If you love, adore the moon. If you rob, steal a camel.

Stories for the Long Silk Road

Monday, February 3, 2014

John Pursch: Sylvia

She has been in my body now for several years maybe forever and just discovered recently observed in shadow mind yes in neural waypoints of simple ideograms of thought chalice overload pouring vestibules to glimpse emphatic dawn in hallowed beauty’s malfeasance swoop to world liquid. 

How did she enter unseen voiceless without floorboard creak or hint of daylight pantry bobble capstone greatcoat opening? 

A precipice of merging hair, from auburn sky to beet entendre to backstroke catapult to armchair discourse, undersea ink’s chromatic coma screaming silver yesses and we are running down corridors of brilliant grass on empty stomachs in stigmata overgrowth, eternal emblems of prosaic distress, laughing now a bright yellow cackle ruptures the night, bridging headline pews beyond flickers of cat door ketosis in missing fowl perhaps a wild gazelle flashing half follies into hairline fixtures of her sudden death report to generations barely born, somatic yearlings left to read about water, mighty spans, and frozen flows of pipelined tulip surgery…

The spectacles are off, no tears behind the wooden highlands, shivers all but manifest in cropped cylindrical skullcap semblance of childhood’s interrupted dream compartment canister convolved in floes of oxygen pistons legging out the crunch of gravel courtyard drive-thru contraption shunt. 

We are together early, off and onto intermittently interred blissful slumber’s woolen gasket slightly poised ahead around coronal fusion’s word line cone, spinning tandem overload for all.

“Why?” is tossed away, bobbled to country hills, flipped out speeding windows, splashing passing sky with neon tundra’s guilt guffaw, return embrace, confession’s rented thunderclap often followed deep to fuel line memories of motive habit breathless gusty smile atop her final edgewise page this very week of line feed consequence and burning aloe early morning laundry lamp for infant treason carefully regarded.

And always clocked in droning profusion our numbered daisy wheel emerges glints recedes thought hand eyes touch lapsing into chewed notebooks a fragment digested outline of an inverse profile winking into oblivion.

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Silk Road Mantra

by Suchoon Mo

bury me not

in the lone Silk Road

I go and go

from west to east

I go and go

from east to west

bury me not

in the lone Silk Road


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