Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, March 18, 2012


by John Pursch

Chocolate burbles into the night, slipping through silent dreams of rotating groceries and bashful lists, tearing pages from a house pet’s front lawn. Gravel pools in quiet steam salons, eerily mothering a warm pinata, planting rare ingots of tiled ivory in everyman’s resilient tomb. Combing the beach for songs, therapeutic anglers smooch beneath the everlasting moon, giggling and cavorting in triumphal repose. Clans of destiny’s finest ankles hobble for sacks of sour balls, sweetening the potholes of tomorrow’s last invention, turning cranks into Everclear legends. Pink plays evolve into scenic drivers, turning egret musings at the drop of dimensional innings. Pairs of sticky diction fluffers, interred with mown hayseeds, flex their dithyrambic monologues, splashing highballs on a dusty olive, jacketed in umlauts. Tumblers douse liturgical moors in overflow’s fine sentinel, catching hearsay for creased stewards, making fury out of banner years. Gumdrops stashed away for drained raisins slam phased trauma seekers, pinching an affable switchboard plugger’s index toe in cowhide grammar need. Always on the peering parasite’s contrail, high-flying capsules spin yardarms full of resinated primes, cruising to the nimble alarm of baby talk and integral Sundays, matching residues with harems of null set motifs. Entire blowing arches curse the ribboned seeds, clashing with crayon complexity in an ulterior prism’s roasted pram. Gaslight hunger mires the millions above cloud top creeds, chipping away from trusty green pocks of sent urchins, looking for weathered relief. Urns upset tyrannical oxen, lunging into frayed yodelers, cackling at prized studio pears, winded and bereaved. Camping gales immerse stone lumber in obsidian welter ponds, blushing in the lakefront glare, backlit and bewildered. Derricks primp for the mighty standardized festival rites, sawing off loaned timber, faring well enough. Grappling with wellhead donkeys over half a camelback tribe, altered merchants sail for phony island shins, halting at whaling lawns, swallowing ancient lures. Encrusted in blank sunrise, clay crab denizens inch from tidal swans, hurtle a priestly orb, and fan across a century’s smoothly risen foam.

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