Voices on the Wind
Night Of The Fat
by Ken Boe
"Polar Bear Knotweed" shimmies light down the shaft of its stem
into the war of the soils of us versus them.
You put your key into the ignition of the drive-through restaurant,
putting your foot down on the frier, turning over the wrappers and napkins,
splitting open the plastic condiment of gasoline onto the quilt of meat.
Disease is a designer in the Knotweed leaves,
as the night time sets its portfolio weaves.
The polarized bear barges in on other conversations,
drooling on the dope, hogging the tidbits, he's a place
of other-worldly smells, a freeloader who don't want
to cough up at the pump, and he eats seal puppies.
The roots rise up into the flower, and wheeze,
the leaves fold up their arms and prey on their knees.
Deification came down as a polarized bear,
and he was a jealous bear.
On the third day he came down as a blue flower
and stuck the retired oilman in the thumb.
Later, he worked the nightshift at The Eye Wink
and was fired for hallucinating.
Hallucination is not in the image, but is of the meaning,
setting the seething of the stem into what seems like breathing.
The arctic weeds grow around the latest in clean technology,
a new species accidentally introduced,
it compliments the colorful oil rigs,
the melting snow,
and the muddy road washing out into the creek bed.
The oceans rise up coughing out strawberry fetal
masses of polarized fat playing backwards like Beatles.