vacation

here’s to you mr. and mrs. r.c. ribay

poetry

seems like only yesteryear
you wandered on to a field
of tall uncut green
to join us in a game
while wearing your fatigues
thrilled you had fulfilled
your calling to the ROTsomething or other
and hoping for a future

music and poetry
made you dream of
leading young pupils
to find the truths you were taught
did not exist

but you dreamed big and up you went
in status and down you went
in location
from mountains to crime
you found your home

and in teetering on the edge
of destruction found something better
perhaps even smarter
(spit out of harvard afterall)

but i still remember
you asking if i had seen the turtle
you found by the lake
and thinking you vulgar

but friendly
as we toured the scum of the earth
and dreamed of better times
you no doubt
have found.

vocationally i could see myself being a man…

poetry

of edible wooden colored planks
and beaches of white powder sand
of grainy office carpet in brown and tan
and tile of white porcelain
of sunshine without any sunglasses
and eye gouging pain from squinting
of air conditioning, freezing cold bedrooms
and pounds of blankets while fighting sunburn
of mexican, italian, barbeque, pizza, burgers,
and beer, whine, scotch, gin, margaritas

of joy
of rest
of fun

but not so much of fame
i think it would go straight to my head
evening out my clown-esque feet of
10 gallon floppy enormousness
keeping me humble in my inevitable
slow mopey gait

–
p.s.
i’d call it my vacation vocation
and i’d walk tall and straight
proud of my disproportionately dense torso