24 - Atlanta, GA
.
I'm Silverstein and Seuss with jumper-cables to the balls.
.
Unless otherwise noted, all poetry and creative writing it the original work of Owen B. Anderson. All work is © copyright, but please share and give due credit.

 

Magic Mushrooms

This is the cocaine binge  

I’ve been hunting

for so long.  These are onion

petals on the first island of Lotus,

where I lose my ability to speak.

Toes and star gazers

are lit by fire and my fingers

grow,

cracked like 4000 tombs built by 4000 cherubs

and their tears and their cries and ejaculate on the walls.

I don’t want imaginary super heroes, and tales and tails

of Kitsune dancing for the torch mob. 

Going back again to stop genocide in my lap  .

I don’t want to fight

but can only seem to stop

the feeling under my fingernails

long enough to exhale as I am swallowed in amber and ale.

I need to control the music that never dies.

Jet set radio never dies. 

Foxy foxy foxy Japanese never dies

Ahoy sailor!

and fuck her once over on the hill top where she dies.

I pick my
scabs to make scars
.
to tell the stories for which a thousand words
.
can never tell.

Personal Ad

no time for formal introductions

when pants hit his ankles

before she has the chance

to get good and drunk. 

some point,

between the small of her back

and his coarse hairy palms,

she looks at the picture

      of her son by the alarm clock

and cries out

      in pain or pleasure or regret

      or whatever it was

that made her cry,

her Superman was coming.

Time is God

Time exists and it doesn’t.

It rests in infinity and waits to be measured around the head for its thorns.

It cannot be seen, but leads the vagabond to refuge.

Time is damning and redeeming in eternity.

But time has no nemesis,

so I guess

Time outlives God,

the same way the Nile outlives Pharaohs.

Gepetto

Ahab called and

Huckleberry called and

Gilligan played the violin behind a two way mirror and

Jimmy played chords like marionette strings,

pipering speakeasy symphonies

repopulating ghost town taprooms

            with gold rush

refugees.


.

Welcome to the Golden Gate, the head-gate,

the lychgate,

            the tailgate,

the Gates of Ishtar,

the seed of pestilence and plague

and Sophia’s reliquary where

            aftermarket value skyrockets discontinued parts

and labor fees

and corporate ventriliquists squirm as the teleprompter

reads blitzkrieg propaganda

            - to the illiterate -

            - to the YOLO -

            - to the Swag -

- to Anonymous -

whose railroad is still underground,

who sings hymns in the belly of the whale,

and reads gospels of epic heroes,

and blasphemes gospels of epic heroes.

Sweet

-          the two story duplex where my ticker tocks

-          the salty river where my Dutchman sails

-          the cobbled streets where my hours smile

-          the setting sun where my horizons illuminate

-          the glass pipe where my pudding melts

-          the box springs where my lip balm burns

-          the river bridge where my time’s suspended

-          the orange rinds where my wild things romp

-          the midnight run where my Penelope looms

-          the thousand hours where my homecoming parades

-          the highschool hallway where my pastries puff

-          the license plate where my fellatio died

-          the evening square where my flasks empty

-          the last chapter where my sequel waits

To the Health of the Pretender

I.

Graces fall

over those who stare into the eyes of Sphinx

and roll across fields

of reckless

abandon

into another afternoon shower over ashes

of Pompeii.

 

II.

Noses turned up

at crosswinds, four corners, four thousand years

to Cleopatra -

and another scholar cursed

with scarab crawling from nostril

to womb to tomb to golden towers.

 

III.

Days break over million mile water treatment facilities

and shade mausoleums,

with watchful eyes patrolling riverbanks and when did the world become recycled?

 

IV.

No more oasis –

Birds of Paradise fly North for

Ever.

Lukewarm

I gathered the sweetest tender, and built nests

of the finest saplings, and sturdy branches

stood tee-pee tall, and dark draped over the framework

of my fire, and I crawled inside

and dreamt of hail.

Like Nothing Else…

No one has ever been,

but there is a hill –

south of mountain harbors and north of holiday cheer,

east of Eden and west of melanoma sun-kissed skin –

where poems can go

to write themselves.

Kite

Front porches flirt -

with possibilities of hanging ferns,

and flamingo willows beating their posts,

and bird baths knocked over by rogue winds,

 

and then they reconsider.

Babel

I scratched a poem into my front yard’s oak.

Now my words might reach the Heavens.