by John Pursch
High upon the nectar plateau,
deep to the right of the green,
lie the spontaneous cheer,
the early rustle of cheap
and interlopers who hunt
indigenous deer for sport.
Wandering in the pine straw,
a solitary buck plies the hills,
drilling for samples,
to house wines,
other people’s pizza crusts,
and fallen relics.
Scratching at a stump,
he strains for distant recall;
the past can almost hear him,
feel the rumble of his antlers’
ultra low frequency waves,
detectable literally forever.
Finally, he slides into time lock,
as a young lieutenant in French Algiers.
Why does he return, over and over, to this?
What causes his affinity for this thread?
Well, he certainly loves the cognac…
Glasses drained, the Frenchman smiles,
and temperatures waver near flaming.
For an exquisite instant,
he’s sated, enjoying the souffle,
having just eaten the tender morsels
of his greatest grandmama.
Meanwhile, the unpaid bill awaits.
Suddenly, in mid-gulp,
an arrow zings past,
clipping the trees,
and omnipresence reels him in,
through an interchange of foreign pasts;
the Casbah dissolves into
a strobing blur of headlights,
rumbling freighters, boxcars,
and red-shifted echoes,
landing him in mid-gallop.
Come in, Lieutenant Venison, come in…
Up and down the train,
the buzz is divine,
the cowcatcher’s reached light speed;
dredging up tomorrow’s drill bit,
the light at the tune of the indole,
the time will always be…