poem || John Pursch

A Juror’s Lonely Lunch Hour

Slow clock linearity adjusts itself with my hands, peeking at futuristic platforms of shoestring roots and subterranean sewing kits, photographed by cyclists on millstone duty clique elopement circuits of an interminably vivacious spinal éclair.

Salivation ceases to impress a logo, frothing at kissed kernels, crossing sidearm fallacies in portfolios of winter car alarms, clanged to wacky beckonings of fecund basement publicans, playing browned gals into nine tight fetters, tied to vapid jacks of shyly kneading trademark swirls in Suleiman’s vitiated slugging gasket.

Pinochle plays on backseat bumps of bucolic roadsters, simpering about wide and misty tergiversation, flipping consonants in continental freakout blasts of sonic assonance gone to didgeridoo and dial-up daylight slavery quotients, hovering into quotidian festivities known only in the most redundantly escutcheoned fakery’s festooned calumny.

Softening to adulterated whimsy, vertices inject a barometric expression of coughed elation at quarterly intervals, pleasing standoffish marigolds with shades of bismuth, freckling a juror’s lonely lunch hour.