mr. fantastic goes on a bender

Sue having crystal skin 
isn’t the only reason
I haven’t seen her in eons. 
I can smell the multiverse 
but can’t catch a whiff of her 

translucent soul since I got potted
on intergalactic mead, smashed
a few planets together, woke up
that one angry god who keeps time
strapped to his chest. Big deal, 

I’ve saved the world more days 
than even I can count. Don’t I
deserve a few lost nights? I’ll make eyes 
at some cosmic catnip and spread 
our love across twelve moons. 

And yes, sickos, I can stretch that 
part too. I just have to watch behind 
my expanding back, unfold my eyes 
around my head trying to spot 
my wife’s invisible arms 

folded in judgment, scents of dried 
lavender and quasar accretions. 
You think I’m proud? Sometimes 
the world’s smartest man can do 
the galaxy’s dumbest things.

that’s all folks

In old cartoons, characters levitate at nothing 
more than an odor. You’ll catch dogs cruising along
white ribbons of scent spiraling from toasted pies 
left on a sill to cool. Their souls must be buoyant,
their BMI low enough to float on mere potential. 

I’ve never seen a coyote fly or a pig soar. Never 
seen a duck do anything but struggle. I did watch 
a stranger save a life. Performed CPR before 
plunging fist into chest to pump at his heart 
like an oil derrick. The dying man didn’t complain. 

You don’t get to pick your savior. You don’t get to 
timestamp the exact moment your conscience
lifts off, pierces the ceiling of your studio apartment
like how earth decides it’s time to form mountains.
Slowly at first, then with one fantastic crack.

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Ben Starr is a proud member of Bursky Collective and a reader for Dishsoap Quarterly. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Bruiser, Bulb Region, HAD, Gone Lawn, Maudlin House, Scaffold and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com