Sawdust Saturday

by John Pursch

High-speed getaway on blue caboose, fleet of fighting barbell dinging each and every dockyard dilettante with diurnal distress, packed in iconography, calling after grafted limbs in pseudonymous tattoos.

Eerie elocutionary lectures on apple pie, Sundays on a sandy beach, beans falling from a deep blue sky above the desert highway, all the way from Novella Scofield’s Pair o’ Sexy Shooting Gals, like isles of stormy gales atop a cresting wave, a gravel scene before the caterwauling end-time piece, detaining Ankle Jimmy Crunch to husky dogsled watch, wider than established settlements west of Oregano Trailer Parka’s bulbous broadside bevy of buxom bucolic roadside comedy of errors, air gun horrors, terrorized yet timid timepiece salesmen, crockery watchers, gabby gobs stuffed with olfactory delights, incandescent spinning pantaloons pulled down and out to soggy cartridge carousels of Carbuncle Slammy, torn below the panty line to pontoon brim to headway gangplank distance crush in spacetime waddle repercussion.

Whimpering pawn shop owner, he can only laugh on every other sawdust Saturday at heaven-colored moths, known to flea-bitten closet squeegee artists who patrol the downtown streets for stray neophytes.

“I cannot tell ya, nor even hint at a whining scintilla of my bubbling suffrage; quack till android chance to vote, maximize my meager offal, clearly quixotic and spurious spawn into semblance of a samovar, rusty young goofy good-fer-nuthin’ poisoned wristwatch, satchel of explosive cigarillos, typecast maiden straddling a peasant’s seedy flytrap on parietal gunboat double-buckshot waterfall equator drench, quenching cottontail smooch with teeny bump of frozen horse or sticky sophistry or escalator pumps left cockeyed by gourmet tornado.”