Klaatu, a Mid-Day Pollinator's Dirge

Bear with me- it's afternoon in a seemingly mono-cultured field of Brassica Napus in the rolling plains and agronomic heart of Canada's bustling, singles' Anthophila community- and you've just finished your second glass of mead. The cooling winds stir from the tip of stamen your powdery pollen, whipping into the polite soon-to-be evening air your opportunistic amalgam of pseudo-sperms and incidentally heritable genetic materials, your- albeit brief- contract pollination now crowning the taut hairs of the swinging Osmia Ribifloris. You, my friend, are a vector pollinator- a monocotyledonic expression of the culture surrounding you- the sounds, the smells, the tastes- all blowing in an entropic system- you, an inbred scrapple of wieldy features mediated by the winged chaperone, an Olajuwon rebound. Like FM wavelengths strike the ears of those capable of cognitively deciphering its encoded messages, you too are the recipient of the data blowing about around you. And yes, it's up to you to distinguish the curd from the whey, the Sergio Leone from the John Ford, the XTC from the Dukes of Stratosphear. No matter to the Buster Brown or to the Doctor Scholl or to the pages missing in your favorite novel- the narrative is not novel, nor the shoe size mutable.

It's not until months later that what has happened on this meteorologically-erotic afternoon are made clear, abundant or otherwise. Your subsequent breeding to reduce the bitter bite of glucosinolates has afforded you the affable appeal of palatability, the communicative capital of commodity. Its the voice-led nectar-sweet sweat of Randy Newman, the refined backhand of George Harrison, the sexual liquidity of the Mael Brothers, and the linear dissolution of Metro. You, my friend, are Klaatu, the aural quintessence of Carter, Jimmy Carter, the benevolent extension of a dream world populated by Nilsson v Taupin.