Sunday, April 1, 2012

text || John Pursch


Off to the past, wandering through venous winter emblems of rising leaves and gaunt, inverted dusk, flexing in a moment’s patient grip, we merge redundant and enfolded, spanning centuries of weird jazz riffs and notational shuffling, sniffing out an easy hand-to-hand mothball set. Droning in a maze of angled, packaged dreams, meaning grants a glimpse of freshly taken snippets, unlocked trestles, and nested waves, channeling the engine melt to softer snow and loosened terms. Were the germinal flow of interred souls to beat upon the shores of a missing mind, who would store the mothered and circular spectacle of graceful stature’s every imbroglio? Would they evict us for lingering at the portal, mesmerized by period pieces? Drifting with archaic floes, verging on adjusted presence, bastions of hope strip the verbal field, viral and repentant. Neon zaps the retinal backwash of falling lucid trance, blending buffered shards of automated ash with future’s last enduring fade.

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