Lantern-Flies
Spring has sprung, and you know what that means.. Spotted Lantern-flies.
That’s right! The invasive insect we all know and love.. to squish. Experts say a brood of unsquashable proportions will soon be descending on us. Here's what you should know..
Nymphs begin emerging early May from egg-masses like this one on the side of an Ash tree, here in the median of Illadelphi Avenue.. What is that shit? Look like a bear wiped they ass on the tree. The well camouflaged masses resemble a smear of mud— Ain’t no bears here stupid —and can be found on a wide variety of surfaces— Well, who been whipin’ they ass on trees? —including: lawn furniture, discarded mattresses— Yo somethin’ commin’ out of it.. —dilapidated buildings and vehicles, shuttered schools,— Look like little aliens —rusting industrial infrastructure, used-syringe receptacles— Erybody expected them to invade from the sky, but what if we was wrong? —temporary homeless encampments, plywooded storefronts tagged blm— What if they come hidden, in just one bears ass, smearing these shits, all around the earth.. —etc..
Muhfuckah, you dumb. Yo Zeis, check this out! Ain’t these them little spotted bitches they always talk about on the news? How they called?..
Lighting his baby cigar, the Squeegee Boy known as Zeis will blow out a plumb of smoke and glance over; he will watch as the blooming nymphs take the first rays of light through their diaphanous bodies, uncoiling their antennae to the world.. Yea don’t fuck with them, he will say, flicking closed his Ace-card zippo.. The light above the intersection will turn to yellow..
Lantern-flies have a preference for declining American cities, which they cohabitate with a variety of species, including the endemic Homo squeegius—which will go on to clean their splatted carcasses off the windshields of idling cars.. Save them Karen’s for me. Shorty, you take that chromed-out Suburban; they gonna treat you right. Wait and see..
For whatever reason, the squeegee boy known as Zeis is the money-holder here at the intersection of Osarseph & Illadelphi. Sir, did I not just provide you a service? Together with crew, Zeis services the herds of Motorist which pass daily along these well-established migratory paths— oh you gonna ignore me? —removing urban detritus and insect c— Yo! I SEE YOU! (dude think he’s invisible in his gray Volvo, LX.) Excuse me Sir.. —carnage from their—Sir! —windshields; an arrangement known as cleaning symbiosis.
Look at me, motherfucker!..
The Motorist is a hermetic class of creature, which forms an exoskeleton of steel, glass, and rubber around itself in order to pass swiftly and without too much discomfort through the hood (with special care taken to avoid the squeegee of Zeis— Yeah, I know.. you wanna keep allll your money.. —who specializes in penetrating this rigid armor.)
By exploiting the presence of stoplights— You got kids? —and by subjecting the Motorist to his generally-unsettling presence— No? Well I got three *raising digits to illustrate* —Zeis is able to slip through their formidable blind-spots, thereby accessing the soft— but a financially sensible muhfucka like yourself —pale,— you’ll prob’ly just never die —underbelly— ..Prob’ly just go on living, forever..—of their (unspecified)-guilt-complexes.
When performed successfully, this squeegee hustle is able to extract small quantities of console change and the occasional wad of sweaty bills from icy-cold terror-stricken hands. Oh, now you gonna swat at me with your wipers? ..It is a narrow niche on which to subsist; but one for which nature could hardly produce a more suited occupant.. Do it again. DO IT AGAIN. *menacing stare* ..See if I don’t rip them shits off..
But it appears Zeis has just landed a $20 bill. Chomping his baby cigar he bares his teeth in a menacing-yet-triumphal gesture known as smiling.. And they hated every second of it..
A job? Zeis doesn’t much like that. But he has far too much pride to beg. And so, he does this.. He is very good at it. Sometimes they accuse him of watering down his mix, but it’s not at all true; this is 100% ShineFine, never cut with more than 50% piss—a highly effective cleaning solution. Zeis prides himself in the speed and precision of his technique—the practiced strokes of his squeegee rarely leave any perceptible blemish. Once in a while he is even rewarded for these efforts, but Zeis don’t care so much about that. He has even been known to refuses compensation, out of pure contempt! See, Zeis likes what he does. He gets paid in the squirming-unease he provokes. He gets satisfaction by the reluctant-reckoning he exacts.. bestowing discomfort, upon the too-comfortable creatures of this world.
Among the many species that frequent this thriving intersection one may observe heavily tated-hipsters w/ (eyes rendered inscrutable by) mirrored-sunglasses—a defensive measure meant to affect the non-cooperative gaze of previous evolutionary stages.. Also common: hype-beast yoga-moms whose beyonce-sing-along sessions fall rapidly to silence when in Zeis’ disconcerting presence, often accompanied by the quickening of hands to cell phones, or the inspection of make-up in visor mirror—a strategy describable as ignorant self-absorption. Here again: aforementioned Volvo-driving tight-asses who—despite a pretense to not having money—have plenty of money.. not the smallest sum of which could they ever bear to part with—an adaptation which seems to be predicated on a belief that by retention of inordinate sums, for as long as possible, they will, somehow, not die.. And, finally, less common but no less welcomed: nice older ladies who remind you of your grandmoms & who are just happy to see you out here doing something positive—i.e. something other than slinging dope..
Yooo, Suburban dropped a hundo on us!!
Told you.. Zeis will nod to the Suburbaned OG—a prosperous species which likes to share its ill-begotten gains with young bloods tryina come-up the right way.
That’s all you. Put that right in your pocket; don’t show nobody.
Though it may appear otherwise, Zeis’ aim is not to harm or predate on the various client species that pass his intersection. On the contrary Zeis has fond feelings for them (even that dude in the Volvo). He simply wants to show them, if only a bit more clearly, the reality of this world they live in. For, of the many and varied species that pass under Zeis’ squeegee, the main breakdown is this: some see him, and some won’t.. Coincidentally, at these early stages, very few take notice of Spotted Lantern-flies.
Within a few minutes—carapaces rapidly hardened by the air—the newly born nymphs have gone from opaque to a glossy black, dotted with optic white spots; they have achieved 1st instar; the first of four immature stages through which a Lantern-fly must proceed before reaching adulthood and gaining wings. A few millimeters in length, their chief defense at this stage will be their inconspicuousness. During these adolescent stages mobility will be restricted to walking, jumping and hitching. And, though hazardous, hitching onto one of these larger creatures may well be a nymphs best bet at reaching suitable environments in which to have any sort of life..
Yo Zeis, you heard ‘bout that squee boi on South St. who got a huge payday, few years back and disappeared? I heard he moved his moms out the hood; got her a house on the beach.. One day I’ma buy my moms a house. —Squeegee boys are prone to dreaming, and often pin their hopes on such unlikely occurrences, or the rumors of such. Howbout you Zeis? What would you do? I mean, what would you do if you could do anything.
Zeis has never thought about it before.. Hmmm, he strokes his chin; gazes through the fabric of the world for a moment; tries to see himself, somehow-else. A fuzzy image develops; Seems just about to open his mouth and give form to it.. But, instead, issues the traditional exclamation of a squeegee boy whose foot has just been, unexpectedly, run over by a car: AhhhhhhhHHh COCK!!! —H. Squeegius is known for its mercurial temper and random outbursts of profanity— Muthafuckah just ran over my foot!!
You OK man?! —an armorless, but highly-mobile creature known as an Uber Delivery Boy will often stop to assist in these instances, setting their bikes against trees with egg masses, where Lantern-fly Nymphs will proceed to climb aboard. I saw that; fucking assholes! —Uber-boys will shout in disapproval toward fleeing traffic. You needa go to the hospital bro?
Yea! I do! But I ain’t gonna; pss, I ain’t got no insurance —Zeis will try to stand, eliciting another profane outburst..
Here, take one of these —well-meaning Uber-boys (wearing a highly conspicuous tie-died shirts) will sometimes offer as consolation a little white pill.. It’ll help with the pain,‘till you can get to a clinic or something. And— Fuck me, —injured squeegee boys will reluctantly assent ..gimme that shit. I’ma need a stick to lean on if I’ma get home. Yo, my man! Thank you
Peace dude —well-meant Uber-boys will say, as they ride off..
♦
Though it might look harmless, Spotted Lantern-fly (Lycorma delicatula) is the most destructive invasive species to enter the US in over 150 years. Infestations are currently confirmed in 41 counties in the eastern states—but will eventually spread to every viable corner of North America, which none of us can do anything about.. Always inspect your vehicle and cargo before crossing the ever-outwardly expanding line of quarantine.
Lantern-flies are clever hitchhikers at all stages of life. Vectors of spread may include, trailers, rail cars, wood products, and this white boy’s bicycle, as he pedals furiously through the curls of smoke issuing from smoldering fire-pits of recently evicted squatters camping on Ridge Ave.. The hood is hazardous for Tie-dye-shirted Uber-boys: broken glass and half-eaten chow meins discarded willie-nilly in the street: thugs tearing-ass down narrow corridors: this pool of vomit.. Nobody got bicycle etiquette in the hood. And bike lanes? psss. Ridge Ave is the worst; confusing-ass 45 degree, triple street intersections with patchy, pot-holed asphalt and animated winos spilling off every bodega corner.. a real widow maker. But it cuts right to where Uber-boys need to go, and they gotta hustle if they wanna get this curried-goat and 3 steaks up to Orange Mansion, and into the arms of some Non-tipping Shithead, before the allotted time. This is just temporary of course. Uber-boys have big dreams. Like being screen-writers. (They wrote a screenplay [which is currently being optioned] about a giant bird that terrorizes Andean villagers and eats their children; a metaphor for how the IMF and World Bank cripples third world countries [..in the end it is only the children who have the courage to go to the nest atop Mt. Moctezuma and overthrow the eggs of tyranny, but, of course, CAR DOOR]) ..Lifted Crown-vics, on gleaming chrome rims, wrapped in Cinnamon Toast Crunch advertising will sometimes door daydreaming-uber-boys, depositing them on the ground in heaps, curried goat juice leaking down the smalls of their back as they lay semi-conscious beside still-spinning tires of mangle bikes.
Fuck yoOO!! My door! This shits a lease! the Drivers of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cars will often say, stepping out from their hyper-extended doorways to assess damage. ..Yo, you alright tho? they will eventual ask, before throwing trashed bikes with hitchhiking Lantern-fly nymphs up on sidewalk and dragging dazed Uber-boys off street—offering as consolation two boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as propping for concussed head. Ambulance is on its way! Hang tight homie! they will offer encouragement, out their windows, as they tip away—#1 BEST CEREAL stated clearly on their receding bumpers.
Sometimes, after this scene has settled, a dirty looking Kid-with-a-swollen-eyebrow will approach to pick over the remains, walking off with wobbly-wheeled bike and boxes of the #1 best cereal, Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In the interim a few Instars will have climbed off the bike onto a wild grape vine woven into the nearby chain-link fence, where they will pause to feed for the coming weeks..
♦
The Spotted Lantern-fly does not light up or make sonorous songs. It sucks sap and rains honeydew (a sugary waste substance), causing billions of dollars in losses to domestic agriculture annually. Using its piercing-sucking mouth-parts Instars drill into the phloem of plants like this scraggly rosebush outside a urine-scented library, where entrance-obstructing teenagers listen to WAP while vaping. There are currently 56 known Lantern-fly host species in North America. Of these, the insect has a strong preference for— wet ass pussy —commercially important crops including: Cherry, Peach, Plum— Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet ass pussy —Apricot, Almond, Apple— Put this pussy right in yo' face —Grape, Walnut, and— WAP WAP WAP —a bunch of other fresh, and nutritious things which cannot be located anywhere near this place. Affected plants may be found with— Whores in this house —sap weeping from wounds followed by— There's some whores in this house —wilting, curling leaf, and— there’s some whores —limb die-back.
Instars will sometimes feed for several days before proceeding through the above window for a respite from the noxious environment outside (and also due to instinctual responses to barometric changes caused by approaching tropical storm Isidora, [a fact of which only Lantern-flies seem to be aware..]). Despite the smell of urine, hood libraries provide needed sanctum to many similarly distressed or vulnerable creatures. Instars share the space with a diverse population of midday library goers, including: this homeless guy repeatedly falling asleep in a chair and periodical being woken up by litigious librarians. Also found here: this dude in a wheelchair having a full psychotic breakdown at the service counter as he accuses everyone present of conspiring to hide his library card. And, less common: this autistic man seated contentedly at table curating his RV-themed scrap book.
Occasionally the peace of these sleepy environs will be shook-up by Truant Vapers from out front running in to tell Librarians about a Junkie O-D-ing on the lawn, and—as Librarians rush outside to narcan said junkie—some other solace-seeking creature will sometimes slip-in, looking to escape the outside world. Or, in this case, a very specific instance of the outside world—as manifest in this rather large and menacing looking dude with gold teeth seen patiently waiting outside library window.. Once in the safety of the library, Solace-seekers—who’ve presumably contracted some sort of debt with gold-toothed window-camping thugs—will sit down beside Autistic Scrap-Bookers and proceed to wax melancholic about various topics to which Autistic Scrap-bookers have little interest.
..Shit, I aught to get me one of those, the Solace-seeker will motion toward the compendious volume of RV’s, into which images sniped from RV Enthusiast Magazine are currently being pasted —get myself up outta here.. love travelin’. I used to work them tugs you know: barges, tankers, HUGE container ships. Goin waaay out in the ocean.. Man I been all over. Egypt, Panama, Sweden.. Been everywhere,‘cept Montreal. Always wanted to go to Montreal. Passed by a dozen times goin’ threw them locks; never let us stop though. Always had to watch it pass by. Thought it looked so chill; lookin’ at it from the water.. sittin’ there on that island in the middle of the river; that big holy church up on the mount; all them fine french women.. Like gods untouchable city..
Library closing soon, one of the Librarians will announce, passing by to close the windows. Look like a storm coming; y’all should hurry home if you can.
..Yea, Montreal, Hopelessly-indebted-nostalgiasts will say, with a longing sigh, serene looks on their weathered faces, as they gaze out Lantern-fly-encrusted windows, past where their creditors quietly await; out to where leaves swirl in the gathering winds of the coming storms..
♦
Beginning early July—right about the time Tropical Storm Isadora is receding into the gutters—Spotted Lantern Fly will undergo a 5th and final molt, after which it will emerge winged and ready for adulthood. This instar, just now slipping out from now re-opened window, has gotten a late start. It must now hurry—through a gauntlet of falling heels—to find suitable molting ground. As, all around it, its newly-molted Lantern-fly-kin dick-around, perilously, with untested wings, on the sidewalks of this eternal hood..
In its invasive range L. delicatula has few natural predators—birds tend to avoid its bitter taste and the few insects which are known to indulge are vastly outnumbered. But newly-molted Lantern-flies—now sporting highly-visible bright-red wings—are particularly vulnerable. Especially here—in these vast/ hopeless swaths of decaying post-industrial America—where, they invariably find themselves prey to the bored and emotionally volatile Stoop-sitter; which utilizes its vast amounts of idle time to adapt ever-more excessive ways of dispatching the conspicuously-red insect. Methods include: roasting with lighters, immersing in alcoholic beverages, dashing with bricks, dashing with chunks of concrete, dashing with lawn chairs, dashing with larger, yet more excessive objects still, blasting from whippet chambers, obliterating with various power tools and cosmetic devices, electrocuting with tasers [for excessive periods of time], feeding to pet lizards named Block-boogie, asphyxiating in empty bottles into which have been exhaled heavy clouds of weed smoke, etc..
Drawing less attention to itself, belated Instars are able to avoid the brunt of this. In their ongoing search for suitable molting ground they will sometimes even pass right between the feet of rookie News 9 reporter, Avery LaCross, as she interviews local toothless woman Aunt Mo regarding her impressions of them and their kind.. Lanern bug? Yea, it’s a mix between a ladybug a grasshopper and a spider: the Chinese made it when they made Covit.
And there you have it. Lantern-flies. Wreaking havoc in our neighborhoods. Back to you Mateo.
Thanks Avery. In fact, the first Spotted Lantern-fly in the United States was identified in 2014, in Berks County, PA, where It’s believed that egg masses were inadvertently transported on a shipment of decorative stone imported from abroad. The descendants of that first pioneer-batch—50 or so individuals—have multiplied exponentially in the intervening years, and will—very soon/ any day now—surpass world population of humans.. In the meantime this instar has found a suitable spot to molt. It’s a small park. The only tree present—having been ravaged by recent tropical storm, Isadora—is an uprooted maple, whose side-laying trunk is currently being trounced by unattended children. As dusk falls our instar will select an unoccupied branch on which to settle down, and here begin its long and arduous transformation..
The hood in daytime is sleepy, and sluggish; a few kids poking around an empty lot; some winos drying out on the stoop—some with a smile, some not. In this, its diurnal phase the hood exhales despair in one long breath until there is nothing left to push out—but whatever remains of hope—and only then does the sun begin its mercifully turn down. But, as the daylight begins to fade, something happens. Like a giant cathartic gasp for air, we watch as this neighborhood inhales the breath of life that will carry it through another day..
It begins with a false start, as the working people arrive home from their unhappy jobs and head down their garbage cluttered sidewalks to their lead-paint-flaking front doors, cursing one another along their way. Sometimes they stop to quarrel over a side glance, or an off-hand remark—but, eventually, they retreat into their decrepit tenements for a respite. Then, at dusk—drawn out again by the cooling air, and some inarticulate need to bump up against one another—they will tip out onto their stoops, signaling a readiness to socialize, or fight, or, in some other capacity commence being alive. Very soon a familiar chorus of nocturnal sounds will begin to populate the corridors: drunken cackles, shattering bottles, professions of love and hate and indifference; the peel of gun shots from an unspecified direction, followed by sirens, followed by some Baller blasting trap music down the nearest cross street, interspersed with shouting youth, plus another burst of what sounds like gunfire—but which might, indeed, be firecrackers, in token celebration of this July 4th—now, unintentionally, facilitating a record-breaking one-day spike in the ongoing wave of murders which typify summertime in the innercity.. And so it will go, late into the night. This strange second birth. As though all the life that could not be lived in the light of day must be made up for now, in this hurried frenzy—which, nevertheless, slowly tapers to the sad finale of a few drunken holdouts and the lonesome wailing of an unattended baby.. And though one knows all this must produce some deficit to be paid in the morning, its all too difficult to have to entertain right now. Better to just forget.. that there is such a thing as tomorrow.
One last volley of fireworks explodes across the night sky, lighting up the world below.. the park with the sideways tree.. the molting instar, slowly squeezing out its old shell.. the adjacent parking lot of a scrap yard/ mechanic shop.. the two nocturnal creatures there.. one furtively rooting through the interior of an unattended car.. the other leisurely appraising its contents, now splayed across the asphalt.. half a dozen pairs of bootleg sneakers.. a pink plastic jeep.. a replica katana sword with loose handle—secured with masking tap.. two crates of expired chocolate milk.. and a large array of children's picture-books..
Wuh-wwhere da Wild T-hings Are..
It’s mostly quiet here. In this liminal space, bracketed by overpasses and a ghosted downtown—where the only sounds are a tentative recitation of Where the Wild Things Are.. “An.. when he.. came to the.. pla- play-ke? place! When he came to the place w-where the wild things are dey ro- rooo-ard.. Roared? —While most have finished off the traditional work day, others like this shrouded pair of liminal creatures, have only just begun. They roared! They roared their tu-terrible roars and gu- gun-ashed they terr—
Gnashed, the other one will sometimes interrupt, poking his head out from the passenger-side and into the faint light of a street lamp. The g is silent; you ain’t need to say it. Hey, you keepin’ lookout or what? —You may recognize him as that Squeegee-boy we saw earlier; the one called Zeis. Except that Zeis is changing into something else now; slowly but surely, assuming the next stage in his very uncertain life-cycle.
Yea, we good.. Gnashed
Observe as his nocturnal accomplice squats in the spread of scattered picture-books, leafing through with childlike fascination.. Gnashed they terrible.. teeth! —looking up now with a great big proud smile on her face, as she smiles into the darkness.. Car! Zeis will whisper, as they withdraw behind a row of totaled vehicles, gathering their booty and scurry down into the nearby park, making for the cover of the side-laying tree. Resting there, in the sprawl of grounded branches, Zeis will proceed to cut the shoe off his swollen foot..
Eww what the fuck is that?
My fucked-up foot, he will respond, discarding the old shoe over his shoulder.
Nah! That, his illiterate accomplice will motion to the newly-molted Lantern-fly—tender, white, un-shelled body like a specter beside its un-bodied shell.
Damn, won’t get much for this, Zeis will say, surveying the loot, as he proceeds to size-up a stale pair of Reebox. Meanwhile his accomplice, having cocked-back on her copy of Where the Wild Things Are, will hold it there, menacingly, over the tender white moltling.. Whaaat? Here we go! —Zeis will discover something hidden in the toe-box of those Reebox—something which gives his accomplice pause.. Wait.. what is this?
Dope fool! she will lower her arm, momentarily sparing the delicate moltling.
I can’t do shit with that. I need them pills.
It’s the same shit; Gimme! I’ll show you.. she will seize upon the baggy of dope, and then, winding up once more, aim a final mortal swat over the tender Lantern-fly.. but Zeis will wrest the book from her hand: Nah. Leave it..
As the first light peaks this freshly-molted Lantern-fly will stretch out its new wings in preparation for a maiden flight. Within an hour or two it will have cured to a glossy black finish, unfurling a striking pair of crimson spotted wings, as Zeis looks on in awe— Be still.. —eyelids growing heavier by the moment— Be still, he said, and tamed them, staring into all their yellow eyes.. —a grin spreading over his fading face— Allll their yellow eyes, without blinking once —And even as it climbs toward the tip of its branch, past the pious arms of a waiting mantis, Zeis will go on; even as he nods back and falls away, and the book slides from his hand, and this Lantern-fly, insensible to the dangers of the world, draws perilously near to the tip of its branch..
..and they were frightened..
and they called him the most wild thing of all..
The king.. of wild things
And as the sun returns, observe again this spot, wherein nothing of the night before will have remained, but for this pristine pair of unused wings.
♦
Take a stroll around town and you’ll notice something odd. Swarming the sidewalks; all upside the buildings; descending in droves from the sky.. everywhere, Spotted Lantern-fly.
Where are they going? And why? Well, it’s not entirely understood. But ask one of the orange-vested creatures working alongside of this street and he’ll tell you —lodging his machete in a stump as he pauses to wipe the sweat off his brow; they’re going to “get-it-on” in “one giant orgy.” Indeed. It is mating season. And it’s around this time that L. delicatula will begin to feel an intractable urge to seek out one another and retire, to the Tree of Heaven..
As Spotted Lantern-flies mature they become successively more selective feeders and the variety of plants capable of hosting them becomes ever-narrower. Throughout their life-cycle, Ailanthus altissima or Tree of Heaven remains not only the preferred host, but the only plant indispensable to the completion of L. delicatula’s life-cycle.
Known colloquially as “Ghetto Palm”, Tree of Heaven is also an invasive—which arrived several hundred years ago and is well and fully entrenched in the entire habitable range of North America. Tolerant of poor and heavy-metal laced soils, it too thrives along the shattered sidewalks and vacant lots of declining America. Until recently every plot of bare earth along this sad stretch would have hosted a vigorous stand of many trees.. all of which now lay in wilted heaps next to their stumps.
And so these Lantern-fly will carry on.. past this blighted hood, and these crumbled sidewalks; past the gaggles of orange-vested creatures busy hacking up Heaven Tree in recompense for their derelict child supports, and DUI’s, and defrauded SNAP benefits; past the chattering jackhammers and backhoes, busy tearing up lead piped streets; over the heaps of dirt, and under the skied girders of hipster-inspired condos on the rise, and onward to the sturdy tax-base of well pointed brownstone neighborhoods. But they wont stop here. No. On they will carry! Through the China-towns and Little-Indias and the Old-Quarters; through the university campuses and the red-light districts and past the city halls, and between the marching feet of woke citizenry, led on by purple-tufted university students chanting irreverent slogans and brandishing vaguely-considered cardboard signs, while they march past the Police cordons and shattered lobbies of the financial district.. Onward! in a mass pilgrimage! To the very core of the city and their final destination; here, at the foot of 1st Bank tower..
Sometimes, as they approach the foot of 1st Bank, Lantern-flies will encounter Halal guys and the colorful food-stands they accumulate around themselves in order to attract patrons, but around which other curious characters often congregate.. For instance, this Common Junkie lying half dead on the nearby sidewalk, or this female Red-necked Boomer (an uncommon sight in these areas) here in search of her runaway daughter.. What the hell is everyone all worked up about anyway? Never mind, I really don’t give a shit. I’m just looking for my daughter. Here look [referencing pretty girl in photograph], you seen her around? Probly not quite pretty as this any more.. It has been awhile now. Probably been living like the rest of them [referencing unconscious Junkie] like a damn animal in the street somewhere; ever since her godamn boy-friend turnt her out. I tried to tell her about him.. scumbag —at that moment, some Street hardened youths will sometimes pass, and, discovering the half-dead junkie, will proceed to amuse themselves—arranging him in comical positions, placing shades on him and a cigarette in his slack mouth, and otherwise fucking around with his corpse-like body. This, in turn, will sometimes elicite an involuntary laugh from the red-necked mothers of absconded daughters, who, remembering their own predicament, will immediately recoil in horror at having so laughed, and begin, instead, to cry. Meanwhile Halal guys will hand over napkins and go on scraping the bits of meat from their shishes. ..Well, anyway, —she will wipe her tears and carry on— that stuff any good? ..Well OK, not to spicy though! My ulcer can’t handle that damn spice you all put on everything. —Observe as she goes out on a limb to try kebab-over-rice for the first time (a real stretch for such an uncultured creature [even despite having visited this halal stand so many countless times ⟨this and the many others she frequents, returning as by instinct, over and over again; week after month after year, always in the dim hopes of somehow retrieving her lost daughter.. All while, Halal Guys go on faithfully serving their red and white sauces..⟩]) But Halal Guys have dreams too, and as they work diligently to send money back home to the flood/earthquake/civil-war-ravaged homelands they’ve left behind, they often reminisce about earlier days when they delivered the evening prayer up in minarets that overlooked the whole of their neighborhoods—and about how they once got selected for the National Prayer-caller Competition of Such-n-such’istan, and just how proud this had made their families and neighbors; to have had such a godly and melodious voice to lead them all in prayer..
Often, despite their circumstances, Halal Guys still hold out hopes of again calling the evening prayer, along with an instinctual urge to climb minarets, which never quit goes away—even if it is the case that there are no minarets at hand.
Spotted lantern-flies can empathize; Spotted lantern-flies share a similar urge..
Despite its wings L. delicatula and its order (Hemiptera: cicadas and stink bugs) are not true flies, but actually plant-hoppers. Though weak fliers, they are very strong gliders. As a consequence, during the migration stage of their life cycle (in their apparent quest to find new sources of food to complete their development and attract mates) they instinctively seek out the highest structure in sight off which to launch themselves. This often brings them in mass numbers to the downtown's of major urban areas. Or, in this case, 1st Bank tower.. Observe as this Lantern-fly traverses glimmering glass-strewn sidewalks toward the shattered lobby of 1st Bank—along the way, climbing over this elegantly reposing dope fiend, as well as the many bodies of its own expired kin, heaped thick here, along the perimeter, after having succumb to exhaustion in course of their arduous ascent.. Setting fore-leg onto the shear facade of 1st Bank this Lantern-fly will now make its own attempt at traversing the 58 stories of plate-glass wasteland.. If, 58 stories latter, having passed one day and one night clinging to the windswept, fruitless plain—beneath whose surface scurry vast colonies of shiny-shoed bankers as they carry about the important financial work they do here at 1st Bank—this Lantern-fly succeeds in summiting the spire of 1st Bank tower, it will, after having taken a brief rest huddled beside a few wearied kin, proceed to launch itself into the wind..
An adult Lantern-fly averages 1 inch in length. It can use its powerful hind legs to jump impressive distances of up to 10 feet, but because it cannot generate much lift, the normal flight paths conform to gradually descending, in straight-line trajectories, by which they are able to traverse no more than 50 yards at a time. On flat terrain, without hitching, L.delicatula is capable of moving no more than 3 to 4 miles in the course of its life. However, once atop 1st Bank tower, the tiny insect is able to exploit wind currents to glide vast distances, including across large obstacles like congested highways, or pollution-engorged rivers, or bands of ineffectual protesters—or, just generally, over the whole sprawling swath of discontented humanity, otherwise bemoaning its general lack of agency in the world. On late August days such as this, rising air currents lift the high-flying adults to even greater altitudes, transporting them downwind for many thousands of yards, before depositing them, by the tens of thousands, in strip-mall parking lots, or in the backyard pools of outlying suburbanites. Or even, as is often the sad case, right back where they started.
Like little drunken airplanes wafting in from vast distances, they land lightly outside hood gas stations selling fried chicken behind bullet-proofed glass, and are immediately stomped by irritable black woman who just struck-out on power-ball; Or they land on museum steps and are promptly mashed under the steady stream of jogging tourists performing requisite impressions of Rock Balboa; or they land on the rusted handrails of acab graffitied pedestrian overpasses, where they are immediately finger-flicked into oblivion by an anonymous digit; Or they land in Rainbow-Town where they are trampled by the matching pairs of doggies walked by pompadoured gay men (while, in the background, that kid from earlier—with the swollen eyebrow—steals some hipsters unattended scooter); Or they land on the shoulders of belligerent schizophrenics who’ve wandered into Penn Park, where they are inadvertently swatted in the ensuing agitated articulations that accompany cursing at random mothers who push their stroller-ed children past in wide berths; Or they land out on that pier where the recently-unemployed gather to drink while fishing for PCB tainted strippers—and, once there, head to the only light pole in sight, which, acting as a visual magnet, compels them to climb and launch themselves, but from which, hopelessly subject to their Lantern-fly natures, they cannot escape, and so are draw back, over and over again, until they lose all strength and plummet to the final mercy of a pair of stomp-happy children waiting below; or they land way out in that strangely beautiful meadow which has grown up beside the burned shell of this old semi-conductor factory, and, coming upon a suitable mate, are nearly consummated, but in the very midst of a rapturous coupling, are rolled-over on by a pair of teens having unprotected sex; or! they land on the inoperable boats of retired high-school physics professors with fly-tape on the backs of their solar-paneled hats, whereupon Lantern-flies are obliterated by the patented zip-guns which Retired (though more likely removed [under dubious circumstance⟨d⟩]) Physics-teachers-now-boat-bums, have specially designed to impress the packs of cheetah-printed spank-clad divorcees that stroll along these waterfronts (with whom boat bums enjoy flirting [but which flirtations also belie vain hopes of pitching their various schemes and inventions ⟨with an innermost secret hope of one day raising the funds necessary to afford cutting-edge medical treatments which might, once more, restore functionality to their erections⟩]). Or, sometimes, they land on News 9 reporter Avery LaCross..
..Here at the corner of 16th and Grace street, insects are raining from the sky.. While it's hard to track official numbers, the XYZ Department of Agriculture says reports and sightings are up 500% compared to last year. Its gotten so bad that they are now calling on us to help.. “Kill it! Squash it, smash it.. just get rid of it.” officials say.. Happy hunting Mateo! Back to you.
Hah, thanks Avery.. Did you know that, in the US, approximately 13 million Spotted Lantern-flies (.02% of total population) die annually from human efforts like being hunted by concerned citizens who form weekend death-squad brigades as part of the XYZ Department of Agriculture’s Stomp them Out! campaign? Despite the total futility of these efforts, department officials will continue encouraging us to do our part to halt the ineluctable spread of Lantern-flies, as we go on spending vast amounts of our time and effort in conspicuous displays of hostility toward the unassuming insect—organizing Squishathons, arming ourselves with various swat-devices, and wrapping our trees with great big indiscriminate swaths of sticky paper; employing a multitude of traditional and modern weaponry, and even developing altogether new and novel forms of waging warfare (chemical, biological and mechanized) against our tiny foe—perhaps even finding in these activities a sort of cathartic release (for otherwise-frustrated energies), or compensation (? [for the total lack of agency or sense of meaning in our non-Lantern-fly-killing existences]). Perhaps, in pursuance of these activities, some of us will establish lasting friendships or even future romantic partnerships—founded on mutual lack of respect for Lantern-fly life. Indeed, maybe—as a consequence of all this squishing—we will even go on to attain altogether new, and previously unknown, plateaus of existential meaning—of deep personal fulfillment and spiritual awareness.. but, none of it will have any appreciable impact on Lantern-flies.
Did you know.. Lantern-flies exist even when and where you don’t see them? including way out in the woods, and places where people don’t go, and, indeed, make no effort to?
♦
Occasionally a Lantern-fly will land in the path of this hoody-cloaked figure—as he limps, raged and besmirched, toward the open doors of St. Francis Basilica, leaning on a staff of freshly-cut Heaven Tree.. Lantern-flies are drawn to Tree of Heaven by its scent; a distinctive odor—commonly described as “rotten peanut-butter”—which is emitted through glands in the leaves, of which this wizard-like homeless man has stuffed fistfuls into his pockets and, out of which he seems to have fashioned a sort of poultice, wrapped in newspaper, around his foot..
Where ya’lls bathroom!? —Throwing back his tattered hood we see that it is indeed Zeis, trailing this retinue of Lantern-flies—as he enters St. Francis on this holiest of Sunday mornings, and proceeds to declare his intention to take a piss..
Uhh sir, please, —a parishioner will approach discreetly— there’s a public restroom at the 7 Eleven across the—
Ain’t ya’ll sposed to help your neighbor in need? We’ll here I am!. and I needa piss.
We see here a Zeis that has reached his final and most mature form: fully and irrevocably cut loose from the reputable world. Watch as one of the parishioners offers him a mask to which he makes a defiant display of coughing obnoxiously. Though it is unclear why, he seems to derive a perverse enjoyment from finding people who cannot get away—comfortable, happy, secure people, like the good folks here—and proceeding to mortify himself in front of them. Watch as one of the ushers puts his hand on Zeis’ arm, as to guide him away— GIT your mothafuckin’ hand off me! —Zeis, withdrawing his arm as he stares indignantly at the offending supplicant, and slowly turns toward the priest; a priest who caries on, defiantly, with his holy charge; not yet deigning to regard the disturbance gathering at the back of God’s house.
..Gimme 50 bucks right now or I swear to Holy Marry, I’ll whip my cock out RIGHT HERE! —the organ goes silent.. I’ll do it!—he reaches for his zipper, causing an audible gasp in the congregants. —I’ll whip it out and piss right here in this holy water. So help me God..
The priest, slowly, reluctantly, looks up.
Yea, you see me now. Don’t you? —Zeis, removing the dust from the windshields of their souls. 50 bucks. So he says. But that’s not really what he wants. See, the truth is that a squirt of washer fluid and a flick of the wipers made the Squeegee boy obsolete long ago. But then the service Zeis provides is less obvious than it would seem..
..Come, sit with us brother.. Pray.. and afterward I will help you. I swear to god I will help you.
Help me? —Zeis says. He believes it. He does not doubt the honesty of this robed man, or these here good people—sitting stock still, heads down and forward—discreetly pinching their noses in revulsion of him and the death-like odor emitting from his newspaper-wrapped foot..
Pray? He thinks about it for a moment; head growing heavy, eyes wandering the cruciform interior of this huge resonant space.. Saints, and haloes, and whisps of frankincense.. As, slowly, carefully, the priest removes his piteous gaze from Zeis, and quietly returns to distributing sacrament..
A brief but appreciable peace ensues. But haloed icons, and Ave Marias, and sweet-smelling wisps of incense.. they cannot keep out dope-sickness, and whiffs of gangrenous foot. They cannot turn back this tide of Lantern-flies. And the peace, so dearly sought and so briefly savored, cannot last..
Look, he says, in his soul, almost a whisper..
LOOK! —it bursts out, suddenly. Shaken loose from its merciful rest, by that ineluctable need; to make them see. And with it, as if to smite them, he raises his Lantern-fly-encrusted staff: ..LOOK at everything you thought was all good-n-flushed, come back to haunt you.. LOOK at everything you want to ignore, though it’s piling up at your door and raining down on your head.. LOOK at this thing, once human.. LOOK AT IT!!
..You wanna help? Help yourselves. Get it away from you. Get it all away from you! And do whatever you have to to keep it away! From you and these godly folks, and all this world you love. Or it will bring your house.. it’ll bring your house down..
And the priest does look. He looks so well that he just about sees Zeis—just about lets Zeis into him. And in so doing, lets out a breath of utter despair. He grounds his head for only a moment—before glancing up toward the collection basket, and to the frightened woman there holding it. Whereupon, in profoundest defeated, he gives a nod.
Zeis never once blinks.
Look away, he seems to say, as he wipes the dust from our windows. I dare you
♦
Lantern-flies live short, conclusive lives. They do they’re best to square the cycle of life, carry on redundantly for a week or two more, and then, are seen off by the first cold snap; one generation discretely submitting itself to the next, and ceasing the world entirely in the interregnums.. They know not the world into which they are born—the glory, and the beauty, and the heartbreak of the lives through which they pass—as they land fatefully beside their suitable mates, and proceed to fulfill their chief evolutionary imperative in life. They don’t make song, or dance of it. They don’t bring gifts. They signal once with a flash of their crimson under-wings and then they just sit, quietly, for a few hours, alongside one another—here, on the rusted tracks atop graffiti peer. They give no thought to pregnant girl sitting alone on the edge nearby, quietly facing the water. They do what lantern-flies do. And, as the sun gets low, there at the end of that condemned concrete ramp, as it juts out over the pier— yearning, out and up, toward nothing—they are consummated, to soft sounds of weeping.
♦
At this late stage there is only one host plant left from which L. delicatula can feed, and without it—without the allelopathic compounds in its life-giving nectar— L. delicatula will not pass on offspring.
All that is left is to find the Tree of Heaven.
Following the noxious scent of expired peanut butter, this expectant Lantern-fly traces a path to Ridge Ave and to the homeless encampment therein. She arrives at the jungle of barricaded squats just as the Department of Works is pulling up; orange-vested creatures filing out of their vans as they set to work. Police standby, clearing off reluctant evictees, as the orange ones down-rig tarps, and carry off pallets to garbage trucks. And as this Lantern-fly proceeds through the camp, everything is dismantled around her—as part of The Department of XYZ’s current strategy of using the eradication of Heaven Tree as grounds for evicting squatter camps. And so, just as this Lantern-fly finally reaches the trunk of its vaunted Heaven Tree, with the stroke of a machete, it is toppled. They throw it onto a pile of severed Lantern-fly-infested limbs, where it awaits its turn to be feed through a wood-chipper.. And so it seems that the story is over.. Except that Zeis is here, and, as fate would have it, this particular tree is well-dimensioned for a walking cane, which he is, at this moment, in need of.
Fast growing, and with a root system which is virtually impossible to eradicate, all of these trees will return from their stumps within a few months. In the meantime this Lantern-fly is dying.. For, this severed limb to which she clings, having been so dearly relied upon in the current state of scarcity, has already been thoroughly drained of nectar..
Zeis grabs the chosen stick off the pile—thereby sparing the expectant Lantern-fly and a few others huddled there with her—and as he limps off, leaning heavy on his stick, they toss water on his still-smoking fire pit, quenching the last ember.
A cake of yellow pus has begun to peek out the top edge of his newspaper wrapped foot, but Zeis got other things on his mind.. Making his way onto the train tracks he cuts straight for Osarseph Ave. Along the way he finds some garbage dumped off an overpass, and down onto the tracks. He picks it over; there's an old box spring, a busted TV, a fake Christmas tree, a box of ornaments.. There's a tacky lamp with the bottom half of a smiling face under its tasseled lampshade. He picks it up, cradling it in his free arm as he caries on.. At this stage whatever dreams or possibilities he may have once held, somewhere, deep in the innermost unknowable spaces of his soul, remain only as a faint echo, supplanted by the ruling urge to seek out dope and retire to the park. In the meantime he lives here with all of us, who must somehow keep hold of the echos of whatever hopes and dreams keep us going..
Lantern-flies don’t have this problem. Lantern-flies don’t have to wonder what motivates them, or agonize over the slow and debilitating failure of their lives. They don’t need to create convoluted stories that rationalize their existence, or contrive hopes and dreams that spur them onward everyday through the monotony and disappointment of life. They just have to reach the Tree of Heaven..
Damn nigga, you smell like cheese, the dope-boy gags, as Zeis approaches. You better get on that foot ‘for it go septic. —One of Zeis’ old squeegee comrades. Dis all I have —Zeis offering the lamp as payment. The once-Squee-boy laughs at the proposition. But squeegee boys are often sentimental toward their fallen comrades, and they sometimes give breaks, for old-time sakes.. Yo, you still got that zippo? That one with the Ace on it, you always used to carry.. That shit was fresh..
The Spotted Lantern-fly moves with a single-mindedness toward its Tree of Heaven. It does not dither and lose faith like the people around it, who occupy this neighborhood. It does not despair of the world and fall out of grace like these people here, laying along the sidewalks, or this woman melting like a candle on the corner.. It does not give in to its demons and hide from the light, here under the L tracks that run atop this wretched ave.. here on Osarseph. Where it is dark even in the day, and where the only sun that shines through is what reflects off the shimmering golden surface of 1st Bank Tower.. No! It cares on. Like Zeis as he walks down this Ave, still clutching his lamp; like a lantern against the darkness of the day.. Arriving at the edge of McNeedle Park he proceeds up the junkie-littered treads of Cinderella Steps, and, halfway up—toward the library that sits atop this hill—he steps off onto the needle-hiding grass.. finds a lighter.. finds a needle..
You may notice something odd at just such a moment; A furious rhythm, which is coming from somewhere nearby.. If you look closely there, on the far side of the park, you will hardly fail to notice a strange phenomena known as McNeedle Park Drummer; A rare sight, McNeedle park drummer can only be sighted here, one day a year—the day his moms (who was the only one who ever believed in him and his dream to become a musician, but who never lived to see it happen) died, here, in this park..
Wearing a black tux splattered in various colors of paint, and communicating by a series of kicks, snares, and cymbal crashes, needle park drummer returns here, always on this day, to play his drums for dope fiends nodding out on the grass. The exact reason for this behavior still perplexes evolutionary biologists, but experts believe it may have something to do with things experts would know nothing about. The impressive display—limbs akimbo, face rending with a thousand emotions in this frenzied display of raw percussive passion—cannot be compared to anything else in the natural world.
Zeis shoots up. And laying there in the grass—perhaps brought on by the frenetic and bright sound coming off the drum kit—he has a sort of a dream.. He dreams that he goes back to get his zippo, and, by some miraculous turn of events, it is returned, and from there—with the supernatural power of his lucky zippo—he goes on to immediately draft a sun-blotting army of Lantern-flies with which he makes triumphant return to the squat camp, driving away the invaders! and compelling the Orange-vested ones to fall before him in adoration! whereupon he becomes known as the Prophet Zeis, and goes on to messiah a new religion which again gives these creatures hope and which, miraculously, begins to lift them up, back on their feet, turning them from beasts back into humans! and—having thus turned this slum into a paradise of peace and righteousness—the re-dignified creatures go on to wage a sort of holy crusade, against the city’s campaign to eradicate the Heavenly Tree—and pacify the slums of the world—but, against which Zeis and his dignified followers are triumphant.. until the treacherous Department of XYZ corners him in some barricaded ally, wherein he, the Prophet Zeis, finally, in one final heroic gasp, expires.. except that no one believes it, and they all just laugh and say I’ll believe it when they show me his zippo. The sly cat, he has nine lives, I swear! and so they just go on, believing, and somehow, instead of dying, his spirit transcends this time and place, where it goes on living inside the shoe-shine boys buffing scuffs off your insole, and the garbage pickers fishing obsolete electronics and complimentary bread out of dumpsters, and the back-ally industrialists grinding plastic and inhaling aerosols, and the old women selling roadside compressed air and lotto tickets, and the Chicharrón boys with gum and loosies strapped to their chest, and the gangsters siting around radios cleaning their AKs along cockroach infested corridors, and the old blind women holding out cups on temple steps, and the little girl selling little white flowers there, alone on this busy financial-district sidewalk, and, just generally, suffusing all the poor and disreputable people, in all the unseen and unminded places of this world; places to which Zeis has never been, but where—in these last dreaming moments of his life—he seems to spread out across, all at once, like the water spilling out its vessel..
..The drums are still sounding when that Boy, with the Swollen Eyebrow, comes plodding around the side of the hill. Sighting the reposed body he stops to scavenge, finding only a wad of withered leaves in a pocket.. He looks around, but there’s nothing; Just a lamp, lying there in the grass. The Boy picks it up and turns it over; sees the friendly smile. Warm like a mother’s smile.. He tucks it under his arm and strolls off down the hill. And, as Librarians come rushing down Cinderella steps behind him—looking to attend to the recently ODed—the Boy hops on a pink, electric unicycle (acquired earlier that day on Brew St & Campus) and rolls off into the wastes.. past the barred windows and caged porches of Traptown, and the lawn-chaired bichotes and dusty bodegas of el Bario (gliding round a pair of dogs fucking in the street, and continuing on) past the X’ed-over doors and overgrown courtyards of Vacant Gardens, and beyond.. —boldly going where we dare not go. Until he rolls up to the opening in the fence outside the old semi-conductor factory—fated, as all such places, to be torn down and re-purposed into forthcoming condos, but which, for time being, serves as the spot where Boy stashes his stolen scooters.
Coincidentally the expectant Lantern-fly is still present. Barely alive, she has, at some earlier point rubbed off onto the shade of the smiling lamp, and dangles now from a tassel, by the grace of a tangled limb..
He peels back the fence and as he walks along the train tracks that lead into the big arched door, he notices some girl, alone, squatting in the meadow.
Inside the stillness of the interior there is a sublime solace.. It is dark and musty, and motes of dust dance in the beams of errant light. And there, framed in the busted window is that girl: squatting in the tall grass, facing away as she breaths in huffs and puffs between laborious noises.. He stashes the pink uni-wheel, or e-disc, (or whatever the fuck it is) in a room at the back; the sound of his footfalls populating the desolate solace. There is not much here: a ceiling-operated crane and a burned-out graffitied car. There is graffiti all upside the walls, and spent aerosol cans scattered on the floor, and, in the middle, where the roof has collapsed, the sky pours in so that there, bathed in the light from above and bursting out from the up-heaved foundation, grows a tree. A great big Tree of Heaven.
Under its canopy, aside its thick trunk, sits a sort of effigy—compiled of discarded bike parts and other once-loved items—to the summit of which is added this lamp. And, as the sound of a baby’s first cry comes in from the window, the Boy with the Swole Eyebrow eats some cheese doodles and curls up on a mat at the foot of his effigy. And all is as it is. And the Lantern-fly, not-yet expired, retires to the Tree of Heaven..
Tip: dusk is a great time to inspect your trees or other host surfaces for signs of Spotted Lantern-fly. If you suspect you’ve found an infestation outside the affected area, please blah blah blah.. blah blah. And remember: there’s really nothing you can do to stop the spread of Spotted Lanter-fly.
