Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 5: Neighborhood

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Having revived my music groove, with renewed vigor, I began to think about how past projects in that vein had provided extra avenues for self-expression. My regular work in the home office was meaningful. Yet when creative moments took me into the realm of a storyteller-with-guitar, in the tradition of John Prine or Lou Reed, I received an extra measure of gratification. This detour centered me on the notion of writing lyrics about members of my own neighborhood, with candor and courage. Something similar to what I had done many years ago, in my basement studio near Lake Erie.

 

Charting the ill-fated escapades of those in my orbit had proved to be productive and rewarding.

 

I knew that despite the drawbacks of living in a community where rented lots and prefab homes were the norm, a unique vibe existed. One that could be tapped with a bit of poetic flair, and depicted in verse. Though many residents were transitory, arriving and departing randomly as financial needs and legal obligations dictated, some lived on-site for a long time. I had been an inhabitant of the junkyard oasis for more than 23 years. A span that still seemed impossible to comprehend or justify. But through that inglorious achievement, I had grown as a wordsmith.

 

In yonder days, I had been too soft for a genuine Blues experience. Too comfortable, too lazy. Too sheltered from the ugly truths of living beyond safe spaces and polite society. Now however, there was a hard edge to everything I wrote, and sang. My voice had the timbre of whiskey and cigarettes. My scribbled sonnets carried bruises and scars.

 

With Reed’s carefree approach to weaving a tapestry of allies and enemies into his compositions, I began to think about the world just outside of my front door.

 

Trailer Tales

 

“Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men 

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid”

 

Having completed this personal assignment, I felt satisfied. Recording a version with my iPhone seemed proper to do, as a next step. But instead, I turned off the light over my computer, and reclined in the roller chair. A brief interlude of nothingness followed. I closed my eyes, and faded into the ether, willingly. Soon, I was snoring loudly, with both arms draped over the sides of my seat.

 

While dreaming, I pondered sharing a snippet of what I had created in an e-mail message to Kookshow Baby. I reckoned on being ignored in the moment, though persistence would not allow me to surrender so quickly. Her absence had become familiar over the past few months since I visited the west coast. So, I expected to be brushed off like crumbs from the dinner table. Yet almost immediately, her signature address popped up in one of my online accounts. She included laughing emojis, and a pair of shrugging figures with their hands held aloft.

 

Her approach was very direct, without giving any explanation for the extended absence.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! Y’all got some messed-up people livin’ around ya there in Ohio! Hoo boy, it sounds a lot like my mama’s friends when I was a kid! No wonder yer head ain’t on straight! That’s what ya get fer goin’ back to that part of flyover country!”

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 4: Motivation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

With an incentive to stay active and present in the moment, I decided to ride my creative groove, despite being in a funk over Kookshow Baby. The Old Drunken Buzzards had provided a spark of inspiration. Feeling the ferocious kind of courage that had been lacking for many years, I was ready to revisit my songwriting ambitions, once again.

 

Subject matter was easy to identify. Having lived in an isolated community of mobile homes for well over 20 years, while sliding deeper into personal hardships and alienation, I had a heightened sense of being on the social fringe. A metaphorical location that had inspired many pioneers in Blues, Folk, or Country & Western music. That mindset worked well to bring out the darkness in its full measure. Something that sharpened my lyric output, and overall approach to wordsmithing.

 

While sitting at my desk, ideas began to stream directly to the keyboard. Every verse interpreted this slow-paced, emotional descent into a hard, hellish environment. One built on a foundation of exploitation, abuse, and a lingering desire to escape. With the only true relief coming from cigarettes, marijuana, or beverage alcohol, enjoyed in mass quantities.

 

This was the world that I had inherited. Bad when viewed against a contrast of career goals and familial affinity. Yet good in the name of making art.

 

Disability Blues

 

“Sitting alone in a funk and a daze

Wondering why I decided to stay

Somebody said that there’s a fall for a fool

When you brush up on the golden rule

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Sitting silent, with my face in my hands

Trying to remember playing in a band

My guitar wasn’t primo, perhaps

But I damn sure followed Hound Dog’s roadmap

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

How does it feel when you ain’t got a friend?

Pretty much like every day since then

I never cried about the hand of fate

‘Cause it was always hard cheese on my dinner plate

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I got loved, and left in the lurch

Kicked out of Sunday School, up at the church

Went walking home with no socks or shoes

What else is a poor boy gonna do?

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

The judge said, “It’s time to repay!”

I should have bargained with the magistrate

But instead, I toughed it out and learned

Life is rough when the bridges burn

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On my knees, looking through a storm grate

Coughing up what I could not escape

The best advice I got was, “Leave it alone!”

But I ignored, the ringing of my telephone

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Broke and busted is my new address

I’m damn sure no overnight success

I heard laughter, and happened to see

The old bum they were teasing was me

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Slept in my truck for more than a day

Under a bridge back in New York State

Every morning brought a sunrise chance

But I was already dumped at the dance

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I might have turned around this hopeless affair

Got my ass, out of the electric chair

But too late, I came to know

That there’s more to life than taking it slow

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Stood up tall, at the river’s edge

Rambling and ready for whatever came next

With a promise, a wing and a prayer

Looking down at the deep made me scared

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Don’t bother to bury my bones

It doesn’t matter that I walked these streets, alone

When the breeze blows my ashes away

You’ll have forgotten that I went astray

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Somebody said it’s a natural fact

You get stronger, after a heart attack

I’ve survived too many to complain

They just make me glad to lessen the pain

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

A bottle neck turned up in the air

Whiskey fills my throat, and empties my cares

If I wanted to debate the details

I would have studied books, not slugs and snails

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

She looked at me like a painted rock

Said, “Boy, you must be good at picking a lock!”

It made me grin that she felt so sure

I was glad to spend a minute with her

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On the road out of town, I went

After packing up, and folding my tent

The last thing I saw was a pillar of salt

And I knew everything was my own fault

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold...”

 

I was gaining momentum now, penning new lyrics almost every day. For the first time in months or years, I took out guitars from the household stash, to record demo tracks for future sharing. These included a vintage, American-made Applause roundback acoustic, and a Gibson Les Paul Special, a sleek pluckster, hued in black. Both favorite tools for composing.

 

For the moment, I gave up on trying to contact Kookshow Baby. It seemed clear that she had either been sidetracked by some avalanche of responsibilities, or simply did not wish to continue exploring a long-distance relationship. Either way, I had to accept that verdict of circumstance cheerfully, as a practical matter, or wallow in a useless pool of self-pity. Doing the latter made no sense when I had been so busy at my desk. But I logged a mental note to check in with Tiffany DuFoe more often, just to keep my place in the Cult Radio A-Go-Go community.

 

I had no time to be grumpy. There was more, meaningful work to do in the Swindle Shack!

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 3: Encouragement

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

The Old Drunken Buzzards had struck a nerve with their Facebook contest. For the first time in many years, I had music playing in my head, throughout the day. Random riffs and tunes that were floating in the ether. Yet I had no outlet for these ideas. I spent mornings at my desk in rural Ohio, tapping out lines of verse in a quest for self-awareness, and purpose. As during yonder times, while spinning vinyl relics on our Sears & Roebuck, Silvertone hi-fi, I petitioned the music gods for benevolence.

 

Members of our family had long insisted that I wasted all of my talent. But I knew better. The pilot light burning inside of me was not a flickering glow of futility. It represented a meaningful connection, sired at birth. One with heroes of old, who labored in the fields and then spoke about their joys and sorrows over strums of acoustic guitar, or vocalized harmonies. In their stead, I had crawled from the womb with foot stomps, plucked plectrum strings, and mountain magic tickling my ears. That made the difference. Otherwise, I might have followed my father’s path into preaching the gospel of Christ. Or charted a course into gainful employment at some faceless, commercial firm.

 

My failure was also a foundation for success.

 

While financial rewards were fleeting and few, I filled my notebooks with a bounty of scribbled, gold nuggets. Page after page of creative notes that I hoped might someday serve to bolster the artistic continuum.

 

Now, I had that vibe echoing in my skull, once again, thanks to the rowdy bunch in Seattle. With their video offerings in mind, I returned to my cause with gusto. What followed was a personal renaissance that I needed, badly. As before, my heart and mind lay open before the world. I was once again able to speak freely, in verse. An achievement long lost amid the cares and pitfalls of everyday living.

 

Alone

 

“Fifteen years alone

A feat most certainly unintended

Life choices gone astray

For an aging fool, rarely befriended

Stiff and slow on the move

Stooped and stumbling throughout the day

My pace matches the need

Surrounded by what has gone away

Gone away

 

A single, solitary man

Once tunefully celebrated in song

A keeper of random hours

A schedule shot from dusk to dawn

If I take my chair

And compose a sonnet, sans the sunshine

It is for the good I work

Neil Diamond’s yield is fully mine

Fully mine

 

Some view this path I take

And pity what they see in the light

But I have no sorrow over fate

I am glad to labor in the night

Cares and causes take effect

I move in silence to the next

Pages flipped with deliberate force

To keep all my woes in check

Woes in check

 

How odd it is to recall

That once I did my best to schlub

A face that shined with hope

I wanted membership in the club

Yet now the truth is seen

I do not care for that affection

I’ll gladly steal the shadows

And use those shades for my protection

My protection

 

I went a week or more

Without any contact being made

No other human soul

Pierced the bubble to invade

That brief span of liberation

Thrilled me with an empty pause

I felt as if a gift had landed

Falling from the sleigh of Santa Claus

Santa Claus

 

Sympathy would turn me weak

So with deaf ears, I beheld the protest

Of well-meaning minds

That sought to ease the loneliness

But in the hour of midnight

When a moonburned sky peeks through my glass

I give thanks for emptiness

Give thanks for getting a pass

Getting a pass

 

Ginsberg and Kerouac

Speak to me when the clock ticks down

I hear their verses echo

From closet crypts to my shantytown

If I would be so bold

To swing my quill in a deliberate act

I hope to be forgiven

For the talent that I lack

Talent that I lack

 

The embrace of self is proper

When no other heart exists

To contemplate the orbit

Of a purposed, planetary riff

A time to ponder circumstances

A time to ease myself into the naught

A time to feast upon

The guilt that a sinner wrought

Guilt that a sinner wrought

 

Maybe this task, undertaken

Means less that I might have desired

Yet the bottom line goes reeling

It Is a reason to conspire

If I might turn some heads

By going too long without quoting Voltaire

Neglect will shield those mistakes

And keep me gladly unaware

Gladly unaware

 

Kick the metaphor into shape

Lingering too long on the tongue

If effort must drive the seeker

Then I will be the prodigal son

Off schedule, and far behind

Was my tardy dance a surprise?

I’ll bow my head as a penance

And deferentially close my eyes

Close my eyes

 

Fifteen years spent alone

A feat never before celebrated

Life choices gone in smoke

For an aging fool, gangly gaited

Stiff and slow with breaths that come

Noisily, throughout the day

My pace matches the bent

Of a creator’s direction in chalk, erased

Chalk erased...”

 

Instead of sending romantic messages to Kookshow Baby, at her trailer in the DuFoe compound, I copied these impulsive bursts of imagination, and pasted them into rambling reports, shared in a spirit of kinship. I guessed that she would understand this need for self-expression. Her own journey had been one so unique and gritty, that I felt we were bonded in spirit. Many weeks passed without a reply, however. I engaged in overthinking about this absence, to the point of anguish from pondering her silence. It made me edgy and emotionally brittle. Yet this steady stream of new material continued to flow.

 

I was grateful to be metaphorically ‘back in the saddle.’ Indeed, I had never really wanted to be anywhere else. Except perhaps, at the abandoned drive-in, with my radio queen. Star-struck, in southern California.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 2: Echo

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

After my first encounter with the Old Drunken Buzzards, via Facebook, it was easy to imagine more projects that involved writing song lyrics and recording demo versions to share on social media. Originally, I had filled many audio cassettes with such one-off creations, generally after dark, when time alone permitted such work to happen without interruption. My output was consistent for a long time, beginning with basement tracks captured during high school days in Pennsylvania. A fertile period in the 1970’s. This creative streak lasted until the 90’s, when I was married for the first time, and living in a tri-level condominium with an underground studio. Eventually, as I transitioned to newspaper work, this jones for playing guitar and penning poetic projects subsided. Yet I never completely abandoned the notion of being active as a songwriter.

 

My chance meeting with the fellows from Seattle had rekindled that flame.

 

Upon adding the band to my friend list, I began to see other posts that they offered. A second instrumental recording tweaked my Blues sensibilities, with a curious inflection of familiar chording, turned on its head. I sat up straight in my chair, like an eager puppy waiting for a treat. Upon playing the video several times, my head began to nod, rhythmically. Then, I took another sheet of paper from my desktop printer. And in longhand script, started to jot down word formations that came to mind. As in olden days, with my friends from New York, the ink flowed freely. I was in a groove, and glad to be inspired.

 

Drunken Buzzard Blues

 

“Drunken buzzard on the prowl

Stumblin’ bumblin’ flightless fowl

Gonna roam the streets and play

Rock & Roll bird of prey

Steppin’ out where losers fear

Suited up in leather gear

Gonna start a riot quick

That crafty, clawed, son-of-a-bitch

 

In the alleys where they hide

Rock & Rollers, boys that ride

Jumping right onto the stage

Marshall stack is all the rage

 

Yeah, there’s a sound takin’ flight

Party pumpin’ gonna go all night

Might drink whiskey with the crew

The old buzzard gonna do what he do

 

Drunken buzzard on the loose

Belly full of bourbon juice

No excuses made or heard

That’s one hardass, rockin’ bird

Ladies love to see him fly

Wings out, crossin’ the sky

Jimmy Page on a Zepplin cruise

Turn that shit up to ten, and juke

 

Police said, “That’s too much noise!”

But that didn’t bother those boys

Buzzard rubbed his beak and said

‘You can kiss my ass instead!’

 

Yeah, it’s a goodtime run

Wheels spinnin’ into the sun

Somewhere at the end is our reward

He’ll be soaring over the clouds

 

Yeah, soaring over the clouds

That ol’ buzzard gonna work it out

Work it out and kick

The crowd dancin’ and flickin’ their Bics...”

 

As before, I brought up their original post on my iMac, and then howled vocally over that solid foundation. My phone offered no mixing capabilities, but captured the intent of this improvisation, effectively. Once again, their reaction was positive. I guessed that a measure of disbelief must have widened their eyes, and caused every jaw to droop. Though separated by such a great geographical distance, we were on the same wavelength.

 

Reflecting on this achievement, I revisited my YouTube channel to take stock of other ideas that had been translated into listenable product. There, I remembered having uploaded a variety of Country and Folk ballads, generally inspired by bouts of soul searching and introspection. Along with vintage clips from my other points of entry. I guessed that these might provide some background as to how I had arrived at the current time and place. Where being an interloper of sorts did not make me feel shy or ashamed.

 

I sent links via the Messenger app. Though a direct response did not materialize, I reckoned that it offered a suitable commentary on my personal history as a wordsmith.

 

Farther down the west coast, Kookshow Baby continued to languish in willful anonymity. I started dreaming of her again, in a variety of social situations. Often with Terry and Tiffany DuFoe playing host to our interactions at the abandoned drive-in of Cult Radio A-Go-Go. There were cats and collectibles and celebrities, everywhere. During these sleepy adventures, I yearned to see California, again. And, the scream-queen entrepreneur. She bubbled with enthusiasm, and flirty, feminine charm. Her dyed pigtails bounced wildly with every head-tilt and gesture.

 

I hated to wake from these visions. My appetite for sharing more of her company remained strong.

 

Eventually, my allies from the DuFoe encampment asked if another trucker getaway might be possible. But when I quizzed my neighbor with the big-rig about upcoming opportunities to hit the road, disappointment took hold.

 

Carter Polk III flexed his tattooed arms while thinking. I could tell by the expression on his bearded mug, that any repeat of our journey was not likely, at least for the near future.

 

“Nah, y’all know that was fun, bruh! And I made some good coin haulin’ ass as an owner-operator. But that route has dried up fer now. Kin ya believe it, they’re rolling out driverless trucks right now, sort of a test phase, I guess. That’s fucked up, I think! Ya need somebody at the wheel on those long trips. It ain’t safe to trust a damn computer program fer drivin’ all that way, on satellite control. There’ll be some crazy mess happening, I guarantee it! But, this has to run its course, I figure. Y’all will be welcome fer sure, when I get tapped to do another long run like that. It just won’t happen right now...”

 

His expert assessment made my heart sink. But I trusted his opinions. When I called my hillbilly maiden to explain, there was no answer at her landline number. I remembered that she had a vintage, rotary-dial phone, on the wall next to her kitchen cabinets. It was an odd shade of pea green, something that matched other accents and fixtures in her doublewide trailer.

 

My day ended on the porch, with a cold brew. It had been overcast throughout the afternoon, and rain began to fall as I took a seat on my bench.

 

I huddled over my knees, while drinking. A curse of loneliness escaped from between swallows of beverage alcohol.

 

“Dammit Kookshow, why did you have to be so pretty? Now I’ll never get you off of my mind!”

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 1: Coffeemaker

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

My name is Rodman Stockton Swindle. This is my story.

 

After traveling to southern California in the big rig of my trucker neighbor, for a rendezvous with Kookshow Baby from Cult Radio A-Go-Go, I lapsed into a funk at home in Ohio. The thrill of that trans-continental adventure had been an uplifting experience. Yet with this episode now in my rearview mirror, and daily life having returned to the drudgery of old, I began to sag emotionally. Work time in the home office became unproductive and tiring. I found myself turning for comfort to the household beer stash, and solace on the front porch. Weeks passed without any communication from my distant contact at the abandoned drive-in of Terry & Tiffany DuFoe. Something that I had expected with her many responsibilities. Eventually, I started to withdraw into habits of my Appalachian heritage. I survived on one meal a day, from my Weber kettle grill. Usually, chicken or some form of pig meat. Always cheap cuts to meet my meager budget. I drank late, and awakened early. A schedule that meant my brain cells lingered in a fog of depravation throughout each week.

 

This downward spiral of fatigue met its end one morning, as I attempted to make coffee just after daybreak. My BUNN system hadn’t had proper maintenance in a year at least. So, when set up as usual, it rebelled in protest.  Still sleepy and dazed, I stumbled toward my kitchen to discover that only a slight residue of black distillation was present in the bottom of its carafe. A sputtering drip of liquid ebbed from the filter basket. I tried bumping the appliance to cause a surge of water in its tank, but got little benefit in return.

 

My eyes were narrow, and heavy. I cursed and thumped my disability canes on the floor.

 

Following this brief visitation of woe, I searched online for brewing alternatives. As a youngster, I remembered that my father used a plain, redline boiler to make java on the stovetop. The enameled vessel was both primitive and durable. He would bring water up to temperature, add spoons of ground coffee, and then pour the yield through a small strainer, into his mug. The flavor was honest and full-bodied. Akin to what might be served at a roadside café, somewhere far removed from the bustle of metropolitan areas. Or, around a campfire, outdoors.

 

With some hunting across a variety of websites, I found that such a throwback creation was still available, from purveyors of camping equipment and accessories. I could not quite match the item remembered from childhood days, but came close enough. What I ordered was a 12-cup, Graniteware pot. A basic, metal reservoir. I guessed that it would do well as a backup, when such moments of beverage chaos arrived.

 

Meanwhile, I needed to clean out my BUNN. In the household pantry, I found a jug of vinegar bought sometime during the previous year, but left on the floor under accumulated shopping bags and cleaning aids. Once I filled the coffeemaker with a full measure of this natural cleanser, it returned to dribbling and popping bubbles of air. I had to allow this slow process to continue for over two hours. Finally, there was a belch of dirty water from its internal tank, and a geyser on the other side. The plugged pipes had been cleared at last.

 

A raw aroma of heavy, hot cider filled my kitchen. I made a mental note not to wait so long before performing this necessary ritual, again.

 

While letting the flushed effluent cool in place, I checked my Facebook account for recent posts from friends. At the top of my phone screen, there was a video from a group called ‘Old Drunken Buzzards.’ A band apparently from Seattle, Washington, with whom I was completely unfamiliar. Their presentation came across as decidedly basic. Just guitar, bass, and drums. All of the group members seemed chronologically older, like myself. When I played the track, it delivered a punchy, captivating sound of straight-ahead, instrumental Rock & Roll. I was intrigued by the tones they created. A big boom from so few in the lineup.

 

They asked for suggestions about naming the tune, with a promise of contest winners receiving gifts, if chosen. Suddenly, words began to echo inside my skull. I sat down at the desk in my home office, took a sheet of paper from the computer printer, and started to write out lyrics, by hand. The result was two verses and a chorus, scribbled in about five minutes.

 

I had to ponder this result briefly, before deciding what to do, next.

 

Back in the Game (Old Drunken Buzzards No. 1)

 

“I know that you

Have traveled through time and space

Here we meet, by accident

In this lonely place

I’m not ready to be human

Not ready to be seen

But there’s a taste of tomorrow calling

From the pages of a CREEM magazine

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game

 

Don’t be shy now

There’s no reason to abstain

I might have passed you by

By chance

But there’s a jester’s heart in pain

That ember burns in my chest

It cannot go cold and gray

So take my hand, Rosita

Let us dance and pray

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game...”

 

I decided to play their post on my computer, and then use the cellular device to capture added vocals which would be rendered in demo form. I managed to record this burst of inspiration in one take. I captured my vibe as a distant, impulsive contributor. Someone who had been out of the music scene for many, many years. This exercise evoked memories of working with my friend Paul Race and his cohorts, chiefly from Corning, New York. I had learned a great deal about pacing and rhythm while improvising words to his gritty, guitar doodlings.

 

When the west-coast fellows watched my submission, they were both amused and impressed. Kind compliments followed in my timeline, and an offer of band merch. I shared the post office box used for Swindle Shack communication. And thanked them for having the opportunity to participate. Yet afterward, my angst and ennui returned.

 

I had only one thought in mind. How would any of this help me get back into good standing with Kookshow Baby?

“Time”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

It is time, to leave this earth

Time to face judgment for my final worth

Time to see sunset swallow the day

Time for this season to pass away

Time for a journey, a heaven quest

Time for surrender to the fisherman’s net

No more tears will fall like rain

No more torment, no more pain

 

It is time...

 

It is time to draw a breath

Time to inhale with a rattle of death

Not a sad song to sing, I say

It is good to find that they have opened the gate

A time foretold in scriptures of old

A time when the warm embrace turns cold

A time appointed, to meet the sky

A time appointed, for all men to die

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to hear the tolling of a bell

Time to face the road to paradise, or hell

Whatever befalls this sinner, stained

My footsteps won’t return to this plain

The final leap I take is beyond time itself

Into a realm composed of everything else

My eyes are blind, my voice a silent cry

This is the moment when I will fly

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to greet the great beyond

It is time, to swim across the pond

Time to bathe in a wash of ever moonlight

The inkwell is empty, my soul runs dry

Time is the essence of self, replayed

A succession of sonnets, given to the brave

Once that candle has consumed its wick

Then I will rest in the bottomless pit

 

It is time...

 

It is time to hear the roll read out

It is time to erase my doubt

Not a duty that I perform at will

Time is the master, lord of the hill

I have lingered here for longer than most

Now I kneel before the Father, and Holy Ghost

In their shadow, my branches fall short

The yield of sorrows, in a magistrate’s court

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to give up my protest claim

It is time, to be bold with my aim

Time is the target, at which I send my arrow

As it was written, ‘The way is narrow’

Time ticks loudly, while I choose my path

To the Grim Reaper, with his scythe and staff

There is some romance to this dance of the damned

All that I give, is all that I am

 

It is time...

 

Let them bargain for my clothes

Where this sojourn leads, nobody knows

 

It is time...

“Trailer Tales”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid