Friday, September 6, 2013
3 poems || John Pursch
I can no longer tell whether the oven is on. Nor whether the oven door is open. Perhaps I never could. Is this calamitous or of no consequence? That, too, remains undecided. Indeed, the very proposition has become virtually indecipherable.
And yet, I can still feed the cat, or cats, should both follow me into the kitchen at this odd hour. I can also make and consume tea, especially when thirsty. Perhaps most importantly, I can sit down at the kitchen table and fill this notebook with words. Now the second cat has come in from the patio, so I’ve in turn fed two cats.
My glasses are resting on a cotton rectangle on the wooden table a foot or so from my head, along with a spare pen and a cup of tea. The only sounds are the somewhat rhythmic scratching of fountain pen, chewing of second cat, and humming of refrigerator. Listening closer, I realize that the air conditioner has just gone off. There is also the subtle chugging of a plastic timer, plugged in next to the night light. And now the sound of cats coming and going, occasional creak of sleaved elbow on wooden table, scratch of head, rub of chin stubble on hand, shift of body in chair, sound of cat door, elbow on paper, clearing throat, swallowing tea…
A pause to reflect, refill the mug, shake the stubborn ink-bound pen, survey the blurry room, pet the purring cat on her cyclic return, drink more stained water, glance at digital clock on stove, air conditioner coming back on with quiet click, closing eyes beneath left-handed solace, staring at wood grain, another swallow, hand moving in shadow, another meow, talking with cat, relaxing head in hand, contemplating dozing off, playing with right ear, head bowed resting on left forearm, sweating just a bit, curtains drifting ever so slightly in air-conditioned stream…
Miracles of unwanted knees become quotidian usury, burrowing into grayed-out hieroglyphic taunts, lined with leaden cufflinks. Slivers clear the stucco summit, sledding up an atrophied pavilion, sparking furious sitar stumps.
Wagging muppets sing of ogling dysentery traction, gasping stateside for nephritic squeegees, drying nadir preachers. Seductive heirlooms leak optimum alleyway vows, humming salivating mnemonics to dime store mammaries.
Hortatory lucidity sears a notarized mutation, scatters clumping cataracts in wind sock era film stars, and melts with yellowed newsprint lies, feigning histrionics.
Eclipsing longshot lung tureens, altimeters ply beneficial diction with samite sheathings of perambulatory toast. Jeans denote eustachian torpor’s consequential egress, stoking balky taxidermists with underhanded cloakroom staggers, modeled from a chewy tapir’s runaway sequins.
Whelst quod hocangel
frouger troufiendre griemt;
gosfriental, espion monter?
Harse toupen carimble erflou
vom simbiest zeren gorfol hopse,
cephtien echobble bareim
yeranimous svikdi, iridonc
daliunk urgoto, ebrenious
rectamorgie dabion sephero
Hemsho sheim wornterp uch
agronimout peth idouthen ghotle,
crom etchivenou cemtien boufle,
airstoph herioudgem klusp.