writing – Page 12 – Kevin Trent Boswell

the ice wars

Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly. 

However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed. 

Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.

they fell like flies
during those six terrible decades
that began in mid January of 2024,
in Portland, Oregon

so much collateral damage
such tremendous loss of life

well… normal, everyday life

so much loss of… balance

power was wrested from the hands
of those who were so accustomed to
having power… in their homes
chariots lost all control,
crashing into each other like rams;
suicide bombers, without any allegiances,
taking out street signs,
and Toyotas

actually, it wasn’t quite
six decades,
I guess it was more like
six years?

but that hardly matters

when such senseless devastation
falls on a place,
the clock itself is killed in action

no one even recalls
what started the wars

one day, it was brother and sister,
neighbor and friend
and the next, it was bedlam, chaos

colorless blood ran freely in the streets
and froze into gruesome, solid,
white sheets of gore; winter’s guts

it all happened so fast,
there was no time to question
why, how, or when

there was only enough time
to react, to fight for one’s life,
flailing on the battlefield,
in mortal combat,
man against nature,
warrior against warrior,
chariot against chariot

no wonder it felt like
such an eternity

it is easy to understand how
we thought it was six years

although, I was just reminded,
it was only six months, not six years

still, it’s reasonable to assume
that it would be simply impossible
for so much carnage
to occur in only six months

so many frozen toes, cold fingers,
and other numb appendages

brave combatants,
slugging it out in the trenches,
trying to catch one of the
few buses that were still running

the psychological impact,
the mental anguish of having to
leave fallen comrades behind

“Man down!”

war is truly hell

so many work hours…
gone, forever

never to be made up through overtime

so many delivery orders
that never arrived

there are no memorials
in the town square,
commemorating the fallen heroes

there are only pools of slush
and tears

and the slow efforts of healing
struggling to bloom,
like the first buds of a spring
that has yet to arrive

healing the wounds of the body is easy

hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa,
and bandages for all the minor cuts,
sustained out on those unforgiving,
frozen killing fields

many battlegrounds
have yet to be cleared

Burlington, Thorburn,
Burnside, and 72nd Street,
all littered with destroyed vehicles,
fallen trees and power lines

all icy remembrances
of the horrors of this past
six weeks of war

the human body
is amazingly resilient

the physical frame
can regenerate lost tissue,
skin that was mercilessly
ripped from innocent flesh,
as brave soldiers engaged in the fray,
a torturous melee against
the territory itself,
and every previously mobile thing
that had suddenly become
a permanent fixture of the terrain

yes, the body bounces back quickly

the healing of the mind, however,
this is a slower, more subtle, and
more painful process

one must confront the awful memories,
the flashbacks, the nightmares,
of waking up and realizing that
there would be yet another morning
of snow and freezing rain,
and temperatures
that only rarely and briefly
climbed above freezing

even now, Portlanders are struggling
to come to grips with all of it,
the mindless, opaque fog of war

some are still huddled in corners,
entirely overdressed,
certain this is only a brief ceasefire,
terrified that, at any moment,
the temperature will drop
by thirty degrees, and the
flurries will begin anew

these snow-shocked veterans
of the Oregon ice wars
are suffering terribly,
post-traumatic stress disorder,
mild head injuries, scraped elbows
and skinned knees,
all these poor limbs, slammed down
hard onto the slab of the division of wartime;
somewhere down on SE Division Street

these wounds are not only of the body

these wounds run deep
into the collective psyche
of all who were here
and bore witness
to the atrocities

humiliation tortures,
crimes against humanity,
or at least against the ego,
forced participation in farcical ice follies,
persecution techniques of the enemy,
methods that most definitely
do not conform to
the Geneva Conventions

the victims will have to face
that long road toward
reopening all the roads;

reconstruction could take days

everyone will have to agree
to lay down their arms,
so they can take off their heavy coats

they will need to let go of their grievances
against the inconveniences
of such widespread conflict

they’ll have to band together,
setting aside their differences,
and their snow shovels

they must remove the war spikes
from their winter boots,
and finally come together to heal;
probably over a cappuccino,
or possibly an imported lager

because, while the bitter memories
are still all too fresh, and the bruises
on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender,
we must accept that now,
the war is, in fact, over

it is time to forgive,
to put aside our petty differences

it matters not, which side
of the Max Line you were on,
when the hostilities first began

now, there are no more
white, frozen lines of scrimmage

or, at least, any that remain
should be gone by tomorrow

it is time for Portlanders,
and indeed, all Oregonians
to remember that they are kin

never mind that each
is as different from the next
as frozen night is from snowy day,
that no one can agree
on the right wine to serve
with which dish, or which
aperitifs and canapés
to serve with brunch

still, they must strive to remember
that they all live together, in the great
State of Oregon!

let there be peace now and forever

sit, side by side, at the fireplace,
share your stories with one another

help one another work through
the trauma and heartbreak
of the ice wars

maybe don’t sit by an actual fire,
like, in the actual fireplace;
I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now…
so, maybe just a nice sweater, and
a scarf or something

but, you know… some tea, or coffee,
and the love of your fellow citizens,
citizens of this great territory,
all of who lost so much
in these horrendous
six weeks of…

come to think of it…

it really was, now that I think about it,
only about six days,
or something like that

but, anyway…

whatever

it was a grim,
burdensome trial by fire,
you know, that weird, burning sensation
that you get, when the only
exposed parts of your skin
are being dragged by gravity
across the white, rock hard
and razor sharp wasteland,
somewhere along
the front lines of César Chávez

it’s so weird that you’d feel heat,
being raked over ice like that…

but I digress

the message here is unity,
peace, healing, and
starting anew

let the insufferable nightmares
of those six awful days begin to recede
days of ice, calamity, the inability
to receive any type of deliveries

let these horrors
finally be buried in the past

it is now time
to bury the ice scraper

to begin treating one another
as neighbors, once again

the war is over

well, don’t actually
bury the ice scraper,
because we could
potentially get another
brief cold snap at some point,
but you understand
the metaphor

go now

go in peace

there are restaurants to eat at,
coffee shops, where baristas
will serve you hot beverages,

there will be packages
waiting at your doorsteps
when you arrive
home from work

and, all will once again
be rational and sane,
just as it was

before the
ice wars

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

catch basin

everyone is bleeding

there aren’t enough buckets,
bowls, pitchers, empty bottles,
or old soup cans
to catch it all

it doesn’t matter
that you don’t see them bleeding

it doesn’t matter that most are
wearing clothes that aren’t stained

it doesn’t even matter
if many of them are smiling

because, they’re all
hemorrhaging

inside or out

every last one of them

especially the ones
who don’t know
they’re bleeding

most especially
the ones who
swear they’re not

there aren’t enough
doctors, nurses, or
old women with
needles and thread

to patch them all up

there aren’t enough mops,
sponges, towels, or old t-shirts
to soak it all up

we have come to accept
the state of things

we are goldfish

goldfish
who swim
in a bowl
of blood

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

mishegas

the ice is on fire
bumper car gridlock
in the house of eternal glaring mirrors

roller derby queens in the mosh pit

dire, splintered rose of morning,
flush from the recent triathlon,
scoops tainted blood
into the shoes of passersby,
snagging their throats
with treble hooks of laughter,
inappropriate sympathies,
and an unreasonable sense
of doubtful kinship

chuffed to be chaffed,
lampooned, stranded, laid bare,
out on the hard, white, diamond beach

all fat and blubbering;
every bit as distressed
as a snow covered bear trap,
whistling a lullaby

the panting team of dogs,
recovering from their labors
at the front end of the long sled,
lined with the tusks of sea lions,
the hides of wolves and polar bears,
full of provision pouches,
stuffed with the fat of seals,
the jerked meat of horses and sheep,
the oil of whale fat, lamps
with tinder, flint and steel,
maps and spyglass

come what may,
take all comers,
oh come, all ye
entirely too faithful
in thy selves
and thy surety

when the steps to the kingdom
are many, and fraught with
the myriad challenges of the pale rider

footfalls in the tundra are
rarely heard farther than a few links

panicked and labored breaths
go not much more than a perch

hysterical screams, pleas for help,
these fall under the brutal
gales of blustery winter,
after not more than a chain’s length

and, hope, that frail desert flower,
it seizes up in the fierce cold,
after but one or two barleycorns

the unhinged advice
of prairie-mad soothsayers,
tolling on, cracked bells,
silly, cocky and cockeyed songs
of ignoring advisory cautions

repentance, penance,
cold forgiveness,

touched in the head,
white-bearded archons,
flat on their backs and somehow
flush with the skyline

gossamer wisdoms,
stitched singly, haphazardly,
threaded with baby’s breath
and prideful schemes of humanity,
pining after such translucent
and diaphanous tales
as freedom and solidarity

thimbleful of knowledge,
bottomless well of thirst

finding servitude
at the feet of the hard,
white, glass god

coarse altars of lead,
chalcedony, hematite,
heliotrope, and smoky quartz

the spilled inner workings of
snow dusted pigeons,
drizzled over wreaths of holly,
mistletoe, and amaranth

peculiar characters,
etched into collar bones

sequences of numerals, names,
and pictographic metaphors
of violent inundation

it is sometimes possible
to pilot oneself spritely
through the tiny cracks
in the walls of elemental fortresses

although, it is necessary
to be infinitesimally small

slight enough to seep in
through the inconspicuous
spaces between nucleus,
proton, and electron

the guards there
demand steep tributes
of outlandish bribery

otherwise, they will allow
a foreigner to pass, unabated

most would-be breakers
of the firm law of covalent bonds
fail to remember the signs,
and passwords,

they perish in surprise,
taking the slow slide
down the fireman’s icicle pole,
expiring on tempered lengths
of bastard steel

tumbling down,
all Raggedy Ann,
on the intolerant,
vengeful Nordic coastline
of Hagalaz and Isa,
Hail and Ice,
the penalties of cruel Thuriaz

blisters are cells of memory,
connective synapses of
recollection, the mysteries of how
horses and fresh lambs drop,
all nimble and precocious,
right from their mothers wombs

this, while the purview of warriors,
kings and commoners,
despots and derelicts
is a nearly hobbled state
of tardy incapacitation

hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons,
little more than strips of bark
and thick switches and kindling

captured, helpless,
in thatched barracks of straw,
bundles of linen, and
distracted into oblivion
by sparkling colors

lower beasts,
nearly ready for the long journey
at the first hour and breath

the armies of men,
stumbling along immense
assembly lines of careful speculation,
as with the construction
of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms

dashing to and fro, for a few
handfuls of fitful days,
and then, flopping down,
all useless and dead,
onto the ivory floor of cathedral,
lapsing into comatose stupidity,
before the misty-eyed gentry,
all aghast and agape
in their cemetery processions

garlands and banners,
horns, and other things,
all about as useful
and as sensible as
fistfuls of frozen rain,
hurled at bloodshot eyes,
in a farcical effort
to turn back the sun

casualties of winter
casual business,
and other synonyms for
meshuggeneh

there is nothing here,
except razor and concussion

there was little else,
before

there will be so very much more,
after all the pages in this calendar
finish collapsing,
and the scorpion chicks
hatch in the spring

Medusa’s brood,
arising from pockets
beneath the deep sea

haloed gypsy birds
dance ridiculous jigs
of rain summoning

the rain, overzealous,
violently stabs the messenger,
plucks out the beans
of its collaborators
and benefactors

every catapult
needs a good story
to tell at parties

it breaks the stalemate,
gets strangers to drop their cards
below line of sight; defenses,
all poesy fall down
in the fireplace
ready for the singeing,
jousting steer of the brutal,
searing poker, and throttled
by the iron callousness of
the black bands of weighty tongs

each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat
flutters briskly through
the epistemic landscape,
with great and needless fanfare;
cones of pine, juniper, and spruce,
arriving, on schedule,
in crisp, popcorn condition,
and announcing their candidacy
to throngs of disinterested
piles of wanton ash
and charred corpses

even if the pellucid cloak
of the frigid undertaker was not
already draped unceremoniously
over the frozen casket,

the bleached fangs
of a ravenous, predatory spirit
of long forgotten murder
is already snapped
halfway through the femur

rigor makes it silent house call
and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready,
or prepared just right

and it just so happens that…
all the tea fell into the fishing hole,
beside that steep ravine,
about three furlongs back

no one is
going back
to retrieve it

in point of fact,
no one is
going back

the infamous baby blues
of the orthodox reaper’s gaze
are nothing but fishwife tales,
windblown, fanciful stories
for the antsy sprats

no, only the empty chasms
of endless black sockets
are what comes to collect

it is pittance of a sacrifice of time
a brief stop off,
the breadth of a wink and a nod

the somber, noiseless driver
barely slows the funereal sleigh,
little more than a knot or two

just long enough to
drop off a carcass
to the butcher
at central weigh station
at the junction of nowhere
and anywhere

a nameless parcel drop point
in a never ending whiteout of
dusty white sepulchers of
bleached curtain stillness
naught, added, heaped upon
still more naught

waiting endlessly
at the barred gateway
above Davy Jones’s Locker,
that impenetrable doorway,
never to open, frozen fast
by an ancient curse,
cast by a race of creatures
who no longer dwell in these parts,
and hence, it cannot be undone
or broken

there is only stillness

there is only the
prone slumber of waiting
for the cessation of
that which ceaseth not

beneath the pallor of this
unsympathizing row
of colorless manacles,
fastened to illusory,
two-dimensional jailhouse walls,
wandering, listless,
between the vibrant universes
of the living and the
stale, crumbling patterns
of the unknown dead

there is the sled captain,
who stands high, at the whip,
and then, there are the dogs

there is the eternal fisherman,
and there is a lifeless stringer
of salmon flavored icicle pops,
trailing in the terminal waters,
behind Charon’s skiff

in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland

and, any trace of
once beautiful mystery,
now stripped away

laid bare
before all
and none,

no more
gray shades
of lingering doubt

as to which one
is which

truncated thermometers

my harpsichord needs new spark plugs

there’s a little too much play
in this troglodyte toggle switch;
it’s randomly going on and off,
and that could mean that
no one at all is going to get hurt

I went halfway around the world,
just to change your mind,
turn it all around,
and go the rest of the way homeless

I stopped being witty and cute
about five and a half hours
before I ever got started

horrific crash,
a dust bunny in the corner
slammed into me, head on,
and I nearly died

when I say that I’ll
wake up again tomorrow
and carry on as usual,
no one ever takes these
threats of self-harm seriously

a good scouring scourge
is a healthy part of any
unbalanced individual’s therapy;
I recommend you go on Tuesdays,
between the hours of midnight and
fathomless apathy;
ask for Tomás

embracing the barn owl’s lofty promise
was always a noble goal;
if we’re talking about the goal that is
that precious few inches
of golden airspace
between your drunk friend’s fingers,
in which they present you
the priceless opportunity
to hit your paper football through it

back into the lab,
to draw up new schematics
for sucker punch melody grinders
and rambunctious shades of taupe

the widget blueprints were leaked;
the balloon factory obviously has a mole

every single bit of this
was somehow even better
than the other one that you
weren’t paying attention to, either

the pretzel grenades will
make short work of our adversaries;
short work that will malinger
through the frenzied millennia

even now, in this
early phase of the campaign,
our garden gnome mercenaries
are gathering reconnaissance
and torturing the water hose
for useful information
about that twig over by the fence

let’s synchronize our watches
we’ll reconvene at eleven hundred hours
to plan our assault on
that blueberry cheesecake

to imply that there’s some potentially
better use of our time and energy
is an offense punishable by
not being offered a slice
of cheesecake

that’ll teach those bastards

in the meantime,
I have hired a new duende,
and we can trust that
all the the arrangements
will be handled appropriately

our schemes of passive conquest,
followed by a bit of relaxing seppuku
are quite safe within its capable,
razored claws

tonight’s humiliation is the epitome
of postmodern junkyard chic;
I like mine sautéed with garlic,
onion, mandrake root, capsicum,
wolfsbane, and a pinch of dill

de rigueur new wave infatuation
folds up nicely, and tucks away neatly
into the furnace

these feral scarecrows
wander through the violet patch,
looking for windbreakers, opium,
and elusive moments of quiet,
inspired slaughter

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell — Available on Amazon

on the cutting room floor

I had to rewrite this piece
several times

it was too long and rambling,
overflowing with rancor and bitterness

it was leaking a sour,
rancid disappointment,
born of the painful
revelations of meeting
the real you

what’s there
when no one else
is watching

so, I had to scrap some of it
for the sake of good editing,
and mental health

it’s better to simply
move on
focus on more pleasant
and important things

this

is all that
remains:

there is
nothing
behind
the curtain

nothing
at all

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roads

once, the roads all lay
wide open before us,
turning in hundreds of
different directions,
taking people on magical journeys
to numberless destinations,
along magnificent trails
of gorgeous scenery

yes, there were always
a few dead ends, here and there, but
one could always
turn around

you could backtrack,
without experiencing
too much anxiety
over lost time

you’d happen upon
interesting choices,
unmarked intersections,
where there was
no signage
to help you navigate
your way

it was all
up to you

choose your own adventure,
twist-a-plot, flip a coin,
“eeny, meanie, miney, moe;
my mother told me this way…
and you… are… not… it”

and so, you’d set down a path,
with guesses, hopes, and fears,
but no real way of knowing
what was up ahead

it was all an exciting gamble

you might meet your death
but, you might find treasure,
fame, or perhaps,
unravel a mystery

“once there was a way
to get back homeward.”

see? Paul knew the deal.

but now,
the roads have all
narrowed

many of them,
if not most,
are blocked off |||||
completely impassible

storms have knocked down trees,
barring the way

some roads are blocked by protesters

many streets are just
too full of potholes

you can’t drive down them without
wrecking your vehicle

all the roads,
even the dirt ones,
are littered with toll booths,
every half a mile

insane fees extracted like teeth

the “protection money”
extortions of gangsters
looks like chump change
in comparison;
third-graders,
threatening to beat you up
for your milk money

half the available highways
have fallen too far into disrepair;
you can’t walk down them,
for fear of stepping in a hole,
breaking your ankle

of the remaining roads,
those still open and drivable,
the traffic is maddening

each thoroughfare
congested with vehicles,
all belching exhaust, and
piloted by madmen,
caught up in the throes of
full blown road rage

too many cars,
even though the travelers
on all of these roads
already know…

there’s nothing
at the end
of any of these highways;
nothing they’d actually want,
anyway

the obsession is no longer
“where are we going?”

it’s now
“how long can we keep driving,
before we run out of gas?”

we no longer worry about
how long it will take us
to get there, because
we know…

there’s nowhere to go

now, we just try to lose ourselves
in the experience of the drive,
desperately trying to forget
why we ever got into the vehicle
in the first place

we no longer
ask ourselves why we
even have a vehicle

such questions would only
cause us to think about
what is at the end of these
endless roundabouts, and
dirt paths, running through
fruitless orchards,
as far as the eye can see

asphalt and concrete
conveyor belts,
mindlessly herding us
through the turnstiles
and metal guide-rails
of urban slaughterhouses

what was so important?
that we had to build these
heartless machines?

pay all these tolls?

deal with all these
crazy people,
rudely plowing ahead
in all these ugly boxes?

and, more importantly,
if whatever it was…

isn’t even there,
anymore…

then,
why the hell
are we still
out here?

why are we
still on
these

tacky footpaths,
made of gauche steppingstones,
leading only to the madhouses

these dry, dead riverbeds
where five out of every ten tankers
are beached, or rudderless

three more of them are sinking

and one more has been pulled over,
by the police

only one out of every ten vessels
on our peculiar, asphalt rivers
is in good working condition,
and sailing on nicely

and, even that one
still lacks any sense of
where it’s headed

what fever is this,
that overtakes us,
compelling us to pursue these

godforsaken
freeways
of the damned

infinite trails of
tamed wilderness
that lead to
absolutely
nowhere

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell