the harvest is made

 

Red-faced diplomats argue the point

While barons and bureaucrats bust up the joint

Who is the leader that none will deny?

It’s difficult to tell with a stick in the eye

Missiles and drones and bombs, galore

All intended to prosecute this war

But targets untouched will survive for today

And do daring deeds in the unfolding fray

Devoted disciples of a foreign god

Give the masses a wink and a nod

And the harvest is made

 

At the outset their promise seemed wise and intent

Of a conflict begun between mongrels and government

Savages brought unto heel in a day

With the prize held aloft, they’ll do what we say!

But the rancor of villages far from the fire

So often becomes an anthem of ire

Not easy to thwart, or convenient to stun

These beggars in rags have their own swords and guns

When scattered by the force of a superior breed

They return to the scrolls of an ancient decree

And the harvest is made

 

Leaping and laughing as blood spills on sand

The invaders from afar find themselves being panned

Opinions are hardened as the fault is turned back

From one side to the other, from red into black

The spigots of oil, go dry with neglect

Countries on fire do naught to protect

Alliances shift with the winds changing quickly

Our situation becomes both embarrassing and prickly

The tortoise and hare in a race to the line

This trophy is tarnished, braille bumps for the blind

And the harvest is made

 

A thumping of chests can be heard on the main

With jets scrambling wildly to promote the campaign

A billion in ransom for a cluster of tents

Paid for by sweat and a handful of cents

Much like a battle between one age and the next

We find ourselves facing what infidels reject

Now we are the cause of a glorious goof

A fiddler in flames, played out on the roof

Ours is the glory, and the grand limitation

Of a nabob that natters about rude annihilation

And the harvest is made

 

When we have finished with this dabbling in dirt

And gone home to consider what we could not avert

The time for reflection will then be at hand

We’ll march to the drumbeat of a funeral band

Laying to rest those heroes who gave

Every bit of themselves, the bold and the brave

Their sacrifice will send a message of hope

To judges and jurors who string up the rope

The law of this land remains as a guide

For future generations, to follow the tide

And the harvest is made...”

 

Imagination took hold, as I considered that a projection of sentiments not adhering strictly to the philosophical discipline of my rural neighborhood might arouse some form of protest. While sitting on the front porch with a cold beverage in hand, I envisioned being confronted by neighbors who wanted to offer their own commentary on what I had penned, in real time. The yield of this mental exercise was a peek through the eyes of Nostradamus, toward what might occur on my street, in the near future. And very quickly, I found myself mentally engaged in a vocal debate with someone who reacted quite viscerally to everything I had said in my short composition.

 

“HEY BUDDY, YOUR PRINT WORK NEVER PEGS THE METER FOR ME, I’LL BE HONEST! BUT THIS LATEST BIT OF DOG CRAP ONLINE IS A FREAKING JOKE! WHY DON’T YOU GET A JOB CLEANING TOILETS AT THE FLYING J TRAVEL PLAZA, OR SOME FAST-FOOD PLACE IN ASHTABULA? YOU’VE GOT NO TALENT, AND NOT A DAMN BIT OF COMMON SENSE! NOT ANY PATRIOTISM EITHER, SLUGS OF YOUR KIND SHOULD BE FLOWN TO IRAN AND DROPPED LIKE SACKS OF GARBAGE! YOU DON’T BELONG IN THE USA, DAMMIT! GO TO CHINA, RUSSIA, OR NORTH KOREA, AND BE HAPPY, DUDE! THIS COUNTRY AIN’T FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

 

My salvation was in the details, of course, as none of this actually occurred. I simply drank a six-pack of brew, scrolled through webpages on my cell phone, and watched the progression of neighborhood traffic as afternoon hours transitioned into evening.

 

But now, I had a double-measure of energy in reserve. Enough to inspire not only the lyrical output of my first project, but enough for a second installment, which is the one you read here.

 

God is good.

 

“Reaper’s Harvest”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

A world superpower humiliated and lost

While international financiers tally the cost

Headline news made, all around the globe

Grim Reaper stands with stains on his robe

A dot of crimson for each life cut short

Swinging his scythe in a sharp retort

Ships sail on the oceans, there to warn

Of consequences for those who do not conform

Yet this bounty is won by gamblers who cheat

A yield of dissent, a yield of defeat

And the harvest is made

 

Red-faced diplomats argue the point

While barons and bureaucrats bust up the joint

Who is the leader that none will deny?

It’s difficult to tell with a stick in the eye

Missiles and drones and bombs, galore

All intended to prosecute this war

But targets untouched will survive for today

And do daring deeds in the unfolding fray

Devoted disciples of a foreign god

Give the masses a wink and a nod

And the harvest is made

 

At the outset their promise seemed wise and intent

Of a conflict begun between mongrels and government

Savages brought unto heel in a day

With the prize held aloft, they’ll do what we say!

But the rancor of villages far from the fire

So often becomes an anthem of ire

Not easy to thwart, or convenient to stun

These beggars in rags have their own swords and guns

When scattered by the force of a superior breed

They return to the scrolls of an ancient decree

And the harvest is made

 

Leaping and laughing as blood spills on sand

The invaders from afar find themselves being panned

Opinions are hardened as the fault is turned back

From one side to the other, from red into black

The spigots of oil, go dry with neglect

Countries on fire do naught to protect

Alliances shift with the winds changing quickly

Our situation becomes both embarrassing and prickly

The tortoise and hare in a race to the line

This trophy is tarnished, braille bumps for the blind

And the harvest is made

 

A thumping of chests can be heard on the main

With jets scrambling wildly to promote the campaign

A billion in ransom for a cluster of tents

Paid for by sweat and a handful of cents

Much like a battle between one age and the next

We find ourselves facing what infidels reject

Now we are the cause of a glorious goof

A fiddler in flames, played out on the roof

Ours is the glory, and the grand limitation

Of a nabob that natters about rude annihilation

And the harvest is made

 

When we have finished with this dabbling in dirt

And gone home to consider what we could not avert

The time for reflection will then be at hand

We’ll march to the drumbeat of a funeral band

Laying to rest those heroes who gave

Every bit of themselves, the bold and the brave

Their sacrifice will send a message of hope

To judges and jurors who string up the rope

The law of this land remains as a guide

For future generations, to follow the tide

And the harvest is made

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Life During Wartime”

   

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had lived at Evergreen Estates for so long that the period of years preceding his slide into disability and isolation had now become difficult to recall with any amount of clarity. He could summon certain facts with effort, yet remained unable to properly interpret them sequentially. Like bits of fluff, they were loose and randomly arranged, inside of his skull. He knew that two failed marriages were on his personal roster. Somewhere in California, a daughter carried the signature of his DNA, anonymously. He had wasted educational and career opportunities in the interest of freeing himself from any burden of responsibility. And most of all, his penchant for getting drunk on beverage alcohol dulled the sting of bad decisions and unfortunate consequences that came as a result. With the effect of separating him from reality in a way that impeded his ability to perceive literal events in a common manner.

 

His mode of thinking was always tilted in an opposite direction from any neighbors, family members, or friends within his limited social circle.

 

Yet the first appearance of a looming, global conflict snapped him out of this foggy funk. It hit on a morning when he had finished having coffee and a bologna-cheese taco at his desk. An improvised breakfast that was unconventional, but satisfying. He scrolled through links posted online, until a report about wealthy individuals like tech guru Martín Varsavsky buying property in Argentina caught his attention. The Financial Times story about a ranch called ‘Wamani’ had been delivered with various photographs that depicted a beautiful and challenging landscape. A spot on the earth where someone of wealth and accomplishment could be safe with their family, in the event of a worldwide conflagration powered by nuclear weapons.

 

Predictably, no one in the trailer park paid any attention to this surreal tale of planning for post-apocalyptic survival. But at Lot 13, the yield of this revelation hit home, emotionally. It also meshed well with information about Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and Turkey forming a Mecca Joint Defense Agreement, as mutual partners. And continuing aggression in Europe and the Middle East threatening to stall the cause of peace before it could blossom.

 

“Everything is falling into place! This is WW III, in its primary stages! We are effed!”

 

The words of a Talking Heads recording from 1979 spoke with renewed meaning as he pondered unrest that was boiling over, across the planet.

 

“Heard of a van that is loaded with weapons

Packed up and ready to go

Heard of some gravesites out by the highway

A place where nobody knows

The sound of gunfire off in the distance

I’m getting used to it now

Lived in a brownstone, lived in the ghetto

I’ve lived all over this town

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco

This ain’t no fooling around

No time for dancing, or lovey-dovey

I ain’t got time for that now...”

 

Finally, the chill of a potential disruption in ordered civilization sent him outside, to the front porch. There, he sat with a jug of bourbon to ease his mind, and dull the throb of worry being expressed by pundits and prognosticators, everywhere.

 

He had managed to get through two rounds of potent liquor, when a notification chirp sounded from his cell phone.

 

“Hey Link, are you over there, buddy? Linn is having a yard party on the corner! Come on down, there’s plenty of brew and snacks! You need to get out and see people for a change!”

 

Darby Stronelli, on his eastern flank, had been in her storage barn, watching highlights of training camps being conducted ahead of the upcoming NFL season. The squarish, pallet-board hut was adorned in yellow and black, colors of her favorite franchise.

 

The reclusive hermit felt his stomach beginning to ache.

 

“Party? What made him want to throw a shindig right now? It’s been hot as blazes for several days. He sweats like a pig...”

 

The spiky-haired female must have snorted at her device. A string of emojis followed with another line of text.

 

“I don’t know, something about his fantasy league, he’s the commissioner. I don’t get into that kind of game, but whatever, right? He’s got plenty of beer in the coolers! I figure we can all drink for free!”

 

Lincoln clutched at his belly, and shuddered.

 

“He always buys Milwaukee’s Best, that piss is horrible! And I’d have to listen to him rant about church functions and politics. No thanks...”

 

Darby sent several middle fingers, and a laughing smiley face.

 

“Yeah, he does go for the cheap stuff! Oh well, it was just a thought. I’m watching old Super Bowl highlights, six rings still shining bright, buddy! Six big, golden rings for my Steelers!”

 

The inebriated loner dropped his wireless link in a vest pocket. Then lifted the glass bottle of whiskey until it was straight up in the air.

 

“Screw that portly son-of-a-bitch on the corner. And screw your Boys in the ‘Burgh! I’m good right here where I sit...”

 

While diving deeper into drunkenness, the contrarian boozer took out his phone again, and scrolled through more news headlines about dwindling, domestic stockpiles of ammunition, and fears of bold military moves by Russia and China in the wake of American embarrassment. Each report seemed to be more sensationalized than the one before. Eventually, the constant din of dire predictions became too heavy to bear.

 

With a right-hand flip deftly executed, the shaggy misanthrope once again tossed his phone aside, and reached for a cold canister of Miller Lite. Foam poured from the corners of his mouth. A dribble of suds streamed over his T-shirt.

 

More song lyrics echoed across the synapses of his brain. This time, Lincoln reflectively hummed the tune of an Everclear song from 1995, while reading more on his display. The lyrics of their composition ‘Santa Monica’ fit his uneasy mood, perfectly. If the world were about to end, he would be a spectator facing mortality with no hesitation. Numb and insulated by a persistent wash of fiery, brown juice, with hops and grains as a delectable chaser.

 

 

“I am still living with your ghost

Lonely and dreaming of the west coast

I don’t wanna be your downtime

I don’t wanna be your stupid game

With my big black boots and an old suitcase

I do believe I’ll find myself a new place

I don’t wanna be the bad guy

I don’t want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore

I just wanna see some palm trees

I will try and shake away this disease

We could live beside the ocean

Leave the fire behind

Swim out past the breakers

Watch the world die

We can live beside the ocean

Leave the fire behind

Swim out past the breakers

Watch the world die...”