Regrigerated Lunacy
You lick your chops at the thought of nothing in particular, perhaps the quintessential generality, the coffee cup's soft landing, the naked wooden leg's smooth blonde skin, caressed into the early morning gurgle of backyard fountain.
One cat remains unscathed by Monday's commuter crisis, calmly cleaning herself on cool travertine, stretching lazily across the ragged edge from sneeze to acrobatic twist, to sip from roaring water bowl at last.
And so to survey kitchen shadows through shining orbs of personality's persistent inquisition, of illusion etched in memories of far-flung South Pacific island dreams, softest sand lagoons, and daybreak's silent communion with patient limpid souls, reflected full moon setting just beyond the glyphs of endless merchant crews, misbegotten whalers, and restive luminescent surf.
High tide comes and goes without command, protecting frozen coconut concoctions brewed to boiling's pointed midday acumen of sidling sky, cumuli in vapor trails, and flown outriggers balancing on wave crest froth amid the white noise denouement to daily urchin junket bag of traveled coastline whereabouts, topical juridical relationships, and tertiary petrodollar sanctity, forged luminous and steamy-eyed in glowing admiration's lost elusive overwhelm.
You purr, meow, and stretch to signify the mysteries of all the star-crushed satisfaction any sailor might imagine, now that night's refrigerated lunacy has passed.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available in paperback at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. His experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
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