Monday, February 1, 2016

poem || John Pursch

Hootenanny Lube Job

Automatic lug nut tighteners
compress air between a shouting man
and numbered string cheese sandwiches
of taco management generalities,
flopping bubbled consonants
on incandescent portable hosiery whales,
calming hornbills with half a silvered
sky platoon of marinated gunwale crews.

Instantiations of mollycoddled cockatoos
slam thick hydraulic doors
in testing pattern blowgun nonchalance,
whirring past livid zebras at triplicated speech
of slouching pneumatic situational caress belief,
twiddling pewter pralines into
woven card shark shackles.

“Quad happened to hubcap
hovercraft hootenanny hours,
wad disappeared quietly hand
oh so utterly from my ignorance
of solid die-cast hailstorms
in aerial radiation cacophony offal?”

That war the solely mumbled question
outa airy heir to the Styrofoam fortune canteen’s
switchyard border-calling guardian,
who calmly dried his clammy
status-seeking latchkey lackeys,
whisking cube bullion into Fiord Notch, Canned Tucas,
pretty closet cloned to steeping inner Americon.

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