Belt Buckle Chowder

by John Pursch

Foreign engines rev at lit umbrage, spinning catwalk oranges into stark remnants of a dozer’s pressing need. Grocery cannons pool in edible inches, oblong and occluded, fidgeting with walking tomes, splattering ink on cool, encumbered cardigans. Pie crumbles in a frictionless plop, rumpled and ironed again, steaming in the equatorial distance. Latin eye liner times an awkward buffoon’s poorly planned landing, seemingly aloof. Dents spontaneously vanish from rusty old taxis, revealing silent serial numbers and abandoned phone booth graffiti. Backpacks park on wooden desks, tabular gongs list our chosen dementia, and grazing bullets flit seaward, losing the martial entryway’s luminous jeer. Flotsam employs a steady wrist, rising in wine-colored squeezes, ambling through heaven’s myriad gateless aisles, spurning chests of momentary art. Languid chance drifts through quiet latches, hashing laundry lists for worn methuselahs, edging out longevity for a place in the musical tram. Clamoring for belt buckle chowder, a gaggle of benevolent teens cackles heartily, hopping to the fate of an unctuous, articulated lunger. Mirage teeth hint at rows of chaotic pom-poms, rasping in the steaming freeze. Breathy and exuberant, an automatic trance ascends each elongated, spinal stairwell, prancing into neural walkways left unwatered by the dear departed. Stamens and streamers, lousy in their blackened queues, fall upon the heaving decks of warships way down under, eating antlers for frequent formulae, pining for a ruse.