Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Days Again

by John Pursch

Always in I’llbequirky donut house, waffling between timelines, Lola renews her vows of loyalty to state-fed broth supply, singing facial hymns of old anxiety and anguished disregard for friendly foes, sliding into past regression status fate, picking up a subtle cue of weeks in slippage, timing gearbox grinding, loosened into further plunge, buckled feet dissolving, thighs become transparent, wonder vaguely now how Montauk Chair became delivery boy semantic chase machine, pinned to extradition’s trace, greeted by authorities at luminous temporal border…

Began as weekend jaunt per bureaucratic watchdog, simple loose-end journey, inner outage, double-time bubble spiral into Raw Swell’s delusory epidermal zone; swept to Towels, marked congealed, bucketed to Days Ago per frothing manic protocol, reaped digression requisite to satiate supernal norms, body-bagged to Montauk wobble, Merry Itchy music, peep shots, still return beyond the Untied States. Inferred pleasure subtly brought to bear through diplomatic duct tape, but decades in a dusty villa dominate, all for dog erasure, disavowal of future lives, strict proximity lunch from Untied States to statute heaven, haven-free beyond relapsed authority.

Phasing into conscious feed, Lola’s in a dingy bar, sweaty, caked with dust, juke box nonsense chatter, cerveza preparada, how did handgun, revolving walls, low stucco ceiling, someone groping gringo, staggering to barefoot stumble out to blinding windblown streets of Eighties autos, braying orchestrated extras, atmospheric jumble, dimmest memes of old-time tin-hunk fusion, definitely not her pastiche, but who can deny their own pet saga, drawn from textured gravity’s welled-up tomb? No one argues with reality in Days Ago, urged to live along a lungful at a twisted time, springing momentary headlock, told to hope for rural lease, mealy funnel to urban hell-hole hopscotched into time-disease vibration, decimal skin pries coup d’etat along with bodied hurl, fallow till an early moonrise, yearning for detached secretion dues. She bumps along a pastel wall, wooden walkway, tries to stay in simple lag-free focus, heading off the blurs, leer avoidance, sees her handheld deal in progress, tosses gun to random hombre, clatters into wood, amusing local nervous boiling sky drives into shade, Federales roll to stop in granulated cinders, pop the trunk to vending class occlusion closets, flicker of periphery resounds and she’s filtered forward, furrowed brow discerning silent integration’s fanning static, fleeting footfalls carry into transfer doorway now secluded, hands return in concrete faucet drop.

Jazz quartet in ritzy flat overlooks Gulf of Days Ago sunrise from balcony trying to resolve street noise ambient monoxide must be ten stories up in Cannedcon sound of distant rocket strikes horizon plumes adrift muffled mortar rounds falling in the city. Party raging, stands from sofa only to be tackled headlong dive by wildly wasted woman in failing sundress mouth-to-mouth pinned to wall-to-wall tangling tongues lotta lipstick straddled and strangely stiff recalling Days Again technology prone to bad boundaries healthy conclusion she’s a man not her but Lola herself is wooden subjected to timeline seepage now reliving some pseudorandom dude’s bestial morning by design mistake or chance who knows no controlling the recursive calls just lie back and enjoy it people stumbling spilling tequila on her laughing dancing this could go on till noon she’s suddenly no it can’t stone arching oblivion release to battered daydream of scintillating feet chattering in buckled shoes thighs coalesce in visible loins clenched hands leather armrests body landing flash of Montauk restraints smiling to operators hazy beeline from Toothy Canned Sequences direct to Towels, wearing a dress no less…

“Yes, yes, Miss Kirov, all better now, let’s see… Return address The Puntagain, Buggy Fatima Metro, Watchingstoned, T.V.”

Sodden whirling metro brakes behind familiar voice: “Buggy Fatima…” Automatic rising to leather boots trudging in unison soft bell snap of doors onto steep eternal escalator turnstile giving way to streets of old T.V., hailing cab…


  1. “I’ll be quirky” and say that John Pursch is a genius. Mathematically trained, he applies his mathematical permutations to language. (I am guessing, but remain clueless.)

    The bad news is that he is probably “over our heads.” The good news is that his “arbitrary” language juxtapositions (to us laymen) are funny as hell. One does not have to understand something to think it is funny. Is a fart funny? When the fart comes from the Queen of England – YES!

    John Pursch is farting for us on the highest level of thought, beyond language, so we can be free for a moment, as we read his prose poem which transcends all the expected, programmed verbal garbage that dulls our existence.

    John Pursch is showing us how to WAKE UP! We just have to relax, listen to his voice, and enjoy!

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