Pursuit
Matthew Cocco

Pursuit (correct me if I’m wrong)
is an evacuated glass house
of weeds boiled in a pot
grabbed by stripped knees
and dropped on peace protests.

The Pursuit.
Un
lit cigarettes
in a kid’s sandbox.

Shimmer of fire’s cleaver burns
a blanket into a quilt of lights. Flames spread
like raccoon rabies. Pursuit

after smiles carved onto mirrors.
Pillow cases smothered
in perfume thunder
of Sif’s 24 karat hair.

The pointless pursuit.


Run. Run. Run.

Thirsty batons call
python belts home.

Floor boards yelp
under fugitive boots.

Pursuit can lead to employment.

Mariners trot into tear buckets
searching for treasure.
Scuba divers submerged in Loch Ness
try to make sense
of promises.


I heard pursuit has its slums
where scalpels dip themselves
in Death’s footprints. Apology

letters written in Paper Mate weep
in sewers littered with I love you’s
without a mate.


Again, there it is. Pursuit.

Latched on the back
of decomposed composition.

Path with no end, but with a beginning.

Cold, separated thoughts
chill like dead, severed heads
tossed in iced pits
of shattered lyres. Orpheus
would be pissed.


Pursuit? Maybe it could be storing all
your ideas under your almonds. You’ll be considered
nuts looking up to Calvin Klein in a world
where underwear’s becoming less prominent.

Step into the cave where crocodile
jaw-crushed dreams lay like a candy
piece trail.

Make sure you don’t follow pursuit
in a chase for that bootleg holy grail.

When in pursuit of pursuit make sure
you wear your Pur suit. Shit spews
when interviews don’t pursue the
United States criterion.

Pursue a 9-5 cubicle
and
pursue recycled presidents
but
don’t
pursue beverage umbrellas.

So what is pursuit anyway?