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.

 

Life Support

We are all gods,

holy,

if only to ourselves,

as we bathe in quarks and quasars.

We are quarks and quasars.

.

We are dirt,

kneaded into consciousness,

made into holy cabals

and held together

by the weakest bonds of

faith and fortune.

.

Sat upon by ego and information,

holy, only so far as we desire to become,

and wait for metamorphosis -

a run in the silk string theory

where we incubate and wait

to be born again.

Treasure Island

In youth,

I threw a bottle to the tide,

and pretended to be

shipwrecked.

.

But it washed back to shore,

as if to say,

“No one even knows

you’re gone.”

Melting Point

There was a time

       when I covered myself in clay and sat upon a potter’s wheel,

       and tried to become her greatest piece of art.

There was a time

       when I could have built something from the scraps of conquistadors,

       now rusted from a steady saline flush.

There was a time

       when warrior’s cries struck fear in the hearts of man and beast, and

       aroused her fleshy mound.

There was a time

       when I crashed into the surf, after dreaming I could fly.

Gaia died in my arms tonight
and my digits shook.
.
Now my tongue swells
from another dose of electroshock
therapy,
.
while my head swells with a wealth of knowledge.

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