John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
Trip to Planet Zinco
Commotion-free police tremble in iron quicksand, belongings scraped to carbide metallic yoyo dish of contrail flesh. Undercurrent of stuporous wealth contraption confabulates a richly infamous neural spirochete to fixate any hidden agenda straight outa mouthy ritualistic lawman hustle, busting into waveform swill.
“Which way to Falling Back Brace Tendencies?” I reckon axial quench be battered shoestring salesman conquest of lucky slob repeater film, coughed to dirty secondhand life.
Sullen ticket agent just look away, stifle belch into folded mosquito netting, slump over steering wheel in detritus of ‘50s war-torn zebra, wad with striped T-shirt nonsense scream held in pending locomotion by Magellanic clod.
“Sure, I tell you, but first you buy exploding trinket from Planet Zinco,” was all he ever said, some kinda lapel toupee flipped over-easy sawdust style.
I fish in pocket for randomized currency, come up short again in senseless fury of sequential downpour, primate mumblers eyeing me through trapdoor septic dialect. Canopy of spaceport slogan collapse in warm combustible heap, scratching through fetid cheese lagoon for soggy wax loam, grown to six-foot corncob irrigation ditch of tempered stubble in facemask blues.
“Here, take off useless coinage sand fill bullion dollar nicotine perusal breath,” I proffer sweaty discs and crumbling banknotes in time-release delaying swerve as hands evaporate to dusk.
“Too late for tourist junket flick routine!” he cackles indiscriminate, all relaxed in beryllium nut grin, gleaming gums powdery wad with sneezing talcum block and steady grain of tackled footfall.
Just the same, he snatch the random money, salivating splendor begin to count in memorized precision, dead giveaway he’s holographic. Sure enough, I kick clean through would-be groin contraption thighs, flushing out ionic traceries of swollen pustule sag, frittered country lanes in southern bell-hop loquacity.
Sensing my passing cloud, the image counter clicks to offal pendulum and entire subway set debarks for parts unspeakable, leaving me in frozen desert tundra of High Chapultepec, what with paddleboat noggin doormen in such precociously youthful disguise.