Saturday, January 9, 2016

John Pursch- A Poem

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

Asymptotic Hope

There were but two or three pages remaining in her lifelong search for… well, she knew not what. After so many years of toil, strife, pain, she hadn’t even cornered the elusive label, the reclusive setting sun, the harbored inimitable steamer ship of lost illusion, paradigmatic afternoon siesta, rigorously bequeathed watchword and epitome of all she sought.

So much for daytime carousels, rapid racetrack shoes, whirling derbies, sailing vestibules upon a seized diamond, roughage before twilight’s bubbled headlong taciturn avowal of princely boredom, defalcation settling into flanges of an overseas missive.

Degrees of burgeoning wanton disheveled squadrons filed off into the night, cockades feathered with flawed hyena pelts, draining lifeblood avenues of monomaniacal gas, filtered down to snorkeling tranquilizer compartments aloft on bland dirigibles of heated Nubian onset, to merely incandescent surf, to smoldering stalls of shifting wheat in fielder’s choices too numerously moot to scavenge for promoted designer drafts.

Howlers sweated out their crafty cardigans of sepia in turncoat paranoia, flagrantly violating societal mornings with stockyard umbrage, steeping behavioral nuance plunge in beastly games of tag, falling in county seat sedation trysts for unseen courtyard sinecures.

“Still time,” she murmured to depth of dawning day, allowing just a glimmer of asymptotic a priori hope. Even in the absence of absolution’s steady hand, she struggled to let go, breathing steadfast ritual into seeping birdcall wanderings as time indeed continued.

But wouldn’t it proceed without her, given half a chance? And what would that mean, a differential reality, an unknown facet of identical procession, into what?

Words were on the vertiginous verge of deserting her, carnivals of known world whimsy poised to disagree with past performance symbolism, freeing all and then whatever supersedes imagination. Ambling to the window, she peeked outside and realized illuminating daybreak.

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