Posted in Truth


Just as political scandal is suffixed by “gate ”
music festivals have a terminal “stock.”
There was something almost inevitable about the name
Antarctica – Icestock of course.

It is the absurd vanity of an artist.
every writer knows the world is waiting
practising contentment until….
and every band is certain they are the next Rolling Stones.

Icestock. One day of continuous music.
Straining guitars. Cheap amps. Flat voices.
The bad. The dreadful.  The okay… just
still, everybody has a day job.

A country band, quite possibly the worst ever
the slim dark vocalist attractive and lively
telling stories between songs
making bearable the unbearable
funny, especially the one about the dog.

“Two fellas watch a dog licking its balls
one says to the other
I sure wish I could do that
the second replies
give him a biscuit and he’d probably let ya.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.