“Reverend X”

c.2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-20)

YouTube

Early hours of a Wednesday morning

Coffee charge clears my head

Of a restless roll in bed

Clicking through results

That quicken my pulse

Reverend X

Street preacher, rough talker

Like a character from ‘Kolchak the Night Stalker’

Self-appointed, God-anointed

A Holy Trinity received

From a Los Angeles street

The gospel sent from Heaven to those below

In this ‘One Man Show’

Vincent Stewart, who are you?

Dancing to Tupac

Lashing out with cane shots

And scripture from the Yellow Pages

Wisdom for the ages

“I come in the name of Jesus” he says

“By the power of the Holy Spirit”

Suited up and double-dipped

Curses fly from his lips

“The Devil is a F-ing liar!”

I know that to be true

But I did not expect

To hear it spewed

In the lingo of lost souls huddled over bottles of screw-top wine

And pockets bare

Tent cities

Politicians proffering pity

Rev listens to a tape

Of Bible verses read aloud

The cockatrice egg

Bringing death

His head down, sobbing

Panting for his breath

Until there is a telephone ring

Callers aplenty, challenging

The gospel that he brings

“I am God and you’re not - Bee-otch!”

I can’t find the button

To make it stop

Repent from the torment

Can’t imagine where the remote went

X chastises the infidels

Banishes them boldly

To the depths of Hell

“I am the law!”

He reserves for himself

This sweat-stained, scarred son

Slinging MFs

Like Samuel L. Jackson

Dancing, prancing

Seemingly stuck in an epiphany

Of Christ coming to Cali

Laughing like ‘The Count’

On Sesame Street

“White supremacist nincom-F-ing-poop!”

Chickens come home to roost

Camo duds

Or a three-piece suit

Sermon on the Mount

Sidewalk sage, stepping out

Let there be no doubt

Reverend X spits through his teeth 

Talks of the sacred scrolls

And the blood sacrifice, complete

Downtown decay

Voice going away

A life gone astray

Cigarette butts in the ashtray

From a follower who heard

This four-letter scripture

Schizophrenic, manic mood

Witnessing to the woeful

He gives us an earful

I’m ready for a bottle

Of Colt 45

“You F-ed up! You know your ass is doomed!”

His voice fills my living room

“You trust in Hell and you’re already in Hell!”

Fingers flip the pages

Lips slip the bullshit

Is he an actor, or a practicing prophet misunderstood?

A wandering whisperer in the hood?

The video stream does not reveal

It only feeds

An appetite from the unclean

To nod off with the television on

A substitute for revelation

“Devil worsipper, you got no excuse!”

Spirit of Truth

“I see you!”

Is there a producer in the booth?

A puppet-master pulling strings?

I scroll through his posts

And ponder such things 

Arrested at the courthouse door

Quoting Matthew Chapter Four

Satan tempts

The Son of God does not relent

Failed fool

Lucifer does not rule 

With fear

Jesus said, “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near”

Vincent vocalizes his belief

In a cocked-up theory

Maybe born of chemical ingestion

And suspect intentions

I know only this

There’s a hook on his line

Like doing the ‘Twine Time’

I want to close my eyes

But there’s a kernel of gold

In that turd

Is he blaspheming the holy word?

Or perhaps sweeping back the veil

For those run off the rails

With lives lost and dreams failed

Evicted, convicted

Detoxing in jail

Does this man with the drunk jive keep hope alive?

Open a sinner’s eyes, when the darkness of death has smothered love and light?

Might a curious fool, so long lost, be moved to look toward the cross?

Past the doped damnation

Past the broadcast of a TV station

Replayed in perpetuity

On the flatscreen

This is the hope I see

From my armchair

Drinking Lite beer

Midweek has arrived

Now long after midnight

I sit with vision

Or perhaps simply, a pilsner delusion

Whatever the situation

I let the alphabet fly

And write

Written on my iPhone SE

“Coffee Clash”

c.2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-20)

Coffee at three-and-a-half

Up early again

Funky and frostbitten

From a day on the porch

Snow on my shoes

Gloves on the beer tube

Lesson unlearned by a younger man 

Like Popeye

“I yam what I yam”

The Professor left me in quite a jam

I’d prefer

To spend my time with Mary Ann

Instead of pondering the point

Of well-laid plans

Coffee before sunrise

Pull down my T-shirt

Rub my eyes

Streaming Phil Hendrie on my device

Still swimming in the lingering night

Pouring a cup of wake-me-up

The taste splits my face

A grin from eyebrows to chin

Last

Lost

Lumbering

Leaning to one side in my chair

Infinity at the edge

A drumbeat from Sister Sledge

Trying to recall

What the Mahavishnu said

I’ve been a poor pupil

Never one to sit in school

Instead learning best on the razor knife

On West State Street

Channel 13

Going live

In 1979

Now, I’m a disabled old guy

But still jonesing for callers on the line

Cheering, jeering

‘High Life’ beering

Young and yobbish

Never cowed by the snobbish sons of fortune

Who counted pocket change

In cut diamonds and golf balls on the driving range

I ran away

People are strange

My Judgment Day

Precipitated a fall from grace

Coffee before wisdom

I sit in my seat

Not fully complete

A pale poltroon

Old too soon

Still on the vibe of a teenage kid

And the things he did

Now I’m fat, failing, and on the skids

Yet strangely content

To write all night with good intent

Syllables of want and need

Like ‘A New York Telephone Conversation’ by Lou Reed

Chugging caffeine

Gratefully

I check the windows twice

To be sure of the overnight

The first hint of daylight

Will cause spirits to flee

And wreck the ragged poet’s dream

So sip the Sungyung carefully

When the sun peeks out

It’s turned to a mug of Maxwell House

Coffee before the day

I’ve gone miles astray

Like a jet with Ford Prefect

Working on my latest project

Writing from my waiting-room chair

Bought at the Cancer Society store

For 1.84

Life was easier to digest

When taken with words in jest

But now my craw is crammed with SPAM

And a trickle from the beverage can

Like ‘The Prisoner’ I am a man

Resigned

Sidelined

Yet feeling fine

Vinyl grooves on the move

Past a stylus, sharp

Orville Gibson

Guitar and harp

Who will discern the table’s turn?

Sounds spun, back to front

Flipped and played

Sides in relay

Coffee before my chores

Remembering the record stores

Churches of collector’s choices

Cheering fools with hoarse voices

Chain-smoking

High-hoping

Looking for that one rare platter

By ‘The Only Band That Matters’

An issue thought to be rejected

Somehow in print

I found a hint

In the back pages of Goldmine Magazine

Somehow I thought my quest for Punk reward

Would last a thousand years and more

But at 59 I’m merely a bore

An odd fellow, out

Telling tales of a title bout

With Ian Dury and Wreckless Eric, falling about

In the days when I drank Guinness Stout

There were no concerns 

Only bridges to burn

A flaming feather

Held up to the herd

Coffee clash with my cache

My script for a biopic

A concrete epic

Written in mud, with a stick

Of how a kid from Midwestern roots

Ended up in biker boots

Then ran up roughly on the rocks

A gamble play to beat the clock

Went face-first into the bricks

Dribbling blood and spit

‘It is what it is’

Through a Tardis flight

Deep in the night

A leap beyond reality

Smack dab, a jib and a jab

Got a stripper on my lap

Paid with heel-stomps and handclaps

I ran off the map

Right from the edge of 70’s glee

To a distant date in history

When my hip was shot

And both my knees

Content to vent my best

In a tome to tease, not protest

A hook for the reader

A reason to return

When time permits

To my season of bullshit

Drinking, drooling

Kid-schooling

Nobody fooling

“Hear what I say, this was the way, back in my day!”

No need to stay

Tip your hat

Move along

Gone it is, my favorite song

‘This Land Is Your Land’

By Woody G.

Thank you friend

For your company

Written on my iPhone SE

“After Christmas”

c.2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-20)

After Christmas by days

Sitting here in a Lite beer haze

Pizza baked and gone

Home team is a loser

The game was a bruiser

Broken up with COVID as the maul

So glad I am for alcohol

Popping tops

A headache that won’t stop

Down down, let me drown

I wear a frown

Loyalty is the death of me

True to my word

Cheater, I don’t want to meet her

I’m a lifer not a leader

Bent by my needs

Not one to languish in ecstasy

I give a cheer

For wings and pizza

And a pitcher of beer

I might be a wreck

But on the crux of a flyspeck

I’ll turn toward the sunset

See the gun-sight, take aim 

A solitary target in the game

A circuit in the mainframe

Loss leader

By my propane heater

Staying warm in the night

While my foes engage in a firefight

Destroy and delight

The holiday has passed away

Santa on his sleigh

Mrs. Claus

With high heels and lingerie feels

My corner looks empty now

Without those evergreen boughs

Snow flakes and potato pancakes

Bring me cheer

But I wish that St. Nicholas

Could tarry here

Dark is the night

On the day after day after Christmas

No one waiting with us

I took the bus

From Painesville to Parkman

Sore to the floorboards

Sad to close the door

On another season of joy

Another encounter with the hoi polloi

I know the clock carries on

But deep in my heart

I wish for another verse to this song

One more happenstance

One more dance

The festive trees make me feel complete

Not so alone

As I am in my home

Pondering the prancing poulterer

With his rack of fowl

And a loosened cowl

Staring straight up into the sky

Fraught with dreams gone awry

Faster, Pussycat

The day after yesterday

Makes me feel less than great

Expired

Bald-tired

Quagmired

Sliding into the ditch

A poor, stupid son-of-a-bitch

Curses cast

Into the distant past

Dunked in hot oil

Wearing a hat of tinfoil

Buried in virgin soil

Fast asleep

With a Yuletide wreath

On the door

Green and red

Colors of the spectrum

A drumbeat and a guitar strum

Alone after the holiday

Why did it go away?

Joy on Earth

A sentiment seldom heard

Except on a day in December

Why not spread the vibe

Like a jacked-up reindeer ride

For weeks and months

Let it rip and run

Fun, fun, fun

Since Father C took the T-Bird away

Rims off, up on blocks

Sweater weather

I’ve never felt better

Quill from a feather

Gonna write me a letter

“Dear disciples of the Arctic shelf

I’m feeling lonely without Noel!”

Lost and laboring

In need of an awakening

Free from the debris

Ready to bleed

Did someone notice the dark of night

when Santa has finished his trans-world flight?

It seems a deeper shade of black

Since Kris Kringle parked his sliding hack

My abode has gone cold

I feel old

Just one more night of Christmas lights

Would cheer and charm

Keep me safe from harm

But that moment has passed

And I sit here

A foolish ass

Raising my glass

Phone on the charger

I wish that it were

So easy to juice-up my jive

Make myself come alive

On this blustery night

Winter wonder

Plans put asunder

Friends six-feet-under

Six feet distant

Above the loam, this is our existence

Masked and tasked

With riding out the storm

Staying safe, keeping warm

Looking at the dark corner

Where my Christmas tree

Stood, so briefly

“Be glad” I say

“Do not mourn that it went away”

Another trip around the sun

A season done

Now it’s onward

To New Year’s Day

Written on my iPhone SE

“Snowbound”

c.2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-20)

Snowed in, contemplating my sins

Failing, falling

An old friend is calling

She wants to repeat

Stories of life by the lake

Her moment of respite

From trudging through shit

Lost on the treadmill of working souls

A pace I no longer keep

This is the postmodern me

Watching Reverend X on TV

Laughing like ‘The Count’ on Sesame Street

Drinking early, sleeping late

Phone home

I sit here alone

Snowed in, it’s happened again

My driveway draped with doom?

No, I’m here in the living room

Writing of my winter solitude

Tapping

Texting

Testing the connection

From author to critic

A scribe most prolific

Fireplace on the flatscreen

Safe from smoke

If I can find the remote

The morning gives me hope

Snowed in, no bourbon or gin

The potion I seek

Is a tale written in Greek

To be quoted by chance

By a writer for an east-coast rag

Casually spun like a Frisbee

Spinning, soaring

An odyssey

Of sailing the seven seas

Battling a pandemic disease

Swinging like Tarzan

From tree to tree

And ending up in Ohio

On disability

Snowed in, away from my friends

Glad for a moment to reflect

To hit the keys is like glorious sex

Words rush in rhyme

Each breath in a cadence

Set before the start of time

Deep in my DNA

A code of simplicity

To the work, to the work

Sing out, son

Let your praise be heard!

Snowed in, stocked up kitchen

No worry over sustenance and snacks

I’ve already packed

The things that I lacked

A cartographers crest

The results of my COVID test

A butterfly net

Other things I forget

Crib notes and mail-in votes

A scratchy patchy in my throat

A glass-bottom boat

Borrowed from Doris Day

A turn of phrase

Left in a locker on the turnpike

With a lucky locket and a railroad spike

Snowed in, my porch is covered again

Silent repose

All week in my clothes

Drinking with a prize-fighter

Another all-nighter

A delight for this writer

Like Tom McCahill driving a ‘59 Ford

Never bored

Pipe-smoking poet at the wheel

Scribbling notes about horsepower and road feel

I’d never get away with this

With a prevailing mood of summer bliss

Thank goodness for the storm that hit

Here I sit

Snowed in, my friend is calling again

She’s a Golden Girls devotee

Thinks my habit is an oddity

To joyfully jot lines of a plot

Seems like madness

Not a personal success

“I like you, you’re weird!”

She laughs while I sip my beer

Phone to phone

Each of us on the wire

Her on a mattress

And me by my video fire

Tripping on a verbal voyage

Turning the page

Lost after the holiday

Snowed in, up to my chin

A prime platter of Plato

A hippie manifesto

Leftover scraps

Street-smart ghetto raps

I fill the early morning hours

With iPhone taps

Banter from the temple cantor

Plucks from a plectrum, struck

I’m a newspaper hack

Out-of-work as a matter of fact

My byline is busted

Been sidelined

But on I write

Through this dark December night

Snowed in, chances growing thin

Fourteen degrees

Debilitated knees

Neighbor praying the Rosary

Out east by the county line

The endurance of my conscious mind

Is tested by a trick from 1969

A remark made in jest

I remember it best

When sat here with the morning yet to arrive

Let the nightbird fly

Snowed in, far from my kin

The yard is a fortress wall

I scale with dreams and alcohol

Distant domes

I see other homes

Shadows sheath the secrets, beneath 

Lift the curtains

Take a peek

There’s a story here to complete

Of priorities that poke

A neighborhood un-woke

Deals and discount days

Cigarettes from the Circle K

I’m glad they stay away

For long enough to compose

A line of verse, a thought to close

One kiss from my muse

One glimmer from the other side of the mirror

A cry I heard

An antiquarian word

Snowed in, flakes falling to the brim

Sunrise is near

My inspiration will disappear

With light at the treetops

This cycle will stop

I’ll surrender this hour, sadly

No longer safe and solitary

Jonesing for jive

Keeping hope alive

I want another ride

On the carousel of pens-in-hand

And the heel-click of marching bands

On this rock, I make my stand

This is my plan

Tonight, tonight

I’ll return to the candlelight

Sit and stare from my chair

With my fireplace, faux, and gifts to bestow

Peering deep

Into the cosmos

I’ve got to know

What comes next

Written on my iPhone SE