Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
A Funnel Of Gnats by Ken Boe A funnel of gnats siphon up through the forest canopy its pyramid of atmosphere; below in cool darkness burrows the antonym, intersecting with a criss-cross of animal trails. I searched for the doctors who could heal me. Through impersonation, I crashed their convention. The filet was sublime, the gorgeous wine so generous; my free bag of drug samples grew more and more light. Soon I had wandered far from the casino and climbed over a fence into a community garden. This is where I would rest my eyes, tucking my body between the raised plots of two competing families. When my limousine came to retrieve me my clothing was matted with broken leaves, twigs, and flower petals, and a brochure of prophecy. Open air markets would take over the fallen strip malls from one corner of the city to the other. I was dropped at the curb of their heralded forest. But I did not feel alone, I felt hundreds of limousines dropping off the scene of the crime, all cameras folded. Somewhere there had to be a trailhead which those people who liked to go for walks would have taken, but an animal trail would do. The soil was a sponge transmitting elegant messages popping with energy. Behind me a pack of sparrows plucked seeds out of arrows. I briefly listened for the small moving parts, then pushed inward.