Ashes to ashes, funk to funky. I’ve never really thought about what those Bowie lyrics mean, but as I age the ashes have begun to appear here and there. They’ve been getting cremated, them, those people, the ones I used to know. My geometry teacher from high school, that dad who drove carpool years ago, my old girlfriend’s father. Usually men go first, into the ceramic vases, urns, boxes; some permanently placed on mantles, others spread in oceans, on mountaintops, even on golf courses. Dead in walls, in graves, in the sky, blown away, everywhere, nowhere. Morbid, I know, but the wheel of life turns and we all get cast off the ride. No more popcorn.