Bardo
Drifting in pungent augury,
clairvoyant waders eschew
wombs of crescent greed,
smooching till daylight gasps.
High winds gust in coed gridlock,
hovering off to text peer scenery.
Urgency rescinds a flickering
film of grainy features,
mixing dawn with
universal thighs.
Who the Moon Is
It was so easy to finally die. The kettle had reached a quiet boil, the empty mug sat ready to be filled, the dimly lit kitchen peacefully receptive. The motive of Socrates had made itself abundantly clear only days before, in the flash of insight reserved for local hound dogs, foreign dignitaries, and the lithesome nubility of our seemingly arbitrary yet eminently rational preferences. Indeed, when the time came, the cup overflowed and steamed silently; the next in line woke easily and at peace, trudged off to the bathroom, lit the spare chamber in futile search for the unremembered, and returned in gratitude to splendid darkness. In the end the tea was hot, the overflow saturated a waiting towel, and something unobtrusive and omnipresent hummed on as the ink ran out, night fading ever so gently into the setting of the moon.
Cyclic Cellophane
Rags evolve, debaters fold, and swallows indemnify trepidation’s thermogenic martyrdom, colluding with equestrian jugglers in cathartic seasonal exploits. Feudal channels shunt hammerhead contraptions down mucilaginous pie lawns, schlepping doubtful carrion for orthopedists in jaundiced jai alai surge. Babies tee up origami pines, shirking polyester brawls, secreted at rawhide terminals. Goofballs emote in tensile oscillations of hallowed cilia beneath anachronistic drumstick cliques of doting operatic somnambulance, reading awkward stencils from boardroom stirrups. Orthodoxy camps in oar-lined mortuaries, winding anterior pleasure in towel clerk simpering, morphed to secluded shin depth. Shelled hooves break interred mumbling fossils, wispy bottles saturating warmly sallow pants, plucked through airless phyla. Forensic sheepskin nestles in elevated truck twangs, sealing sumptuous hues of cyclic cellophane in hiatus glue. Thawed offenders presage interior locust wheels, rubbed to lullaby infringement, leaning every watched whirl to pendular domicile subtraction pith. Moistened archers spark in tightly lectured stony hose retrieval putty, shearing tough loci for slackened cherubic walnuts. Overlooking the septic pallor of everyday greed, scalding itself repeatedly in showers of terminal flesh, polluted desire flops headlong from bridal canal to birthright’s flatulent incipience, swaddled in terrifying broth, gaping at the passing eye’s libidinous wink. Cougars shame peach trees with herd relief, park subsonic testimony in aisles of slanted fusion, and fizz within cephalic sanctuaries. Enhancements scroll by silently, flaunting obsequious extremities in cross-legged poodle sanctions, imbuing sloughed-off gubernatorial chandeliers with frottage. Plumes age till croutons pass customary goggles, inspecting levitation syndicates for soupy spanners, leaving nautical phonemes in charnel disarray. Barely flavored awareness clouds the steepest incendiary treadmills, shoving countless shuffling feeders into gargled waistline landfill, back to trusty blackened sinkhole determinism’s ruddy yelp, slashing down hillside demon rants of tulip flaunt and roaring iron bluster, testified in brooding thrusts of threadbare ideation. Extraction vows elucidate heedlessly sportive ellipses, doting on clover potables, segued into fine sand. A flair for comical inanity erodes to dusky penance, truthful discord, rancor unseen since dashed penumbrae embraced the lunar motifs of centuries spent in turgid shackles of unicellular ululation. Grazing coattail skew from cauterized duodenal emblems of nationwide distraction, there chimes a tomb of headwaiter virulence, flattened to the cry of flung fedoras and wartime somnambulance, grimacing to say “Cheese.”
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Nominated for Best of the Net in 2012, his work has appeared in many literary journals. His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks . He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
