Forty-Second Flugelhorn by John Pursch

Memories dissolve in twelve-gauge sawed-off knuckle hand-to-fist of pleasing pompadour on rack of tumbling catch canary cannot cock a timepiece into action, fencing moral tourniquet.

Holding onto not a nary weary parried fairy tale of self or unheard victory in taut delusion liberty, public accolades devolve in airy asthma, actuaries nodding over sums of total egg contraption, frills in tuckered kernel taupe of painted gallon drip to doghouse telephone, impulsive prudent blame in bigger dreams of raw incessant timber fuel to propped papyrus wedding tools in clumpy funds receding into bayou.

Elevated bowline pause erupts in licensed stockyard cliffs, flopping onto city streets, gutters over leaning choirs of hushing bus stop tipped to idle scare of yelling shell to broken man of wartime insolence, peaceful hollow aptitude, inked insensate rodeo of looping liners, canned with filial repeat.

Homeward bound in upper room, hallway deftly empties into past of disregarded facts or truly cellular disease, surfeit into cure of staring down an elongated mine, propping forecast up among anachronistic cloudburst pines to grand piano trills in chocolate seams of caramel, pungent rent long overdue, lungs amassed by stevedores in hailstorm gall or cab line bullhorn dockyard call to forty-second flugelhorn.

John Pursch
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback at Check out his experimental lit-rap video at Follow his work @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

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