poem || John Pursch

Annus Mirabilis

Annus mirabilis…

The concept strikes me as redundant.

For every day is miraculous.

Every moment is a miracle.

Fresh creation,

instantaneous and concrete.

Behold the wonder!

Open eyes, heart, mind, arms, cities, states,

hills and dales, countrysides, skies without borders,

limitless possibilities spawning contingency,

abstraction taking flight in furtive scape

of jet propulsion disregard in mobile fantasies

convolved with diesel inhalation sidebar broth

of downtown city bus infarction,

fixing gridline mental marker habitation

cockpit steerage turnstile jumpers into raw habitual release,

from torpid fluid cellphone tile to atrophy of frozen lassitude

in basement tumbleweed motel extravaganza’s tattooed parlance,

swigging offhand pterodactyl parts

in platitudes per million oratory folios

from shaken spears and drawn dichotomies

of diagrammatic ancillary oxymoronic obituaries,

meant for nether highway relish pontoons and choice effluvia.

Posh tailgaters elaborate in texting chunky tombstone habits,

plunking drowned caterpillars from tanning brothel bedpan spillage,

savory at twice the twinkling’s turbid turbine

speed-to-rationed-concavity setting.

Known to sunset addicts as the finest desultory insult available

in any dubiously dawdling ink pad polisher’s monumental echo chamber

of jambalaya shams and shanty derriere coulisse motif collection kit,

this perennial yet dusty peregrination prevails timidly

with shunned extremities of little hands and tiny waving feet

to blind adornment’s rainbow gloss to slightly mollified retraction posture’s 

effervescent callow rumination, now quenching amber starlight.

Papal streamers, ditched interment fleas, and corrugated placid sheep

all wandered miles beyond a known man’s lunging radius

to catch a glimpsing toreador’s fueled wisp of rank emotional stubble.

It really was high time that bland matador took a razor to that ragged beard.