c.2020 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-20)
Who is me?
I am he
Drifting through the vastness
Of eternity
A child born with purpose
Detour dropped, to the wolves
Head was hungry, belly full
Look out below
The other children
Threw sticks and stones
But each brush with the dirt
Made my heart grow more sure
Sat at the Underwood keys
Dad’s desk, a safe space for poetry
Writing what I could not say
To the tricksters and teasers
The mocking self-pleasers
Their shoes stood in line
Following the paradigm
“Good God, man!” Teacher exclaimed
“Do you want them to think you’re the Scarecrow with no brain?”
I could not reply
Wishing to die
Jonesing for the comfort
Of Chuck Berry on our hi-fi
Home was the place
Where I felt no fear of looking a fool
No thrashing with the yardstick
Numb-headed and feeling sick
To write and draw
To tell what I saw
Peering into infinity’s maw
Like a voyager veering off vector
At home was my protector
Dad watched ‘Space:1999’
When I was too hurt to laugh or cry
I sat staring at the screen
Glad for his silent company
He tried to tame my restless tilt
To make me ponder sin and guilt
Every word, a lesson instilled
But I drifted out of place
To the craggy clime
Of Alpha Moonbase
Stars and suns and outer space
School notebooks hid my face
An alien child
A foreign phantom
Other kids asked
“Where the heck are you from?”
I trembled and stuttered
Coughed and muttered
Read Edgar Rice Burroughs in study hall
‘Carson of Venus’
Teacher was nonplussed
I had no one to trust
Except for the man
Who led us in concert band
He drove a silver Trans Am
Brought a Queen LP
With ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’
To the class for a treat
He dissected the piece
Most carefully
Praised the lyrics and melodic spray
Of Freddie Mercury and Brian May
For once that day
I felt not afraid
At home I made cassette tapes
As the radio played
Kept the lot in an old shoebox
Along with my own thoughts
Dad’s acoustic guitar
With a speaker taped to the top
Amplified for overdrive
A joyful noise
For a lonely boy
PlayIng loudly
Out of reach
The best ideas came with everyone asleep
I wrote my lyrics at two or three
Dark hours
Provided safety
Who is me?
I am he
Long hair and a beard
At sixteen
An outcast fumbling friendless fool
I wore my leather jacket at school
Teacher said “Obey the rules!”
I did not get the message
Thick skull
Dreary and dull
I dreaded where his plan was headed
A degree in video technology
A safe job in the industry
It only made me want to flee
Running ragged
For art’s sake, instead
I had a vision in my head
Of a life on stage, not begging for bread
The consequences of that choice
Left my father quite annoyed
And put my path into the ditch
“You dumb son of a bitch!”
He would never say those words out loud
No maledictions, no curses
From his mouth
But in his eyes
I saw a dream draw its last breath
What could I expect?
A bullied bum like myself
Strayed too far from the shore
Too unlike everyone before
I finally broke my bedroom door
Hinges hung on the splintered frame
I put on my boots and ran away
Nowhere to stay
No pocket change
An impulsive oaf
Out on the road
Who is me?
I am he
Sixty years to eternity
Still scratching and scribbling in the night
The finished page
Brings delight
Never knowing if I was right
Only that the self I shunned
Fed on Mike Royko
And Hunter S. Thompson
Can be nothing less than free
If I keep writing poetry
Like Grandma McCray
In 1973
This is my legacy
File cabinets full
Give the drawer a pull
Ink stains on my brain
The blood remains
Where I cut myself
Brave and bold
To let the story be told
Before I get too old
Don’t bandage my wounds
Let the prose flow
It’s crazy, I know
But I need to bleed
Need to be complete
Through this act of self-sacrifice
Sitting at the typewriter, up all night
In the morning you will agree
This was better than complacency
I’m still that child you beheld
Come of age, I found myself
Now the strings have sung their tune
I can mediate
Ready to graduate
Call my name from the roll
I surrender my soul
Written on my iPhone SE
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