riboon

The chip in my father's thumb
tells the world what he is worth
The chip on my father's shoulder
tells me that it is not enough

Fire

When I die I want cremation.
When the spirit leaves this fleshy vessel-
torch it.
I won't miss it.

Hairs singe and recoil;
my fluids bubble up through my pores.
My flesh melts;
my bones blacken.

This world decomposes.
The dead fills land that corn could destroy.
We all hunger for corn,
yet we deny our body's thirst for flame.

Who is so holy that their decomposing corpse should possess land?
Do we lively debtors possess land?
Have our hands harvested and reaped
and sowed life into this godless soil?

Spread my ashes into a million smoker's trays
Sift me into your finest baker's bread.
Throw me over newlyweds
turn a white dress an ashen gray.

Ashes to ashes
Flesh to ashes
My soul escapes, traveling paths of smoke
drifts above our graven yards.

dance

The midday thunder and drizzling rain could hardly hold back our energy. It's not that we were excited for the occasion, more selfishly, we were excited that all of us attended. The church we smoked our cigarettes in front of had once been a corner-building to drive past and ignore. We were here now though, and the once unnoticed house of god was now a place for us to celebrate in sin and rejoice in the fact that we were still winged beings.
The organ began to moan a familiar, strange tune herding our crowd of unapologetic friends within the confined rows of wooden pews. We all looked fantastic. We were sexual and energized in our shirts with buttons and tended-to hairstyles. Our shoes shined and matched our belts, our grins dripped with superiority, invincibility. It was an orgy of gorgeous youth, a shimmering island surrounded by the grimaces of the old. They slapped our beaches with cold waves of wisdom and disapproval but our fruitful trees remained, skirting the sand, out of reach.
The wedding dragged through a series of expected turns, reinforcing the idea of young love, yet shattering them by conforming to age-old standards; formalities present to appease those who wishfully look upon young romance, flattering the patriarchs. We resisted, mocking the tribunal, the back and forth dance, "I do" they say, "I do". Their kiss is a moment worth capturing an infinite number of times. The beauty of the moment is clouded by staggering implications. They will be kissing only each other, until one of them is kissing their assets goodbye. These sentiments are difficult to shake. We retire to the reception hall. The food is there, and some of us have only been looking forward to that.
The food is fatty and delicious. We all eat far past content, confusing our addictions and replacing them. The bride eats and eats, guaranteeing her gorgeous, but all-to-narrow dress a secure place in the closet where it will sit, not bothered by further wear. We are given punch, sweet punch that loses its sugary edge with each pour of the flask. There is something gross and bizarre about a man wiling to dance without any liquid encouragement. The dance follows the cake; the cake goes quickly.
The first dance belongs to the bride and groom. A song, which even on paper would convey a certain disgust, begins to flow cutely from a nearby sound setup. The couple begins to sway back and forth methodically, rhythmically. The scene inspires those with tears in their eyes to begin convulsing, "beautiful... meant for... forever", they weep until their tears are thick like molasses and their skin prunes. Our strong island of youthful exuberance sits in protest. An odd formation alienated, and this is how we sit, and sit.
As the years pass by the dancing couple go through noticeable stages. At one point, somewhat early on, it seemed to finally dawn on him that this song will continue to loop. The feeling of utter and sudden hopelessness must have show on his face because she soon feigned disinterest, staring around the room, distracting herself from his blank stare. I can remember vividly a desperate look he gave at one point, "please, I need you now, I need to get away", but we, in our chairs with our friends, were paralyzed, fascinated, watching and analyzing their slow monotonous dance.
We grew older in our chairs. The couple continued dancing, often indifferent and void of passion, occasionally surprising with bursts of short-lived optimism. This is a slow-dance, a long, slow-dance. Endurance is fleeting, God doesn't allow anyone to cut in, or take a break. Every couple of years one of ours would stand up and join the dance. I can remember when I was ready. It was much later. By now the floor was smudgy and warped from overuse, but we found a small corner that suited us and we began the long grind. It was interesting at first, figuring out where each foot should fall, where the hands should be placed, every so often fingering forward an inch or two, exploring new territories. After years of unending patterns of foot placement some grew tired and weary and decided to sit back down, shamed in the eyes of all. at a point in the time line a group dance was formed. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, but were immediately shunned for being wild and hopeful. Some didn't bother, focusing on keeping their dance interesting and pleasant.
After years and years the routine became a source of absolute comfort. Bitterness and envy showed face, but most seemed to fall into a state of acceptance or catatonic indifference. Old age seemed to drain away the insecurities of youth.
Eventually, inevitably, friends began collapsing dead on the dance floor. This typically paralyzed the remaining partner for a period of time, and we would all mourn, but never fully understand. That is, until the day she collapsed. She fell from my arms and hit the floor with a clap. I twice tried to pick her up and continue dancing, but she was dead and my terror had been realized. Her wrinkles disturbed me now. They never had before, but living wrinkles have a bright fluidity to them; wrinkles of death are grim and disgusting. I staggered around the floor for a day or two, scaring my friends and wishing for the youth that I once had. Then I sat in the chair where it had all begun so many years before. I sat and slowly lost my mind. The grossly cute song was still playing, endlessly droning, but I really liked it that way. I really did.

cicada

After my first entreduction I began calling myself cicada.
I was a ghost. I drifted through space, accessing mental channels as casually and powerfully as the ringing of the dessert buzz. My body vibrated with such attack; my sound resonated deeply, filling what had once been the barren abyss of our new unsettled land.
I am the unseen enemy of casual passers-by. At the foot of my drilling buzz I have caused the collapse of stoic, resilient men, condemning themselves and their loved ones. I am torturous, buzzing, buzzing; I am above you, in the mesquite, haunting, present-yet-faceless. The sun beats us all down, abusing this world with its friendly glow, but the sun only burns your skin, singes your hairs and drys your eyes; I penetrate deep, I massage the folds of your brain with rapid pulsating vibration and electricity until your burning skin becomes your only comfort.
Try to cry in the desert and you'll waste your precious fluids.