c. 2019 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-19)
Being awake in the
dark. A challenge and a gift.
Ancient humans may
have been bound by the natural cycles of day and night on our planet.
But in modern terms, these limitations have been exploded by
technology. Still, it is impossible not to speculate that even during
primitive times, there must have been a few hardy souls who burned
sticks, or pools of animal fat, in their caves to extend the light
beyond its limits. Perhaps these were the first beings to climb
toward the development of language and a recorded history. Huddled
with crude tools and stains for the purpose of illustrating what they
could not write with an alphabet.
To their brave
experiments I nod in this moment, while sitting at my desk after
three o’clock in the morning:
Poetry Slam
Poetry slamming
Keyboard jamming
Cold in the
silent hours
My spirit devours
An image of self
Old volumes sat
on the shelf
Unread
Poetry slamming
Curse said for
damning
Whipped by the
wind
The outcast is
kin
My coffee mug,
empty
Yet full with
words in me
Go ahead
Poetry slamming
My channel,
programming
Hits on the tube
The product is
you
I sit here,
uninhibited
I sit here unfed
Fill my head
Poetry slamming
Good citizens,
scamming
Fools on the hill
Stuck with the
bill
My broke ass is
better
No chase for a
letter
Face gone red
Poetry slamming
Myself, examine
The need to speak
up
Fills my soul and
my cup
Cold fingers on
keys
Accept if you
please
Praise for the
godhead
Poetry slamming
E-mail spamming
Spit phrases
ruthlessly
A phlegm of
insanity
Cracked skull
vision
My work here is
done
Time for bed
Poetry slamming
P-Bee and jamming
Butter up to the
hilt
With a sporran
and a kilt
Dance over the
keys
Bound head and
bare knees
My piece is said
Poetry slamming
Whamming and
bamming
Throwing punches
in haste
Not a word will I
waste
Through the light
from my lantern
Slowly, I turn
Newlywed
Poetry slamming
Potato salad and
hamming
My meal is the
sound
Of a deal going
down
A composition of
lyric prose
And the tears in
my clothes
Colors, bled
Poetry slamming
A salute to the
morning
A tribute in
clicks
To the author-
wordsmith
Huddled over my
heater
In the midst of
this winter
Not yet dead
Poetry slamming
Academy cramming
A glorious waste
An educational
mistake
Now spun like a
spool
I run with the
fools
In their stead
Poetry slamming
Chipping and
chancing
Stone bits in my
craw
Too proud of my
flaws
Laugh at the
flat-screen
Laugh at the
daydreams
In my head
Poetry slamming
Lost and
remembering
My sire, gone to
rest
His guidance, the
best
I miss him
especially
In lonely hours
and memories
Those I dread
Poetry slamming
Overhead camming
Run the motor to
redline
Now I’m feelin’
fine
Horsepower to the
wheel
Got verses to
steal
With my sled
Poetry slamming
In paradise, it’s
raining
But here only
snow
The routine that
I know
Slouched low in
my chair
Middle-aged,
going nowhere
Words are bred
Poetry slamming
The window is
cracking
On visions of
night
And the
typesetter’s delight
I’ve run out of
prose
There are holes
in my clothes
At the woodshed
Poetry slamming
Flimming and
flamming
Did you expect a
game prize?
A reflection of
blue eyes
Got the taste of
abandon
And a manuscript
undone
Groom, unwed
Poetry slamming
Sunrise brings
the healing
But I don’t
want to be well
Let me stay with
myself
To draw out the
poison
Will make me a
slogan
Unsaid
Poetry slamming
This is the
morning
Not ready to wake
Leave me here in
the dream state
Evermore at the
keys
Evermore on the
blowing breeze
Like an arrowhead
Poetry slamming
The patient,
programming
Wind in my hair
Chopper chicks at
the fair
This rebel is
praised
Let’s all ride
away
On his thread
With
my insomnia sated and my type-trip taken, I fall back I the chair.
The hour has reached half past four o’clock. Caffeine still swells
my arteries. But the journey has gone far enough for this night. Far
enough to bring me close to the hope of daylight.
I
remember a fellow in the Davie Allan fan group. Someone I encountered
many times in text, through that connection. He seemed to be
something of a scribe. A poet, a philosopher. Scatterbrained or
gifted? Both, perhaps. Inspired or demented. I reckon both branches
grow from the same, sturdy tree. He went by the unlikely tag of
‘Boobie.’ I used to read his posts and marvel at the free
association of words. Something I struggled to achieve. Discipline
had made me a prisoner of compositional reason. In his babbling brook
of prose, I saw an escape. An opportunity to tap invisible energy. To
meet the spark of consciousness shared by all, but ignored by most.
My
attempts to ‘plug in’ were few. Normally inspired when the
guitarist himself, ‘King Fuzz’ Davie Allan, would release a new
recording. The first listen would open my brain like a drug of
choice. Phrases would fall, spilling like beer or wine into the
glass.
In
the dark, at my desk, I had found that stream once again.
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‘Words on the loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
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