Monday Haiku

 

Evening Haiku

 

Sunday Haiku

 

“Fifty-Nine”

 

c.2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

 

Months past fifty-nine

Creaky, stooped over my canes

Not the man I was

In yonder days

Out of the workforce

Out on the porch

With a beer in the afternoon

From January to June

And beyond

Popping tops and toasting memories

This is the new me

A reprieve

From years of hard knocks

When I struggled with apocalyptic thoughts

Of fate and fortune at work

Pondering my self worth

Wishing for a bed in the dirt

I often felt adrift

Unable to save myself

So many stories to tell

Words crushed against my clenched lips

I needed a release

To tell the tales

Inside of me

I prayed for a better condition

Hands raised to the sun

And received a blessing

As Sol dropped below the horizon

Loss was my gain

The benefit of arthritis pain

No longer able to walk

Now I had time to compose

To steal a beggar’s clothes

To revisit the Liberty

Of life on the street

With no burden of responsibility

Reckless, feckless

True only to me

Writing by darkness

Slumbering under the blue sky

Never feeling more alive

Jimmy Breslin

Mike Royko

Erma Bombeck

I don’t need a paycheck

What the heck

In this time of a dollar store, sublime

I feel free

A hero with broken knees

Listen, if you please

This is my testimony

Shouting lyrics from ‘Mony, Mony’

I graduated from a company serf

To a beggar bum

With a melodic hum

Repeated for my friends

Or anyone who will listen

The most important part of this journey

Has come to pass

When I raised the glass

Introspection

Vivid visions

I take this position

Bowed and bent by my circumstance

Meager coins in the pockets of my pants

Yet glad for the chance

To make my stand

A wordsmith

Back at the keyboard

Tapping out words

I would not trade my failed joints

For Green Stamps or travel points

The worst calamity

Is better than surrendering

That which I inherited

The day they said

“Your career is dead!”

A senior, shuffling, in tattered shoes

Where less is more and old is new

The mirror says that time runs slow

But I regained a child’s hope

Inside the gloom of age displayed

I found a gift

Of a better day

Chaucer said “Time and tide wait for no man”

I discovered in failure a better plan

When my legs could no longer stand

Then I had a puncher’s chance

To write the wit

Rise above the bullshit

Here I sit

In my cubby by the front steps

Never to forget

How I walked out of Columbus, Ohio

Far away from my home

Across America, and back again

Careened through careers

With a buzzing in my ears

Of electric guitar

The soundtrack

Of never going back

To the rat race paradigm

I’d rather sit outside

At 39 degrees

The cold aching my knees

While I think up lines of verse

Nuggets of gold in my purse

Disability ain’t the worst

This is a first

My poetic rebirth

Glad am I to live

Gladder still to spin what I can give

Jackery jumping joyfully

Dead I was

Alive I shall be

No longer stuck in a corporate khazi

Thoughts At Large

Long after dark

Wide-eyed

Wistful

Wondering

Junior spy with my decoder ring

From cereal box tops

Sent in the post

I give my most

Nothing else do I know

Look out below

I am a better fellow

With the burned-out embers of yesterday

Left in the ashtray

 

Written on my iPhone SE

“Neighborhood No. 1”

 

c.2020 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-20)

I came here in ‘02
Marriage in collapse
Career teetering like fence rails gone loose
Dangling in the wind
Vibe lost its juice
Working, working
All I could see
Was the yield of long hours locked up at the store
For a wad of currency
Manager title
And the company bible
Rulemaker, rulebreaker
Speeding toward the berm
Right toward oblivion
Unaware
That my feet were on a foundation
Sadly broken
One by one, I lost
Things that filled my heart
Marriage, friends, self-respect
I watched them depart
Through a haze of brew and fatigue
Always certain that working harder
Would relieve my uncertainty
Up late
Always the last to bed
Writing between work shifts
Bobbling like a fish
In the tide
Splinters and broken bones
Saved only by my creative jones
I was alone, but never lonely
Duty kept me occupied
Until at last, the era had passed
Love lost
Work and purpose
My newspaper routine
Real-job responsibilities
For personal gain
Sensible and sane
I could not walk anymore
Lost my place in line
At the grocery store
Sat at home in my trailer
A rural rascal, beard overgrown
Hobbling with canes
No one knew my name
No fool like an old fool
Fumbling with Chinese tools
Nothing fixed
My existence nixed
Stooped amidst the rubble of myself
What I used to be
Facing the cold stare
Of mortality
A brick in my belly
A gnawing sense that the end lay near
If only I wished it here
Crashed and crushed
Visibly nonplussed
Under the bus
Now my journey had ended
Here with other souls befriended
Neighbors, near
Drinking light beer
A group gathered to gape
At the mysteries of modern days
While bonfire flames
Lit the night
Smoking boards gone akimbo
Pop Country on the radio
And conversations of all kinds
This meeting of minds
A blue-collar rant
Over donkeys and elephants
Psychos and sycophants
I was still in my work pants
Shy and slow to join the pool
Alcohol was the fuel
That gave me courage to connect
With this bunch in the boondocks
So I lifted my drink at last
Told a tale from my past
There was silence
The crackle of a broken chair burning
I feared stepping in shit
Yet kept talking
Faces were red
Was it what I said?
The reflection of fire
Lit those eyes ‘round the ring
Someone started to sing
To a familiar tune of backwoods charm
A new friend took my arm
Clinked her bottle against mine
I felt safe inside
For the first time
Bent and busted me
Two canes and my hoodie
Old dog by my side
The self of yonder days surrendered
A pleasant whisper to eternity
Under the stars
Sat out in the yard
No more living in New York
No more trips to Las Vegas
No more courtroom appearances to dissolve my marriages
No more guilt
No more games
No more yearning for fleeting fame
Only my heart remained
Beating tick-tock
Like the crow of a cock
Calling out to the new day
I had found my place
It was understood
When I joined the gang
In my rustic neighborhood

Written on my iPhone SE

Dad’s Whispers

 

From Facebook: Literally had tears streaming down my face while writing this... Where do these words come from? I can’t explain...

C.2020 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-20)

Light and airy
In my ears, today
A voice from yesterday
Yet close at hand
I remember that man
The one who painted my image
With his brush
Gave me a beginning
Colors on the canvas, bright
He framed my portrait in yonder days
With his own hope and faith
A spawn sent away
To grow and play
To read his books
Play the Martin guitar with his melodic hooks
Type on the old Underwood portable
My heart was full
Of love from his heart
A direct connection
Father to son
Vinyl artifacts
Songs in the grooves
I felt so moved
Spike Jones, Chuck Berry
B.B. King, the Carter Family
And Woody Guthrie
But in my teenage years
Overwhelmed by foibles and fears
Away I steered
Looking to the horizon
And a better version
Of who I wanted to be
I proclaimed “This is me!”
Wanted to find myself
Somewhere other than in his shadow
I ran across the meadow
Shouting oaths to set me free
Defiant words
A childish boast
A weak decree
A braggart, bold and brash
I was fed on trash
A foolish, feckless child
Too willing to trade my style
For a handful of weeds
Dad planted the seed
My ultimate ‘he’
His confidence slipped
Just for a moment
Mind to lips
“I can’t believe you’re my son!”
But of course I was
Though not so wise
As the man in my eyes
I was the offshoot
The bear, the wandering brute
With a fiddle and lute
Making melodies long after dark
Even when we fought
We were never apart
Every curse
Only increased his worth
Though I might have a thousand years
Still would I be in arrears
My yardstick
Measured tall
I failed him
From summer to fall
Could never measure up
God, take this cup
Let me flee the reflection
I see in the looking glass
Let this judgment pass
As a kid I complained
As a man, I felt his pain
Realized my guilt too late
As he went away
I watched him die
In a West Virginia nursing home
With my sister
And the staff
Too clever by half
Tears stained my cheeks
Yet I knew in my heart
That though his body had reached that point of surrender
He would never depart
From that day
His voice has echoed
Steady and comforting
Like the sound of a bell, ringing
When I feel lost and lonely
Dad is there with me
Speaking widely
“Son, you must believe!”
And I do
I do
Father, dear father
I am here because of you

Written on my iPhone SE

 

“Mark Lebowitz”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

From Facebook:

Mark was our friend, a bit older and already had graduated from Cornell University and attended grad school. He was about 27 when suicide took him from our circle. Mark was a poet and veteran of local radio. He wrote lyrics for two classic songs by ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms’ which I still remember:

Mark Lebowitz, d. July 29, 1980

Mike Hammer Dead in Black and White

The G-Man said two little words

I looked up and saw a flock of birds

Just an existential dick in a sharkskin suit

I took my way, I knew the route

Who’s in the box?

What’s in the box?

Hammer’s got a cocktail shaken on the rocks

Leopardskin Pandora with a string of pearls

They didn’t tell me she was that kind of girl

I opened the box and burned my hand

Saw Trinity, Los Alamos, and burning sand

I opened the box and it started to glow

Thirty-thousand dead in Ol’ Frisco

Chef of the Future

I’m the chef of the future down in Lodi, New York

My blue-plate special is roast loin of pork

There’s a sticker in the window, says ‘I love New York’

Give that man more silverware, he just dropped his fork

I only wish he had stayed with us longer to offer more wisdom and encouragement.

 

 

Written on my iPhone SE

 

State Diner Rendezvous

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-2020)

January, 1979

I had just arrived from Pittsburgh

Barely 17

Scrubbed with Prell and dressed in my leather

A Ramone alone

Pinned and chained

My parents wondered who to blame

They said I shamed

The family name

So I chose a fanciful label

From ‘The Great Rock n Roll Swindle’

Punk Rock down the block

Motorcycle grease

And shredded knees

On my blue jeans

All on display

At Channel 13

I was the kid

Among students from the universities

They could not see

The fear in me

A child running wild

Abandoned and afraid

Waylaid

Wondering over my identity

Who is me?

In the mirror

Who do I see?

I sought their approval

It made me feel full

Ripped and ragged

Cracked and jagged

Zipped up and zoned out for the day

My scars seemed far away

When the Sex Pistols began to play

Then when the show was done

Guru Henry said we needed a diversion

An escape for food and foolishness

Just up the street

We agreed to meet

At the State Diner, long after sunset

The waitstaff was patient

I was drunk and dumb

Indefensibly young

But not too wild for their taste

They took my order

For fried eggs and steak

Henry talked about our broadcast

An upstart episode of video art

Light in the dark

Our post-production spark

Lit the flame

A firestick waved over the bricks

My head was turning

Like Joe Strummer

Shouting ‘London’s Burning’

I chewed my slab of cow

And thought ‘This is now!’

No more getting the shivers

Lost on the three rivers

I had arrived

Fully alive

On an overnight drive

Into the starlight sky

Watched the TV screen from our table

‘Twilight Zone’ rerun

And me acting like a genius bum

Arguing

Faltering

Foolishly falling out of my seat

The act was complete

I called for my waitress

More coffee, please!

There’s too much alcohol

Inside of me

I needed relief

Something more substantial

To make me feel full

Though I behaved like a star

The truth came out in Henry’s car

A Volkswagen with fenders duct-taped in place

I hid my face

And admitted my unworthiness

I failed the test

He did not judge

My mentor urged me to run loose

He knew the path

That I would choose

A kid from the outside

Wounded pride

Record collection was my protection

Those vinyl grooves

Helped to improve

My spirit, too long ignored

I fell on the floor

While the diner crew took my hand

‘Can you stand?’

I was wobbly and wonderstruck

But blessed by luck

Friends pretended to look away

So I lived for another day

Swindle singer, on stage

I turned the page

Toward a new day

Where music mattered

Where my co-hosts

Spun their platters

Grooves rotate

It was our day

If only I could return again

To the diner, with my friends

I’d order breakfast after midnight

One more time

Written on my iPhone SE

Morning Walk

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

Morning
Rude and restless
Roosters strut and call
Across the eastern flank of Geauga
I pull the covers tight
Wondering about my Tabasco glass
How many times was it full, yesterday?
A check of the bottle
Will testify
But for now
I yield to the sunrise
No need to be shy
Black Lab still slumbering
Cradles a steak bone with his paw
Was that what I saw?
I barely remember the meal
Steak and mashed spuds
Like my order so often was
At the Dinner Bell diner in Painesville
I miss it still
Famous George
In the traditional garb of a chef
I will never forget
My footsteps wake the dog
Still groggy from his dream
Another chew
A head shake and snort
He is ready to walk
Too long left alone after nightfall
I reach for his leash
Hanging on the wall
A gust of the new day brings
A gentle sting
A cool caress on my forehead
Clarity, again I can see
Cold eyes stare at the sky
Contrails streak the blue
Neighbor waking, too
I let my canine friend wander, unhooked
Still ruminating
About the steak I cooked
More thrilling than the taste
Was that memory from yonder days
‘Round the corner, on Bank Street
A place to meet
To dine and delve into the collection
A yesterdaze of things gone away
Of copper kettles, bric-a-brac
Elton John, Zsa Zsa Gabor
Dancing across the restaurant floor
Taxi cab doors
I long to go back
Coca Cola, Cleveland, a stuffed horse
Sticky buns with your main course
And at the front table
Famous George
Large and loud
Gregarious Greek
A smile like Big Creek
Broad and brimming with life
Every visit filled my belly
Every visit put my head right
Wisdom of a common man
George spoke freely
A champion of first-amendment rights
A free-speech delight
His encouragement fed my soul
While his kitchen filled my plate
I cried on the day
That the diner went away
But now, morning has come
Dog walks in the grass
There stands the glass
Empty now
Like my bottle in the cupboard
I offer a gentle curse
Over my coffee
“By goodness name, I feel no shame!”
When my head clears
And the new day appears
I’ll live those memories again
Fork and knife in hand
Firm, I’ll stand, like that giant of a man
Dishes piled on the counter
My heart swelled with pride
A memory that will ever survive
When the bottle goes empty
And I sit in my chair
Feeling sleepy

Written on my iPhone SE

 

December, 1983

 

New York
Finger Lakes, long and deep into the land
Winter winds
I walked the streets in my leather jacket
Defiant
But bent by circumstance
A prodigy in my family
A failure in effect
Wandering, wondering
Cold and hungry
Records here
Guitars there
No home to call my own
Friends fatigued yet still in my corner
Befuddled
Sunk in the mire
Second guessing
As I flopped like a fish
On the beach, out of water
Foolish child
Unaware, all the while
Fighting ghosts
Fighting myself
On the road to hell
I yearned to be free
But the jailer was me
Capricious, taking the suss
We have met the enemy, as Pogo Possum said
He is us
Finally my closest companions
Opened their hearts
To help me depart
From the place that I loved
To the soil of my birth
The place that gave me worth
Ohio
Oh no!
I did not want to go back
Where rednecks attack
Midwestern ministers preach
To those out of reach
And me on my knees
Help this miscreant
If you please
I had no choice
But to ride with Manic Dave
Across the Interstate
Drinking Jack Daniel’s
Smoking Camel cigarettes
Never to forget
That I had failed in the promised land
A fool, a fallen man
Carried away
From my beloved home
Like a Rolling Stone
To the spot where resurrection could begin
In service to the ultimate him
I’ll say it again
“Thank you, friend!”
Though the medicine tasted sour on my tongue
It brought a revival
Like the rising sun
Sparkling, shining
In the sky
Blessed am I
Not today to die
Remembering the bridge on Green Street
Where I lived out-of-sight
Sunburned by day
Concrete cold, by night
Napoli’s pizza when friends would buy
Stretched out under the starlight sky
Wild Irish Rose
All week in my clothes
Dreaming large
My bed was hard
Stone sidewalks and wooden floors
I slept outdoors
Made my family shake their heads
My father cried “My son is dead!”
But then I made an escape
Back to Ohio
Back by the Great Lakes
A boy with broken toys
Making noise
With a Teisco guitar
And a tape recorder cassette
Not defeated yet
I crash-landed back in the green
Far from the artist scene
At Channel 13
Pickup trucks
And fools down on their luck
My wages of sin
Were precipitated by a blow to the chin
I’ll say it again
Manic Bly
Saved my life
With that proffered ride
While I drank and smoked
Back to my Midwestern home
I hated the yield
Yet gave thanks to be dropped
In a cornfield
Sitting on my wheels
Sat still and silent
Head bowed and bent
I have pitched my tent
This is the end
Thank you, my friend

Written on my iPhone SE

“After Dark Review”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

Ten o’clock.

With the seasonal time change in effect and my day shortened accordingly, I sat at my desk on Friday night. A brief interlude on the porch notwithstanding. It was too cold for pausing on my outside perch with a brew for longer than a couple of minutes. I felt banned by the march of falling temperatures. Yet still, I stood up to the fading sun with hope. The yellow globe warmed my heart with its dependable streaks between the clouds. Watching the familiar orb droop low in the sky, I raised my beverage in a toast.

Fire from beyond. Be well, old friend. Be well.

At the desk, my mood was more somber. Not so impulsive as during the reign of summer. Uninhibited by the temptation of alcohol and bonfires. But I drank in fresh inspiration from my Miller Lite. Words bubbled like the liquid grain on my tongue. I tipped the white-and-gold container backwards, and began to compose:

Pop-top can

An aluminum praise for the everyman

Damn!

The great ‘I am’

Watching over

A four-leaf clover

Swivel and kick

This ain’t no carnival trick

I’ll ride the horse

Across the golf course

An alligator

At the department store

What am I here for?

Friends ponder the chase

But I’ve got things to say

Words spit out of my mouth

Like teeth from the maw

Of a son of the south

This is my house

My title bout

Fighting for a trophy

Not claimed since 1983

Can’t you see?

This ghost is me

Wandering across the plains

A new mother with labor pains

Giving birth

To Mother Earth

A woman of worth

More than any pirate poet

Fool’s gold in the gullet

I haven’t given up yet

Spin, doctor, spin

This is the way to get in

Inside, two-speed powerglide

Tan your hide

Going steady

Mickey Mouse says “I am ready!”

On a quest

My S.A.T. score passed the test

Hand over my breast

The judge laughs

“You’re showing ass!”

Foolish boy, playing with toys

What did you expect, a gold star and a paycheck?

Hung by the neck

Bushel and a peck

I rise in the moonlight sky

Like the stench from a pigsty

My, my, my

The dream will never die

But now and then

It comes around again

It’ll flicker like the flame

Of the Raven crowing a beloved name

Lenore, Lenore

What are you asking for?

I got my beer in hand

So strike up the band

I’m the chosen man

With a plan

Chosen one on the prowl

Let the moondog howl

Let the wolves run and howl

In the moonlight

It’s alright

Don’t get uptight

I’m the one, I’m the one

The seventh son

Just having fun

Wild and loose with some Mountain Dew

Koo-koo-ka-choo

Did you really think

That you could share my drink?

Close enough

To swirl in my sweat-stink

Kitchen sink

I’m on the brink

Order! Order!

There are Russians on the border

Step and kick

Commies make me sick

I’m ready for apple pie

And salvation in the sky

America will never die

As long as the stars and stripes

Wave through this night

Fort McHenry

Shrine of history

Hee hee hee

Oh say, can you see?

There’s a glorious light

On the ramparts where heroes fight

Let the cowards take flight

I’ll be here all night!

Miller Lite!

Miller Lite!

Pop-top pundit on the sand

I am a modern man

QR scan

I yam what I yam

Nonsense rhyme spoken to be broken

Dribble, pibble

Played till the end

I’ll say it again

Hear me, friend

I’m a wanderer from another age

A bookbinder who’s turned the page

Lost and lonely

I think of you only

Stone in my craw

And a thorn in my paw

Don’t fear my intentions

I’m too far away for an honorable mention

Beer can

Tricks the man

Toes in the sand

Strike up the band

Bird in the hand

I can’t think straight

With my taste buds bearing the weight

Of pilsner pure, Saas hops and the rest

This thing I kept

Scribbled notes from my driving test

Deep in the family crypt

Like a talisman from Egypt

Magic mortar

Flung across the border

Flying rock

Stuffed inside a sock

Piercing the air

Like the wings of a gamecock

Turn quick and look

Turn quick and catch the hook

This is my book

My scroll, my bible

Preserved in the temple

The hourglass is full

Clock-hands swing from midnight to null

Zero hour

Petals of a flower

Brillo pads scour

On my knees in the sewer

Kabobs on a skewer

Somehow, still pure

You can be sure

This road to damnation

Runs straight into the sun

Fun, fun, fun

I’m the chosen one

Phasers on stun

Katie bar the door

I’m on the barroom floor

Wiggle, wobble, wretch

Here doggie, fetch!

Bring me whiskey

And a key to the city

If you please

What did this rush of prose poetry mean? I could not be sure. Perhaps it was nothing more than the result of beer and Southern Comfort. Or maybe… a visitation of my personal muse. Possibly just the stores energy of many nights when I went to bed without first sitting at my desk.

Whatever the cause, I was grateful.

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

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

 

“The End”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

The Setting: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Oval Office

The Players: Donald J. Trump, 45^th President of the United States; Rudy Giuliani, counsel to the president; Mark Meadows, White House Chief of Staff

The Mood: The morning is somber for everyone in the Trump administration as CNN has just announced that Joe Biden has won his bid to become the next Commander-in-Chief of America. Voters across the nation are loose in the streets, celebrating. Outside, protesters are cheering. Through the White House windows, a familiar Classic Rock epic is booming from wireless speakers.

“This is the end… beautiful friend, the end...”

Donald Trump: “What is that outside? That music?”

Mark Meadows: (Putting a hand to his ear) “It sounds like a song by ‘The Doors’ Mr. President.”

Rudy Giuliani: “The who?”

M. Meadows: “Not ‘The Who,’ I said it is ‘The Doors.’”

D. Trump: “WHAT?”

M. Meadows: “Jim Morrison, sir. He is singing their mystical anthem called ‘The End.’”

R. Giuliani: “The who?”

M. Meadows: “Not ‘The Who’ Rudy, please pay attention.”

From the street, they can hear the late Rock singer offering poetic words in his distinctive voice. “This is the end… beautiful friend, the end...this is the end… my only friend, the end...”

D. Trump: (Angry) “This is not the end, believe me. Not the end of anything, this is the beginning, the fight is beginning. The fight when we win. All I do is win.”

M. Meadows: (Dejected) “Mr. President, Joe Biden has actually won this election...”

D. Trump: (Reddening) “SLEEPY JOE IS NOT A WINNER!”

R. Giuliani: (Shaking his head) “Don, you’ve got to find a path out of this. It’s over. Nobody but Newsmax is on your side. Even Fox News has jumped ship. It’s time to hit the links.”

D. Trump: (Sour) “That’s what I was doing when they reported the fake news about Biden winning. Believe me, Sleepy Joe, Creepy Joe, he doesn’t know how to win. He was never a winner.”

R. Giuliani: (Smiling) “Then it’s time to brush up on your golf game.”

M. Meadows: “Mr. President, leaders around the world are celebrating. They say that the American people have sent a message...”

Through the windows, music continues to resound. “This is the end… of our elaborate plans, the end… of everything that stands, the end… no safety or surprise, the end… I’ll never look into your eyes again...”

D. Trump: (Bowing his head) “Mark, that music is giving me a headache! Very bad, a bad ache in my head. I need a Diet Coke!”

M. Meadows: “I am not a waiter, Mr. President!”

D. Trump: (Frustrated) “What I really need is a better election team. Much, much better.”

R. Giuliani: “Don, we tried everything. They blocked us on Twitter, fact-checked us on Facebook. Wouldn’t investigate the Ukraine scandal with Hunter Biden. Even Rupert Murdoch got fatigued. Call it the Deep State, whatever you like. Sometimes, you have to just throw in the towel...”

D. Trump: (Exploding) “I DON’T THROW TOWELS, RUDY! I WAVE THEM LIKE THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS, WAVE, WAVE, WAVE, WIN SUPERBOWLS, WAVING TOWELS, WINNING, NOT THROWING TOWELS!”

M. Meadows: (Feeling stomach cramps) “Mr. President, we have to tell them something. The news outlets are waiting.”

D. Trump: (Feeling bitter) “LOSERS! FAKE NEWS!”

R. Giuliani: “Don, we are out of time. You have to make some hard choices, like I did on 9-11...”

D. Trump: (Defiant) “My legal team is suing to stop the steal, to stop this sham, this very bad treatment of me, I deserve better.”

M. Meadows: (Sickened) “Mr. President, you need to speak with the American people.”

D. Trump: “I NEED A DIET COKE!”

R. Giuliani: “Don, calm down. This race is over. The courts won’t help you now.”

Through the windows, more rhythmic poetry reverberates. “This is the end… can you picture what it will be...so limitless and free… desperately in need… of some stranger’s hand… in a desperate land.”

D. Trump: (In agony) “I won’t concede. That is for losers, I never lose, never. I only win, winning is what I do every day, winning for America, for our people, for the Republican Party, for my supporters.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, the ballots have been cast. Now they are being counted.”

R. Giuliani: “Like Joe Stalin was supposed to have said, ‘He who casts the ballots means nothing. He who counts the ballots means everything.’ Don, that’s it, that’s the race right there. You can’t keep fighting forever.”

M. Meadows: (Looking serious) “It’s over Mr. President.”

D. Trump: (Enraged) “IT IS NEVER, NEVER, NEVER OVER!”

R. Giuliani: “Don, the wolves are waiting in New York. You’d be better off leaving quietly. Say what you want, make a speech on the balcony like Mussolini if he had been smarter. Then get out. Go to Mar-a-Lago for awhile. Maybe pair up with Newsmax, start your own cable network. You can do your own show if you want. Bring Sean Hannity over from Fox News.”

M. Meadows: (Brightening) “That’s a great idea!”

D. Trump: (Stunned) “WHAT?”

R. Giuliani: “You’ve done a lot, Don. Think about it. Another four years would just be more fighting, more Russia, More North Korea, more impeachment. Let Biden sleepwalk through four years while you go back to being a television star. Kamala has her claws out for him, anyway. You’ll be better off on the air with your own messaging. No more Twitter flags, no more CNN critiques, no more horse poop from MSDNC...”

D. Trump: (Grinning) “My own network?”

M. Meadows: “Whatever it takes, sir.”

R. Giuliani: (Folding his hands) “Feed them a little cacare, Don. Let them have their concession. But then you come back stronger, roaring back. Haha!”

D. Trump: (Wide eyed) “That might just work!”

R. Giuliani: “Heyyy, you want a load of la merda? Okay good, I’ll get that for you. Then raise my fingers when I go prime time. Your ratings would go through the roof!”

D. Trump: (Cheering) “YES THEY WOULD!”

M. Meadows: (Relieved) “I think we have a plan at last!”

D. Trump: (Speaking into his intercom) “Secretary? Get me Christopher Ruddy at Newsmax. We’ve got to talk. I am about to add a new chapter to ‘The Art of the Deal!’”

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

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

“Notebook: November”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

Memo to Self: I am not ready for holiday cheer.

The eleventh month of a tumultuous year. A sight to behold and ponder.

Throughout the first day of November, it was incessantly windy. With leaves and yard debris flying around outside. Clattering against the vinyl siding of my mobile home. Now and then, causing it to shake and shudder as if it might come loose from its concrete slab. Sometimes with the din of hail or storm-driven rain joining in for greater effect. Then, with a sloppy splattering of fat snowflakes, on the deck and driveway. Dropping and dripping everywhere. Melting quickly on the warm surfaces. While offering a taste of the season to come.

Our forecast had been for a storm to blow through as temperatures fell throughout the day. But this process lasted from morning until night. Bending tree branches, scattering trash cans, ripping flags and political banners. My dog was lucky to weigh around 100 pounds. His heft offered some protection during our walks outside. We did not see any stray cats. I reckoned they were hiding under the trailers. My own bulk bent low over both canes, struggling to stay balanced while trudging through the flooded yard. I felt glad when my canine friend was satisfied, at last.

I finished October with a visit to relatives in Hambden. My niece and some of her brood had just arrived from Columbus. It provided a welcome change from the COVID suppression of regular Halloween activities. Then, upon returning home, I decided on a viewing of the oddball film ‘Psychomania’ as part of my traditional routine. A habit started in New York State, around 40 years ago. Ghosts of old friends were nearby as I uncorked a bottle of ‘Rebel Yell’ bourbon and sank into my chair. Watching the wheeled parade of British motorcycles from my childhood. Triumph and BSA steeds, stylish scramblers, high-pipes and all. Ridden by characters clad in traditional leather. Determined to die and come back, to cheat death, to tease and taunt the living with no fear of repercussions.

Memo to Self: I need to buy a Triumph Bonneville.

Every Halloween I watched the movie. First, run late on a station from New York City. Then, on a VHS videocassette. Later still, on a DVD disc. And finally, on YouTube. For that brief interlude, my soul connected with fond spirits from yesterday.

Then, morning brought the shift of seasons. A reset to the reality of 2020 as an age of the Coronavirus pandemic, and an election season of historic proportions.

I had to reset the household clocks, while using my cell phone as a guide for accuracy. Thankfully, these timepieces were only three in number. Friends on Facebook were already posting photos of their Christmas trees. Glistening with the trappings of manufactured merriment. Something that made me flinch. I considered the long journey ahead. Months of snow, frost, ice, short days, and isolation. The sort of thing normally embraced by a loner like myself. Offering extra time at the desk. Time for research and writing projects. Time for experiments in prose. Time for revisiting ideas lost during summer days spent drinking with my neighbors. But I wanted to stay connected.

Memo to Self: I should not drink half a bottle of bourbon in one sitting.

The first day of November began with a full pot of coffee. Surprisingly, I did not feel terrible. Just thirsty. And creaky, as the atmospheric conditions were changing. My weary joints provided a barometer for such things. I could tell even without consulting the Weather Channel app on my iPhone.

I made it through most of Sunday without the gloom of introspection taking hold. Watching football, baking up a tray of Pizza Rolls, walking my dog and straightening the yard. By evening, the ennui had returned. A disabling sense of purposelessness. Nagging, gnawing, angst over my recent bout of writer’s block. Something was amiss. Out-of-whack. Off kilter. Then, I realized the flaw in my day. Two entire sports events had elapsed, without a single beer. I had sat in my chair without ever once reaching for a chilled beverage.

It was a mistake quite easy to rectify.

A cool can of Miller Lite felt good in my hand. Better still, as it poured into my mouth. A refreshing tide of water, hops, and grains. The pop of its metal seal being broken made my dog twitch. He rolled over once, then fell back to sleep. I let the television play, with a match-up of the New Orleans Saints and Chicago Bears. My destination was the home-office desk. A platform for creative adventures.

Writer’s block be damned!

I opened my Libre Office program, and began to type. The blank page filled quickly with words. I was glad to feel the keys under my fingers.

Memo to Self: Remember the advice of Aunt Juanita - ‘Keep your pen moving!’

My Black Lab was snoring. Outside, wind continued to whip my trailer’s skirting like a beach blanket shedding sand. I knew that our trash barrel needed to be rolled out to the driveway. But for the moment, I was busy with a happier pursuit. Hammering away at my keyboard while drinking beer. The seasonal time change made it feel late. But the Sunday night NFL game was only just beginning.

I needed to stay in motion.

Comments about 'Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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