Voices on the Wind Voices on Power
Breaking Up From Below by Ken Boe My watch lay up there on the drawing table glimmering like a needle piercing aluminum foil. It was hard to see what it was, even at home, and I couldn’t recollect it as my own. There was no concept of this metal-hook-like thing, nor its thickish center, or its strange unnatural balance. Eventually I stood up and saw that it was my watch, but by then it had already become an analogy in my thoughts about power. I stood up to look because the sun had passed my window and the glimmering mystery had lost its enchantment. Eventually the false doubt caused by false witness dims down in the amplitude of reflection and I see things for what they are and are not even though nothing is what it seems from below. Those days have been slept off, just as those nights of those days bedded down, then went back into, have now fallen aside like an empty beer can thrown onto a swamp as surely as it sits, it eventually submerges. A spent full condom is flushed into the septic system, the end of its tactile redemption unredeemable. It is not biodegradable, nor are its fantasies from memories which float in dark bubbling pools of mind of inconsequential alchemy. I climb from the floor where I sleep each life, climb upward into the mirror of the endless tenor. The fantasies of my childhood marching behind me like toy soldiers which might be robots, yet still have souls. The logos of tracks in the cosmos, their sense of torque; the push of that needle into my skin, and the alien who breaks there.