“Word Blast”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Blasted.

After my early retirement in 2016, I rediscovered a habit from high school years. Surrendering to bed at a reasonable hour, only to wake again around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning. At this comfortable point between sunset and sunrise, I used to finish homework. Now, I found it useful to pause and scribble out ideas over coffee and P. B. Toast.

As a teenager, my night-owl habits were unwelcome in the household. I learned to be stealthy and quiet while active, overnight. Eventually, this meant rigging up and old pair of headphones from a crystal radio set, to my television. But now, divorced, retired and disabled, being awake during uncivil hours brought no scrutiny. My Black Lab did not care. It only meant an extra trip outside for him, and more treats before stretching out on the carpet. He was glad to endorse this irregular behavior.

The shack was my kingdom. The home office, my starship bridge.

On a recent morning, I was finishing a Phil Hendrie Show netcast in sync with my third cup of go-juice. Eyes still heavy. Battling a sense that I should have stayed under the comforter. My writing discipline had stalled like the weather outside. My keyboard had been abandoned for several days.

But then, with tones of bumper music fading to the show conclusion, a simple phrase whispered itself into life.

“Personal opinion.”

This silent voice made me sit upright in the chair. I shook my head in disbelief. Personal opinion? The thought-in-text seemed ridiculous. Personal opinion? There was no connection in the phrase to Phil Hendrie and his multiple radio personalities. Personal opinion? I repeated it over and over again, hoping for a sort of understanding. Something in the tonal resonance of jangling guitar had pricked my consciousness. Personal opinion? What a foolish admonition to receive with frozen windows, snow on the steps, and a soul-in-stasis, sitting idle, unloved and unworthy in the darkness.

“Personal opinion. My view, my attitude...”

I was unprepared for any sort of inspiration. Even a bit irritated to have my moment of solitude interrupted. More content to sit and ponder the wisdom of Margaret Gray, Robert Leonard and General Gaylen Shaw. Coffee drops still lingered in my mustache. But I grabbed the phone. Fumbling slightly, I found the ‘Notes’ app. In a fit of what seemed to be automatic writing, I prepared to channel the vision into useful prose.

Then, quick and unrestrained, the orgasmic rush of words arrived like a winter storm:

Personal opinion
My view
My attitude
Got to step back in time
Find a taste of the sublime

Personal opinion
My way
My judgment day
Phil Hendrie podcast
Plugs me to the word-blast

Personal opinion
My breath
My second death
Wind blows colder
This wordsmith getting older

Personal opinion
My rhyme
My trip through time
I give the poet’s note
To those without hope

Personal opinion
No more
Than a word score
Read the page, lightly
Sling the ink, mightily

Personal opinion
Edgar Cayce
Thinking free
Automatic writing fits
I scribble with my stick

Personal opinion
Mood true
Coming through
Face of the other self
Peering from depths of hell

Personal opinion
Three o’clock
On the rock
I give a nod to the nighttime
Still reek of coffee-wine

Personal opinion
Loner sits
In ash pit
Busted up for display
Nighttime is my day

Personal opinion
Duck call
Seeker, enthralled
Losing my control of self
Back to the kinder spell

Personal opinion
I like
I deny
Eyes into the muck of me
Me slipping to eternity

Personal opinion
One kiss
Double miss
She said the chance is enough
I bow to sterner stuff

Personal opinion
Eye wink
Cocktail drink
My glass ready to be filled
My dreams already killed

Personal opinion
I wait
Breaking day
Wait for a message if release
Wait for the other me

Personal opinion
Breathe deep
Then sleep
Caffeine has opposite effect
I am a physical wreck

Personal opinion
Last verse
Final curse
Wind cold over the snow
Soul-starved and ready to go

Afterward, I sat in my chair, motionless and reflective.

It was five degrees below zero degrees outside. The ‘Polar Vortex’ had crept down from its northern realm to frost the continent with icy gloom. I was glad to be indoors and comfortable. But even more grateful for my unexpected tap-in to the creative continuum.

Somehow, the comic muse from El Pacifico had sparked a bit of creative fire when the weather, and my imagination, had gone so cold.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“A Season, Ended”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Over.

Mortal life is a season, with limits defined by chronology. A beginning, in birth. A journey of some sort, often told as a story. A climax, perhaps more than one. Then, finality. Termination of self. Negation. The end of days. For the atheist, what follows is a vacuum. For the faithful, something more. A mystery unknown, yet written about for thousands of years.

In recent days, for this writer, a nagging sense of having overstayed my welcome has become palpable. More so with each passing hour. A sense of being at a party, long after the hosts have succumbed to liquor and fatigue, and the other guests have gone home. Sitting alone on the couch, I ponder. Peering over crushed cans, emptied bottles, snack debris, and a television buzzing to itself. Flashing unseen images with ironic futility. Why? Why am I still here in the temporal continuum?

Why am I still at the party?

Friends have died with more purpose. Family members have gone who inspired more love. Noted figures, artists, leaders, stewards, performers and such. All justified in thinking, if they did, that their time was taken away too quickly. Meanwhile, here I sir. Sniffing stale Doritos and flat Miller High Life. Picking at cheese chunks going dry, with a toothpick. Wonder, glorious wonder.

Why was I selected to live? A lottery? Roulette Wheel? A chance drawing of makeshift ballots from the brown paper bag of eternity? To simply accept good fortune feels lazy. Not disciplined enough.

I recalled the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson. An event which crashed my world in 2005. As a scribe of consequence, rebellious auteur of his own life adventure, I reckoned he would write until the final moment of conscious thought. Perhaps even afterward, channeled through some medium or in a vision received by his readers. Yet the exit came after penning a short note which was later published in Rolling Stone:

Football Season Is Over

“No more games. No more bombs. No more walking. No more fun. No more swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting greedy. Act your age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”

At the time, I felt cheated. Hunter taking his own life? It seemed out of character. Preposterous! A man aged 67. He should have written to 77 or 87 or 97 or… until that last breath had passed his lips.

My own father, a wordsmith and author for almost 90 years, wrote regularly until just before his final tumble toward oblivion. It was my duty to follow. Making one deadline after another, just as I had in the newspaper game. Work, work, work. Going to press! Ink in my veins. Text on my back pages. A tome left for the ages.

But here I sat, in the aftermath. Party over, surrounded by bottles and cans and crunched-up Fritos ground into the upholstery. Guacamole, lonely in the dish. Solitary. Feeling cold. 57 and already retired for two years. Dwindling mobility due to battered shoulders, worn knees, and a disintegrated hip. Losing my vision and hearing. Out of work and luck.

Again, the question crackled between my ears. Why?

I could not discuss this dark emotion freely, for fear of loosing it into the world. I reckoned friends or family members would misunderstand. So my mouth stayed shut. Thus, the echoes grew louder. Like waves created by a skipping stone. Why, why, why? Why am I still here… why here… why, why, why. The unstated inference was that I should go elsewhere. That I should leave the party aftermath. But in a spiritual sense, in terms of my nagging vision, my daydream, what would that entail?

I felt obligated to leave. Destined, fated, pushed, encouraged, to leave the remnants of celebration behind. To end the awkward mood that had me looking around for someone else who had survived the night. Someone, anyone?

Actor George Sanders spoke with more brevity in his own farewell. But using sardonic wit not unlike HST:

“Dear World, I am leaving you because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool – good luck.”

My stint on the couch continued. I counted each condition. 57. Unemployed, disabled, retired. Out of circulation. Companion only to my old dog. A Black Labrador Retriever. Author of books, composer of songs. Scribbler of illustrations. Fallen like the mighty. Humbled in the dark. Out of breath. Out of time. Spent like a cigar. I felt something other than depression. A vibe not generated by the need to escape. Instead, I felt finished. As if my turn in the competition had been completed. My dance, my song, my stand-up routine. Done and duly noted.

My time at the party, expired.

Wendy O. Williams spoke with much forethought about her choice to leave:

“For me, much of the world makes no sense, but my feelings about what I am doing ring loud and clear to an inner ear and to a place where there is no self, only calm. Love always...”

While my out-of-place guilt persisted, I tried to conjure some ethic to deal with the mood. A saving regimen. Deliverance from the ending of self. Yet instead of gloom, the twisted-up angst brought me back to where I began. Huddled over my father’s typewriter, in the basement office. Tapping away with childish ideas that had only begun to form. I reckoned as a kid, as a broken, middle-aged man and as a voyager at the end of earthly travel, my vantage point would be the same. Ready to write. Ready once again to tell the story.

And so, it has come to pass.

As I left my imaginary party, bidding farewell to Hunter, to George, to Wendy, and all the others, this moment of doubt and analysis yielded what had always come before and what would ever be my place. At the desk, cane by my side. Keyboard at the ready.

Ready, to write.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Water Woes”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Trailer Trash.

The stigma of living in a manufactured home, with wheel-axles underneath, is persistent even in this age of rampant political correctness. Insults may be delivered freely to those in a residence park. One can never escape the lowered status associated with such a humble means of existing. Though thanks to ‘Trailer Park Boys’ and Canadian actors Mike Smith, Robb Wells and John Paul Tremblay, there is a certain upside-down coolness evoked, like that of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

My own experience with living-in-a-long-box began in 2002, during a storm of relationship chaos. An event I did not celebrate. My first marriage was imploding. After a few weeks in my pickup truck, and several more sleeping on a couch offered by relatives, I purchased a ready-made, clapboard dwelling near the county line. My intent was to regain a personal sense of balance, handle the necessary legal affairs, and go forward.

I had never lived in a trailer.

Before long, I began to learn much about the ‘friends-in-low-places’ lifestyle of park residents. A discipline both resourceful and frugal out of necessity. The quirks of squatting on a rented, concrete pad were many. I became accustomed to high winds shaking the house from side to side. The thin walls allowed noise pollution of all sorts, so that my neighbor’s affinity for commercial, Top-40 Country music remained inescapable, even when taking a shower.

Most unexpected, however, were issues with the water system in my park.

From the beginning, our supply of natural hydration had a decidedly rusty character. I could often sample the distinctive odor when bathing. It reminded me of visiting 4-H summer camp during the early 1970’s. My good humor about this oddity dissipated when sediment began to appear in the dishwasher. And in our drinks. A plastic bottle filled from the tap had tiny bits of sand and gravel settled in the bottom. Family members encouraged me to contact a media outlet like WKYC Channel 3, in Cleveland. But, I was working long hours as a retail manager. I did not have the stomach for confrontation or drama. So as a temporary solution, I began to purchase bottled water, off-site.

That habit would continue, for many years to come.

Pipes froze repeatedly despite heat tape and insulation, a common malady of trailer life. Causing greater concern, the in-ground hydrant, my literal point of supply for water, filled with muck and sediment. It had to be flushed by the park manager, a process that consumed several hours.

Eventually, in 2013, the water meter burst while I was on duty at my supermarket in Geneva. The side yard was flooded, and this bubbling tide wandered across the vacant lot next door, to pool in front of a neighbor’s storage barn. I called the park office for over a week, without results. The manager refused to visit. An inquiry with our ownership company, only deepened my frustration. They flatly denied responsibility for the issue. After 10 days, I contacted a plumbing contractor used at my retail store. I openly begged for their assistance. The supervisor agreed to help, even though they typically avoided the mobile community because of past unpaid bills. My final cost for repair was $446.50.

Later, I discovered that replacement meters were on hand in the park’s maintenance garage. My belly grumbled with irritation. But there was little time to fight. I had to be at work.

In a couple of years, my vengeful water woes returned. During a particularly cold month of February, the pipes froze again, leaving me with no service for two weeks. I rented a propane heater without success. Finally, a seasonal thaw opened the system. There were no leaks or damage. But then, I received a bill for $300.00 of water usage. Because I lived alone, and spent six or seven days out of the week on duty at my store, this seemed absolutely ridiculous. But a call to the company office near Cleveland yielded only one brief admonition. “Pay it or be evicted!” In a sense, I felt lucky. The same ruse had been deployed against a friend who was charged $500.00 for the month in water usage. As in my case, with no leaks or issues in the system. He had to turn to parishioners at church for aid.

After the passage of years, I had to retire early due to health reasons. My generous salary disappeared in favor of a meager disability provision. The trailer itself had suffered considerable damage from years of unsafe water. My bathtub and shower were stained reddish-brown. The dishwasher was strangled with dried goop that rendered it useless. The front bathroom was destroyed with pipes full of crud. I felt fortunate for the fixtures that survived.

Meanwhile, my park descended into a gloomy period of neglect. It was taken in foreclosure by the bank. Operated by a professional management company. Then, resold to investors from outside the state of Ohio. I reckoned that at last, we might have cause for hope.

Woe returned with a cyclical regularity as I received notice from a utility company in Michigan. They boasted of having secured a contract to re-meter the entire park, and begin to chart usage. Their charges were spelled out in the document on page three. “Minimum zero consumption bill $65.55.” Their sample model showed a monthly cost of $91.17. Because I had been paying $15.00 per month for the same service, this caused a sense of alarm. A quick review of past billing indicated my normal cost, when the previous owner had metered water flow, was between $10.00 - $20.00 on each billing. I balked at the thought of such a high threshold. Particularly when pondering that those of us who lived alone, like myself or a widow across the street. We would surely not approach the kind of usage experienced by others with large families, frequent live-in guests, and lots of pets. 

I reckoned that zero usage as a baseline should equal zero charges.

Just as distressing was language in the notice that indicated all charges for meter maintenance, setup, shutoff, testing, etc. were to be covered by the residents. Though the service had been contracted by park ownership, they would bear none of the associated costs, after this initial period. It was a plan without shame. A ‘blitzkrieg’ strategy I understood in business terms, but loathed as a weary member of the community.

It reminded me of stories from my own industry. Inner-city owners had sometimes set their scales to register a quantity of weight even with nothing in place. It was a practice that squeezed extra revenue out of poor customers with few options. But when discovered, punishment from the legal system was swift. Approaching 17 years in the park, I wondered if any protection existed for those of us stuck in a similar conundrum. Or if we would be forced to pay in silence.

Of one thing I could be certain – the water woes were sure to continue. I reckoned Bubbles, Ricky and Julian would understand.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Trump: High Life Hero”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Good intentions. Guaranteed to cause mischief.

A recent project in the Icehouse involved clearing a file drawer to make room for documents from my late father’s estate, and long-term care for my mother. Such projects typically involve more time and effort than planned. But this most recent task yielded a greater challenge than simply fitting more stuff into a fixed space. While sorting through the drawer, I discovered literature from a sales meeting about videophones, ten years ago.

The pitchman-in-chief was Donald Trump.

In 2009 I was an unemployed retail manager and journalist. In between jobs, in the midst of an ill-advised second marriage, facing surgery on my right knee, and teetering toward bankruptcy. Hope was a dim star, visible only with much effort. But then, a neighbor bragged of connecting with an ‘incredible opportunity.’ One he would share with others in our neighborhood at a party, one week into the future.

He was an unremarkable fellow, but resourceful out of necessity. Reluctance slowed my response. I felt a certain amount of skepticism because such invitations in the past had always heralded offers of assembling bicycles for profit, selling life insurance, or hawking Amway products. But my personal level of desperation was high. So, I decided to visit and learn.

Any sort of venture, even one with risky details, seemed welcome. And I desperately needed a paycheck.

My neighbor lived across the street, so participating meant no greater sacrifice than walking down the driveway and through his yard. I could hear music, catcalls, and conversation even before he opened the front door. Inside, the dining room table was loaded with salty snacks from Walmart, and bottles of Miller High Life beer. A large television screen sat waiting in the middle of his living room. He raised a toast to the group as I took a seat.

“Who wants to own their own business?” he asked, lifting his bottle of yellow gold. “Who wants money? Lots and lots of money?”

The room atmosphere exploded. Our neighborhood was one where the offering of a second-hand couch for free, or a used car for $500, constituted lottery winnings. An easy crowd for get-rich-quick schemes. I stayed quiet and sipped my beverage.

“Check out this video,” my neighbor directed. “You’ll recognize the man providing this opportunity. He knows a lot about making money. And he cares a lot about sharing it with people like us, all over America!”

The TV screen came to life with Donald Trump, his comb-over hair alive in a dramatic swoosh of color. He bragged of recognizing great opportunities and great people. Then, the message turned toward ACN. A company he promised would give people from ‘all walks of life’ a chance to succeed. Central to this boast was a wired, digital videophone. After the presentation ended, my neighbor gestured to a side table, where one had been set up for display. 

“This is the future!” he cheered. “Who likes money?”

Once again, the room resounded with noise and enthusiasm. Plus, affinity for free High Life beer.

Had it been 1999, the thought of a plugged-in videophone might have held a certain amount of genuine appeal. But in 2009, friends were buzzing about the iPhone 3G and the ease of using Skype on their computers. So the Iris 3000 videophone looked like an 8-track player in the iPod age. Still, everyone else seemed to be impressed.

I finished my drink as literature was passed around the room.

“Everyone here can be a business owner,” my neighbor bragged. “You know and I know that working will never get you real money. You have to be an owner to make real money. Mr. Trump knows how to make money! Real deal money!”

He proceeded to outline how each of us could set up our ‘business’ and buy phone service for ourselves. Then, sell to others who would be under us, in succession, on the team. It struck me as being a typical pyramid arrangement. More gently characterized as multi-level marketing. Everything was predicated on selling. You selling to them who sell to others who sell to their friends who sell to… everyone else. 

The literature featured legitimate business logos, including those of Verizon, Sprint, and AT & T. Like fresh bait for a fish about to bite the hook. 

A woman from down the street asked how much each of us could make. My neighbor nearly jumped in the air. “It is unlimited!” he shouted. “Make as much money as you can sell memberships for ACN!”

An old fellow from the cul-de-sac asked if buying service for our families was a deal-within-a-deal. “Of course!” my neighbor yelped. “Save as much as you want! Earn as much as you want!”

Finally, I was the only guest who had not made a comment. My neighbor reached for a cold bottle and looked in my direction. “What do you think of all this, Rod?”

I bowed my head, reluctantly. “Does anyone here know that Trump has declared bankruptcy at least four times during his career?”

The room went silent. Suddenly, it was very cold. Colder than the beer in my hand.

“That means shit!” my neighbor snorted. “Business people do that all the time.”

“They do?” I wondered out loud. “Hmmm… so, is Donald an owner of ACN or just a paid spokesman? Is this just a stunt for ‘The Apprentice’ that will disappear by next season?”

My neighbor became flustered. “Trump is a billionaire! A bill-ion-aire! He knows more about money than anybody in this room!”

I swirled the last drops of gold champagne around in my bottle. “Guaranteed that he’s serving something better than High Life at his parties. He has all of us to pay the bills.”

No one else raised their hand to comment.

“Thanks, Rod,” my neighbor scowled. Suddenly, I had become invisible. With music again in the air and the celebration amped-up by another case of Miller High Life, I decided to leave. No one walked me to the door. Outside, there was snow on the ground. Yet it felt much warmer than in my neighbor’s home.

I was ready for my own family, living room, and a more satisfying refreshment - Labatt Blue from Canada.

Postscript: My neighbor was able to afford a better residence, and left our street in the following year. Had he earned enough selling the Iris 3000 to take this leap? No one could be sure. But I never heard any mention of ACN, again.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Trump ACN video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CXNE7Lm7y4

ACN Iris 3000: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iris_3000_Videophone

New York Times story: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/29/nyregion/trump-acn-lawsuit.html

“Dad Whispers”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-19)

Alone.

Since my father passed away in April of last year, I have often felt isolated when facing life events of a consequential nature. In need of counsel. Weak when operating by myself. I used to rely on his sober reflections not only for guidance, but also for comfort. Yet as the months have passed, a new routine has developed. I hear him whispering in my ear. Often, as he did while alive, urging me to do things I would rather avoid. Things that truly needed to be done.

When struggling over several months to secure Medicaid funding for my mother, desperation often seemed to be winning the battle. But I could hear his voice. “Oh ye of little faith! Do what is right and believe in the outcome.” In the end, she was safe and protected.

His estate had no value. But bill collectors came quickly. I trembled as executor, fretting over details that could not be avoided. Utility bills for the house. Hospital bills not satisfied through insurance. Credit cards unpaid. Funeral costs. But again, the final result was satisfactory.

“You must believe,” he would say. “Trust the road map.”

My own health was challenged by many trips out-of-state to handle the family needs he left behind. As a worrier, I speculated ‘what if’ too frequently. My mobility had dwindled, causing early retirement at 55. Fatigue and poor vision joined other concerns to limit my activity. I could barely walk. So how would it be possible to clear the family homestead? But, with the aid of my sister and family, everything was handled. The personal failure that I feared never transpired.

“Believe,” he would say again.

More recently, the plight of a family member for whom he had co-signed made him whisper, again. As I watched this relative trying to wriggle free of student loan debt, his advice filled my ears. As before, I wanted to defer the challenge to others. Yet he remained persistent. Finally, I composed a letter. A review of my own financial woes was a backdrop for the message. Included were sage observations interpreted on his behalf:

“I visited the family yesterday. While I was there, your loan company called twice. Of course, no one answered and they simply allowed the recorded message to respond. But, we discussed the situation and agreed that perhaps I should send a note to you. Since my father can't offer advice, I would like to pass along what I think he would say.

Simply, ‘Talk to them.’

When I had financial problems during my second marriage, he gave me this advice repeatedly. He pushed me to negotiate all of my outstanding debts, individually. Communication, he said, was key. He knew a lot, having had money issues for most of his life. Since owning a failed motorcycle shop in the 1950's. For several years in the 70's and 80's he owed back taxes to the IRS and was so open and cooperative that he was ruled unable to pay. They left him alone until it could be covered.

In personal terms, I negotiated unpaid debt on 11 credit cards, my home, my pickup truck and my CPAP machine which was $1400 because I had lost insurance coverage. Dad made me do this as a condition of his help.

Your situation is actually a lot more simple. You are in a common spot, there are many people of your age owing student debt and not earning enough to cover the cost. You also have a family to support. All of this would be taken into account. There are lots of options that they would discuss with you.

By ignoring their attempts for contact, it guarantees that if you are sued and taken to court, and the loan company seeks wage garnishment from your paychecks, part of the evidence will be that you avoided working to solve the issue. Every call and letter will be listed. That won't help you with the judge. What would help is a sincere attempt to work things out in a timely manner.

I can hear Dad saying these words as I write them on his old computer.

You have done nothing wrong and contacting them will make that clear. Avoiding their calls and letters only has you looking like someone not interested in satisfying the loan agreement. Evasive. Not acting in good faith.

As my father would say: ‘This will end at some point.’ If asked, he would urge you to make the choice to end it on your terms rather than waiting for the judge to end it on theirs.”

A response wasn’t expected, or needed. But at last, the whispering in my ear abated. I had channeled the wisdom of my progenitor into useful text. And passed it along as he did to me on so many occasions.

That was enough.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Poet’s Pour”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-2019)

Coffee.

It usually begins with a cup of this hot, hopeful beverage. At anywhere from midnight to four o’clock in the morning. I sit at my desk, Black Lab nearby, snoozing on the carpet. The late hour offers a sort of deliverance not available in the harsh hues of daylight. My inner self peers out, cautiously, for a sign of safety. Then, assured of a slumbering world, no longer in motion, he emerges to write.

Sometimes, these moments of lucidity arrive unannounced. I fumble for my cell phone to record their dance. But when these bursts of color descend without the frenetic mood of a perfect storm, I have time for readiness. At the computer, I take my seat and watch them play.

Years ago, I heard science-fiction scribe Ray Bradbury observe that quite often, he could not wait to finish a story to see how it concluded. In my office chair, fortified with coffee and P. B. toast, I have frequently felt a similar emotion. Anxiously, I tune my mental receiver, much like the dial on a radio. With anticipation, I listen. And then, words skip from the ether onto my page:

Asleep at the switch

Filling pages with what I wish

Coffee caffeinated, coming clean

Would rather have another dream

But the day is here and ready

I am at the desk, unsteady

Already on my trip

Asleep at the switch

Stealing candies from the dish

Stood up, fed up, left alone

Rhyming on the telephone

After dark, I am a hero

After daylight is made to go

I am more than hip

Asleep at the switch

Fed on Gummi Bears and Goldfish

Tapping keys just for me

Word-pictures made, invisibly

No sleep for a wicked yob

I power up and twist the knob

It gives me fits

Asleep at the switch

In flight like a cackling witch

Creating art is wasted time

Better just to fall in line

But here I sit in yards of yarn

Sweating thoughts of great alarm

It makes me itch

Asleep at the switch

Candles and a birthday wish

Blood and ink are one

Five chapters more and I am done

Still reeling with the guilt of time

“Get back on that assembly line!”

An upstream fish

Asleep at the switch

Critic caustic, clash and twitch

Someone make that rhymer stop

We’ve no need of his foolish thoughts

But that poor kid is someone – ME!

The mirror bends, not breaks, you see

Giving life the slip

Asleep at the switch

Riding on electric blips

If only I could summon courage

Flip this bowl of gruel and porridge

Into faces, steeled with fear

I’d leave them all just standing here

That is my wish

Asleep at the switch

Curses simmered on the lips

I’ve words for you, not kind

But sent without a poison rhyme

My only hope is for relief

To be the poeteer-in-chief

The real kingfish

Asleep at the switch

Revenge is such a chilly dish

I take my pound of flesh with glee

I take it all artistically

No malice in my heart, impure

No pain the seeker must endure

Prose and kitsch

Asleep at the switch

Unsure now of which is which

Lost in the verbal scramble

To escape another squabble

I can’t think of what I said

Too many stanzas in my head

I lost the pitch

Asleep at the switch

Looking for the perfect stitch

To bind me now unto myself

Deliver me from poet’s hell

A land with no words to say

Eternity of night and day

Remember this

Asleep at the switch

Daylight near, the morning kiss

I’ve been up all night and writing

My keyboard muse, so inviting

Drug haze is not needed here

No taste of wine, no drink of beer

I feel rich

Asleep at the switch

Computer screen, fife & fitch

Words parading, unrelated

Text rules absent, fornicated

I might be the last to know

But let me linger here below

Break the hitch

Asleep at the switch

Music man with perfect pitch

Oboe, flute and zither sing

Brahma Bull in the ring

Codpiece firmly put in place

I must not harm myself with haste

Hit or miss

Asleep at the switch

Born of a computer glitch

Techie tale in solid state

Told of heroes from Y2K

Memory on a flat diskette

Restless pictures on my set

“Truth is our bitch”

Asleep at the switch

Comfy in my own word-niche

Couched and coddled to myself

My heaven-sent bus ride to hell

I know no other fantasy

This image in the glass is me

It is what it is

Asleep at the switch

Filling pages with what I wish

Coffee cold, no more to drink

No one cares what poets think

But I have told my tale and won

My session at the keys is done

Dump me in the ditch

Once the session is over, I feel spent. Like a marathon runner, in the aftermath of spirited competition. But with a sense that I did not run the race, myself. Instead, this place at the finish line seems destined by a sort of author’s fate. A gift from beyond. Something I received like a lottery prize or a knighthood. Or a random bit of currency in my coat pocket. A bonus. A voice speaking in my head, guiding each keystroke toward the victory.

I stand and cheer. Yet wonder, how did I get here… the sweet conundrum of a poet’s life.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“New Year / Old Dog”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2019)

Windy and warm.

Changing weather patterns in Ohio meant that, as the New Year began, typical drifts of frost and snow did not cover the landscape in my rural neighborhood. Instead, after the festive atmosphere had dissipated, and everyone had gone home, what remained was a flooded yard. Pooled with muddy water stirred by wind gusts that shook the house.

It was 54 degrees.

I walked my Black Lab after 1:00 a.m. and then decided to make a pot of coffee. While scrolling through e-mail messages in my Yahoo! Account, I discovered an ad for the ‘Woof-tronic Pet Translator.’ Their sales jargon made me laugh out loud. But then, I reread the text.

“Communicate with your pet! A Christmas gift they won’t forget! Bark-to-human functionality is just one click away. Let’s play!”

A Rolling Stones disc played on my stereo, called ‘Blue & Lonesome.’ I read the message over and over again. The download was free, after watching an ad for real estate in Hawaii. Finally, I rubbed my eyes and played the short video. Then, selected the file. Once I had installed the translator, it opened with an instruction panel. Controls were in a toolbar across the top.

“Come here, Buddy!” I called.

My dog was not interested. He snored from the kitchen like an old man after a post-meal dessert of bourbon and cigars.

“Wrangler!” I shouted. “Come here! Give this a try!”

He stood up with irritation. “Woof woof, arf! Arrrrrrrf!”

The computer screen blinked and a synthesized voice growled from the speakers. “Are you staying up all night? Mommy hated that, you know.”

I slapped the desk. “It works!”

My canine companion was unimpressed. “Yowwwwwl, woof woof! Barrrrk!”

The computer paused for a moment. Then the voice spoke again. “You should have stayed with the champagne. Coffee will keep you up all night!”

I snorted with amusement. “Hey, this is great!”

“Arf arf arf arf, wooooooof!” he replied while flapping his droopy ears.

The computer voice sounded edgy. “Great for you, maybe. Unless there are more treats in your hand, I’m going back to sleep!”

“Wrangler!” I insisted. “Hey, this program will let us have a real conversation. Not the kind I imagine after a few glasses of Jack Daniel’s and Coke. Come over here and talk!”

He rolled on his side. “Woof woof arf, barrrrrrrk! Yip yip yap!”

The computer voice was snippy. “Treats or some more of that New Year party mix you made. Okay? I don’t work for free.”

“Work??” I laughed.

“Yowwwwwwl arf arf,” he declared.

The computer was quick to translate his thought. “I protect the house. Did you forget?”

I shook my head. “I did not forget. Come on, this is great! Quit being so stubborn.”

“Yarrrrrrrf!” he replied.

The computer screen simply said “Expletive. Vocal response blocked.”

“Okay,” I said. “Treats. I get it. More treats. You have Milk Bones left in your Christmas stocking. I’ll get them if you play along with the Woof-tronic Translator.”

“Arf arf, woof woof woof! Yaaaaaaaap!” he bellowed.

The computer buzzed angrily. “Humans always play that game. Extortion for snacks. Not a good look for your species.”

I coughed while trying to sip coffee. “So, you don’t want more treats?”

“Arf arf, wooooooof!” he answered with a frown. “Yawwwwwl!”

“Yessss, I do.” the computer repeated. “Get the stocking.”

I slumped in my chair. “Look, this seems like an opportunity to share with each other. We could learn a lot here...”

“WOOF WOOF ARRRRF!” he barked.

The computer flashed a high-volume warning. “SHARE THE TREATS!”

I went to the kitchen, for a bone. He groaned while watching. As if every step was an extended moment of agony. Like he had fallen into desert sand, dying of thirst and hunger.

“Growwwwwwwwwl. Grrrrrr grrrrrr.”

The computer screen flashed another warning. “Multiple expletives, blocked.”

I handed over the Milk Bone on the way back to my desk. He chewed and crunched it into a pile of crumbs on the carpet.

“Wooooooof,” he said with satisfaction.

“Ahhhhhhhh,” the computer echoed.

My face was red. “So, now I have some questions for you...”

“Woof woof arrrrrrf!” he complained.

The computer sounded snarky. “I’m not a PhD, okay?”

My head drooped. “We’ve been buddies for almost 12 years, Wrangler. I literally raised you from a puppy. After all that time together, don’t you have any tidbits of wisdom to offer?”

“WOOF WOOF YOWWWWWWL!” he declared. “YIP YIP YIP!”

The computer buzzed on my desk. “I LIKE BACON AND CHEESE! THAT’S MY TIDBIT OF WISDOM!”

“There has to be more going on here,” I argued. “You always give me those pondering glances, when tilting your head to one side or the other. You seem to comprehend language when I talk about hunting for cats or going to Aunt Becky’s. Or seeing your grandma at the nursing home.”

“Woof, arf, woof, arf,” he said with much sarcasm. “Aaaaaarf.”

“Rodney, you are thinking too hard,” the computer translated. “I’m a dog.”

My eyes were burning. “I refuse to accept that, buddy. You are smarter than that...”

“WOOF WOOF ARF!” he howled.

“I’M… A… DOG!” the computer registered.

“We have better conversations over beer and Tennessee whiskey,” I observed. “And a bag of Canine Carryouts. This translator is a dud. A waste of technology.”

“Woof woof arf arf! my Black Lab barked.

“Now you’re making sense!” the computer said.

My thoughts were clear with purpose. “I love you, buddy. You love me. No words are necessary.”

“Woof woof! Woof woof!” he agreed.

“Less talk! More treats!” the computer reverberated.

Fatigue won out, at last. I shut down the desktop. My coffee had gone cold.

Somehow, it was nearly five o’clock in the morning. The Rolling Stones CD had finished playing, with a hollow vacuum of silence left in its wake.

The New Year had officially begun.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024