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.
Gaia died in my arms tonight
and my digits shook.
Now my tongue swells
from another dose of electroshock
while my head swells with a wealth of knowledge.
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
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
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.
no time for formal introductions
when pants hit his ankles
before she has the chance
to get good and drunk.
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 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.
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
Welcome to the Golden Gate, the head-gate,
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.
- 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
over those who stare into the eyes of Sphinx
and roll across fields
into another afternoon shower over ashes
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.
Days break over million mile water treatment facilities
and shade mausoleums,
with watchful eyes patrolling riverbanks and when did the world become recycled?
No more oasis –
Birds of Paradise fly North for
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.
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.
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.
If the Universe be not obliged,
why must man?