“Midnight Muse”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Coffee at midnight.

Being retired has offered an escape from the traditional discipline of working by day and sleeping at night. A routine that always failed to provide authentic freedom for creative bursts of energy in the Icehouse. I chafed at the restrictive collar of regular employment. But as my career collapsed under the weight of a health decline, there came a consequence unintended. Suddenly, I could write when the mood was right.

My personal muse has always been something of a bitch.

In past years, creative ideas could arrive at inopportune moments. Like half an hour before leaving to work the graveyard shift. Or, while battling to streamline our budget at one of my retail stores. Even in the midst of a sleepless episode, staring intently at stains on the ceiling. These kisses from eternity were often lost to consequence. Necessity faded them into the ether. But now, my head is full of these voices, offering a siren-song from behind the veil. Instead of worrying about lost opportunities, I embrace these fleeting moments, and tap away at the keyboard.

A recent example came while listening to the end of a Phil Hendrie podcast, online. His bumper music resonated with the ‘Punk’ energy of an earlier era. And suddenly, I was jazzed up with the juice of a wordsmith in heat. I paused the show, grabbed my iPhone, and began to write:

Podcast Echoes, 1979

Flash and trash
Phil Hendrie on the podcast stream
Guitar blast
Plugs me in
Connected again
To 1979
Amplifier cranked up
Life force screwed up
Broken body, beaten up
I have woken up
Midnight starts the day
And I feel a chill
Make of it what you will
Parched from haste
In a hurry to mature
Arthritic fool
Head full of memories
Heart full of regret
Dad would say:
“You ain’t dead yet”
I’m on stage
Beginning the next set
Lyrics written
Or I would forget
I need my pills
Make of it what you will
Half a century
And more
Careful through the land mines
Or I’m wrecked on the floor
Cane-bound and cautious
No more skipping on plastic
No more light fantastic
No more voice tones, frantic
I am no fanatic
Humbled, hobbled
Wiped-out by fall
Breezes blow still
Make of it what you will
Wheeler in the shed
V-twin horse is silent
I have to count pennies 
To pay my rent
And buy beer for the week
Before falling asleep
By the TV set
At the windowsill
Make of it what you will
Black night comfort
Black coffee taste
Black cinema retrosphere
Black tarmac, going back
Blackness in my eyes
Blacked, blocked, blunted
Black and blue
Fool on the hill
Make of it what you will
A moment ago
I was merely a watcher
A listener
A beam in the stream
Floating along
While Phil played a song
After doing his voice shtick
The show went quick
Then I fell into a vibe
Heard the crunchy barre chords
Fuzz and distortion
I took my portion
Took a ride on that wave
To yesteryear
Buzzing
Crackling generator juice
Worn out amp cord
Sparking static
With every move
Every dance step and thrill
Make of it what you will
Each night I TuneIn
App on the Roku
Coffee and toast
And the radio host
Voices provided
Flowing, falling
Spit from the maw
Of a stone sculpture worshipped in fire
Of vacuum tubes and wire
We have come this far
On an earful of banter
On a drunken burst of laughter
On a crash through the window
On a prayer in the snow
On a momentary thrill
Make of it what you will
I remember Mark
Cornell educated
Well lubricated
With drink and with song
A radio vet
He wrote poems and more 
Song stanzas galore
His words made us eager
To be more than street kids
We wanted what he did
We wanted to grow
To know what he showed
To glow
To go pro
Bespoke but half-broke
A cultural shill
Make of it what you will
Now satire goes silent
Background crawl
A first breath of fall
Dog on the carpet
My coffee cup unfull
My head gone to null
Episode #1267
Played and spent
Shot out of the cannon
Not squeezed from a tube
There is naught more to do
So I tap on my phone
In this moment of self
While the world is away 
And my demons can play
Wander and wonder
Twitch and twirl
Kick rocks and rusty cans
Kicks on the net, man
A joyride, a buzz-kill
Make of it what you will 

After typing the last word, I made a mental mic-drop. The moment passed quickly, with the intensity of brain-freeze after a cold swallow of ice cream. I shook my head to clear away the numbness. Silence filled my living room. The television sat idle. It was nearly 2:00 in the morning.

Now, my task became clear. To sit at the desk, and write.

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