Voices on the Wind Voices on Aging
Golemís Wrinkles by Ken Boe Iím not sure the money is good when you get yourself to confession in the yogurt of your own bed. The gardener working nights, no neighbor knows about him planting dramas into his clay faces. His garden of petty grievances staring out from his bay windows he turns them over to a bent raking. Each enemy a planted flower nourished in a compost of fear, he poses in the hallway mirror with his bags of discontent. His knotweed shooting upward, a thin-rooted harvest always readied. You might pass him on the street, his flowers dropping their seed beneath an agriculture of avarice. The imagination dead dancing, processing every slight, grimacing regiments of revenge. The clocks are all broken there, tangled in skits of biblical war which sooner or later make real in the hands of the twisted sticks. The shredded plastic dome. The split-second reenactment.