Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, September 9, 2012


by John Pursch

Humans debark at chock-a-chap clips, flexing anklet braces in serried lunges, uniformed flanks merging into hellway aisles, mumbling coughs, metallic lockstep jargon breathe oozing down empathic corridors, flooding the Tubal Trapdoor’s vaulted region of the Unit Disc. Analytic continuation is granted to all seekers, unconditioned passage to JFK-18’s quixotic boxcar realm of latter gratis uberstereo, kinder-wonder-doughy body of migratory minions, given under handedness to torqued matadors in arboreal dungeons, crabs not included.

Her belt’s barking mules a minuet, in time with Baited Oven symphonics: “Kirov, Lola; Deputy Commodore, Untied States; Lost Animals, Two Days Ago.”

Entry whir, whizzer of oblivion, deflecting cordoned consciousness, grafting pseudopod to worn hamstring juicer: “Came on, came on, Kirov 55748, cleared Lost Annulus, ship to silence.”

Sequestered science fuels in floating floors of florid quotations, empathizing with every nude arrival, deriving all known and future well-wisher’s myriad dreams, contained in simple vials of nutrient, carefully spilled over the anointed forelocks of even the most meager. Warm, clear drops of simulated grain’s lifeblood, lifted from undersea chasms, scepters of gravy toil, cisterns of long-abandoned digs in the plains of dustiest Campania; merging with wayward corpuscular collage, a million viscid traces, fledgling pride’s filched canister. Anterior totems wing above the heads of bobbing converts, filling lungs with aerosol belief, spawning generational tactics, guaranteeing futile allegiance to the world’s laborious creed. 

Down tactile cramps, in textured crimson rows, deftly switched from tourists to inductees, elbowing whey from lactose seams, skillfully shunted to proving grunts and scolding taunts, flashed back into the very same transport on which they’d arrived, flown by the likewise slaked and lubed Lola Kirov, now ascending, intercontinental drift profile, heading whirl zone contrail underflow, livery chest a stable luft aweigh.

1 comment:

  1. I love this poem. The alliteration is striking without being repetitive, and the brilliant imagery flows through the poem without cluttering the diction. Instead, the imagery nearly creates the diction, as if beginning in darkness and illuminating the path of the poem forward, like a rising sun illuminating a room in the morning. Well done.