City Kid Tries to Get By in a Funkless Universe
by Bean Newton
Out here on the prairie, the funk hides
in streams that dry up by August.
You can smell it in the springtime
when the water turns, its tiny bio-
realm following the orders of a god
of funk, the bottom becoming
top, the top, bottom. Diatoms
dance and whirl, they spin and und-
ulate in lurching syn-co-pation.
Here, closer to the water, the scent
thrums your nostrils, tanking up
your brain with the nasty-sexy full-
ness of it. Try talking funk
with a Mennonite sometime. Thatll send
you, too, to the creek-bed with your nose on.