John Pursch - Six Pieces

1 Toucan Comma

Noise governs poignant covert auctioneering blues, copping leafy elderberry skies from filmy planet majesty.

Tournament wisps of token laundry sewing machine inversion slip on shiny tiled floor, dance amid ceramic yoyo petals, and sidle with stentorian banana gantry roller, hanging on for sheepskin lives by the shopping bag’s third phylum. 

Electric blue caterpillars emerge from eyewall insulation, dripping arcane witticism. 

Sombreros erupt in candy apple hurricane emotion, crying for colorblind intelligence agents gone to sausage klinker mutation fits of jealous fulmination at weekly kneading knows of kneecap canopy canapes. 

Jacarandas sing to hired eventualities in ever-present omnidirectional opposites of could and shovel, most and gavel, crosscut shredder terrapin and aardvark donut rheumatism. 

Mooing at tumescent commas, a toucan eats three waiting room attendants in cold palatial ecstasy, shuffling her covered shoes only slightly. 

***

2 Corona Kid Calumny

Across the dusk, railroad cars convey cylindrical stamina to needy distance combers, furthering the scan of shaven chin-ups, bicentennial bunting, hit-and-rumple stickball serenades to well-dressed amniotic vending machines, and occidental stereotypes of sleeveless portrayal drift to magazine injunction. 

Correspondence darts to corona kid calumny, iridescent shadowing at offhand remoulade in corked broadcast to perusal lasso altitude. 

When art showers a million bicycle crows with bold illusion profligates, only grooves of tin salad dote on aisle sleep. 

Death clocks in and out before a pasture asks candy quip extrapolation bent to buy a billowing porcine footstool. 

Autographed ottomans float downstream, snagging on a cowering hedgerow, smacking glyphs in cheese curation clavicle compendia of austere keystone burger nosh. 

Influx, intransigence, impetuosity, astringent cringe of noon, of moonshot melancholy monikers, from oddity to klepto tune to aquiline agility to grocery glop to unheard banshee teeter totter ticked a second off the inculcated microfracture. 

***

3 Zebra Telescope

Who knolls, who knells, who covets our cousins, misbegotten festering of sheriff’s wheels in carny crazy of cooped-up camper? 

Soften the kneecap within, tenderize the oracular, signify immaculate deception’s feverish eclair with circumvented evening spin of orbital mind, of torqued and fluid pedestal, of long-forgotten brackish wasteland, swampy and swarthy and salubrious. 

Finales flood blue pennant flight to standing wave impasse, impasto contraband, antipasto basilica ringing in the beautiful, the buoyant, a distaff shell of moreover and none withstanding hotter days, lonely echoes contracting to a pinwheel, constructed zebra telescope, arks escaping lamination. 

A cloud, a moon, eternal backdrop of night, ministerial minutia plopped in triplicate on pebbled quotidian walkway, abridged fallopian beauty, erosive tidal fallacy of midday crisis. 

***

4 Ablur

Can you see the bottom, endless enamel excretion, exertion in expertly excised ecumenical ladders climbing to ozone calves, ghost canals of icy dental poignancy, appurtenance in corridor of coral whiskey watermelon, whimsy whacked with wherewithal, whodunit, whatsoever, clone what maybe might malign malodorous mists of pylon loons? 

Imperfect imprecation, imprimatur primed for screaming banjos, barbells ballooning into illustrious waiters, wastrels, commingling concomitants, cavorting corduroy-covered calves, colts afoul of horizontal Zion, flavored childhood masterminds plodding through the structured daylight crate. 

Doing slaw, schooling adroitly, leaving two notes unspilt, turnips in tactful enmity, gangly spindle slipstream reproductive verge, auric cone on tinny ease perambulation swell to obviated nectarine. 

Pacing off a hundred yardarms, enthusiastic fronds flicker in the tropical dusk. 

A shot is fired and the turnstiles are off, spinning nightly, ablur but attuned to the cry of innumerable agents of the spiraling yet permanently temporal stream of fictional ontology. 

***

5 Escalator Goose

Postal mortuaries send bodies overnight to airframe manufacturers, plying the wooden wings of bipolar frequency addicts with jurisprudence. 

Dearly bedraggled, we are all lathered up and credible, fueled by plausible original copies of copulating cormorants, in-flight dungarees, and kangaroos on holy escapades from pertinent townhome bungee corpse capacity to spellbound summer cramps in mid-absentia. 

Off and to the hefty side of curvaceous, you might opine in purely bovine grapeshot luxury of high canonical atomizer, vapor trails in towline futility. 

A futuristic hobo wipes his clear plastic sleeve in empty-eyed serenity, squashes bugaboos beneath cold fetid cans, and collects affluent appliance vendors for a lunging conversational motif. 

Outer climate polyglots emerge in sooty ties, tacky yet strangely enamored with gelatinous media moguls. 

A prong stars in leading role of lead pipe golden corporation mask, echoing down open highway lounge chair act on carousel of escalator goose. 

***

6 Maybe the Sun

Who will, or could, has the stomach for, can tolerate the stench of, is anywhere near able to, is, well, even is? We just need one existent. Who is? 

Maybe the sun. The sun always seems to be up to the task, be it casket bearing, ball playing, impromptu bedwetting, bloodletting, or salivating at the drop of a skirt. Yes, the sun can always be counted on to do whatever it takes to keep things going. The moon is also pretty sturdy and reliable, though its pedigree has been questioned recently by parity freaks who champion a theory of towing: the moon a stowaway, a stone’s throw away from the unspoken, the unspeakable, the unthinkable limit of our experiential mosaic.

If only I could tell you. Or anyone else, for that matter. Well, at least we’re talking now, no more obfuscation. There is, of course, a secret, and code words that can only be spoken under penalty of death or long imprisonment. Three square meals and all, but solitary confinement perhaps. No, I cannot even give you a hint. Simply verboten. You will never say these words. Period. End of briefing. Back to work. 

Now, for you, this is doubly distressing, because you don’t even know what the words are. Of course, you haven’t been briefed, but they are listening to everything, all cell calls, texts, internet lines, emails, posts of every kind. So you could easily say, type, text, or transmit the secret words accidentally, quite randomly, and find yourself whisked off in a black SUV or helicopter or flying disk or giant silent hovering triangle to an undisclosed location or underground base, to undergo round-the-clock interrogation with absolutely no chance of confessing. Ignorance could be, well, factual yet terminal, or result in endless detention. 

Of course, the odds that you’ll stumble upon the code words are extremely small, so not to worry too much. But if you do, you’ll never argue it was random chance. You will, of course, eventually appeal to your captors that you’ve had no role in government service, signed no documents swearing secrecy, have no knowledge of any secret programs, but you’ll only be digging your own grave. Better to remain silent. Just resign yourself to an unknown stretch of concrete floors, bare walls, and endless monotony. 

Soon you’ll find it’s not unlike your so-called free existence. You’ll learn to accept, even appreciate, the routine. Everything’s provided for you. After a while, you might even be given a legend and mixed back into the general population, freed to return home. Wandering the streets of your old neighborhood, missing for months or years, seamlessly reintegrated. How is this possible? Friends, family, coworkers, acquaintances will just need a little re-programming. Nothing easier; this can be done remotely in an instant. A flurry of strange dreams, memory implants, a little missing time, electronic records backfilled, and you were never gone.