Thursday, April 2, 2015

poem || John Pursch

Annus Mirabilis

Annus mirabilis…
The concept strikes me as redundant.
For every day is miraculous.
Every moment is a miracle.
Fresh creation,
instantaneous and concrete.
Behold the wonder!

Open eyes, heart, mind, arms, cities, states,
hills and dales, countrysides, skies without borders,
limitless possibilities spawning contingency,
abstraction taking flight in furtive scape
of jet propulsion disregard in mobile fantasies
convolved with diesel inhalation sidebar broth
of downtown city bus infarction,
fixing gridline mental marker habitation
cockpit steerage turnstile jumpers into raw habitual release,
from torpid fluid cellphone tile to atrophy of frozen lassitude
in basement tumbleweed motel extravaganza’s tattooed parlance,
swigging offhand pterodactyl parts
in platitudes per million oratory folios
from shaken spears and drawn dichotomies
of diagrammatic ancillary oxymoronic obituaries,
meant for nether highway relish pontoons and choice effluvia.

Posh tailgaters elaborate in texting chunky tombstone habits,
plunking drowned caterpillars from tanning brothel bedpan spillage,
savory at twice the twinkling’s turbid turbine
speed-to-rationed-concavity setting.

Known to sunset addicts as the finest desultory insult available
in any dubiously dawdling ink pad polisher’s monumental echo chamber
of jambalaya shams and shanty derriere coulisse motif collection kit,
this perennial yet dusty peregrination prevails timidly
with shunned extremities of little hands and tiny waving feet
to blind adornment’s rainbow gloss to slightly mollified retraction posture’s 
effervescent callow rumination, now quenching amber starlight.

Papal streamers, ditched interment fleas, and corrugated placid sheep
all wandered miles beyond a known man’s lunging radius
to catch a glimpsing toreador’s fueled wisp of rank emotional stubble.

It really was high time that bland matador took a razor to that ragged beard.

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