Two Days Ago

by John Pursch

 

Draining wax from nuanced hours, cisterns empty growing sheets of rainy shade in sheltered groves, from millennial exhortations to miniscule diversion’s smooth caress, simplified in brooding aerial nooks. Lunar settings glow in clovered feet of harmonizing sleep, casting elongated hillside palms to reels of coral anonymity. Somewhere in Two Days Ago, Lola relives oarloads of orphaned hours, shopping partial events, groping through emission’s stuttered view in retrograde immersion, coping with lagoon tricks of unfound sizzling vestiges, slipped beyond effusion’s dotted foam. Flashbacks seep through blunt drain carriers in bland temporal gist; sanitizing time baths dump her into I’llbequirky all-night diner, slumped and drooling pancake gruel, staring at familiar face in dirty storefront window.  Memories of a human loophole path to interchange glue, shipless swirl to MJ-12, semantic Graylien web, whence Raw Swell’s vortex here at sourced infusion’s ground, latencies beyond recusal’s tepid whitewash, rumors of a Montauk Chair for protoplasm kicks… Agonizing turn to plaza, muffled drums, suppository shots, umbrella pumps, a picket fence, limo crawling past Ape-Z to flying cars, lunar cities, off-world population contrails, blue sky retrofit down torrents of imperious hail, chasms mystified with droning buzz of sawbuck sleet in tawny repetition’s chase, melting shelved iconic latitudes shake the transfer shale from cotton runes, only to release and fall, to trace again immensely swooping tours of broadly funneled combs, through origins of axial lands, to populate entrusted waves of every passing dream. Winking into time-lock, simultaneity’s cynical spew injects across the urban scene, implanting frozen histories, empaneled seaside girth, flashing faraway in porthole swoon, lifting oceanic shapes of pods to careworn prows, indented by an eon’s worthy suffering in surfaces. Helical spouts push on to brinks of battled shoreline craze, to purity’s emblazoned crest, to seas of crystal fertile breech, to saline lattice, arching airborne for an instant, carving fathom’s overture. Lesser beasts and shouts of wooden fleets, the shame immense in senseless hordes, last but a foolish second’s span in fortune’s turn of endless bliss, providing but a tiny speck in otherwise unblemished skies, a moment’s existential chance to billow up from single cells, course the ocean’s stormy wake, and soon descend to watery gaze.