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Sparks, until Sunvalley. (Free verse) by <{Baba^Yaga}>

The Spark's Railroaders, that's my team. Where I go to school. I'm underdeveloped, and anything, but cool. I have one more period than most of the other kids, because I have to swim first thing in the morning. My grandma tends to wake me up early with her snoring. That's okay cuz I love her man, she's all I fucking got when both my parents jumped ship she made sure I didn't rot. She might smoke all day, and live on the couch. Have me change her channel, and fix her screw-drivers. Count out her pills, and be her mailbox retriever. It's all good, It don't make me slouch. Plus, I still hook up with the late night crouch. Out the window to smoke Marlboro reds with the guys, and throw ice-balls at cars coming home from the bars. Then we gaze up at stars, and try to find Mars. A Crimson glow... Pulling me, away. Sometimes, we go down to the Sanitarium (club house) to play AD&D. Our fort in the hills is border-line obscene. It smells like the nest of a wounded white roc. All lit up with candles on skulls, and on rocks. Metallica blares, "Ride the lightning" all day. We smoke pot, and dream of guitars we might play. But is it all well? That's the question inside. A fact of the game is that the fog must subside. The trailor is gone, but the marks are still there. The hills are developed, still nobody cares. "Grandma! Grandma!" My voice goes unheard. Her Cadillac's gone, along with my bird. I'm spinning in circles. My arms stretch extend. I've been tricked by my mind. Now a slave to the trends. Sweet Sharon, is dead, and now I'm a man. Missing you nana. it's all in my head. I did what I could. I did all I can. I did what I had to. I turned and I ran. Now, Crushing top the poppies, pressing forms sublime, hands run gently over. Taking sap to save, for a crave I know, How to forget better than you. <yawners> How to move on quicker than you. <nodders> How to turn a mud mask to stone, <Masons>. And juggle worlds with colonies of algae. Superimposing a residue for the queen of my mind, Hedwig, and steel spikes do no replacement make. To chest hair, and rhyme. A squeeze to catch your breath. Then Reno.

poetandknowit 11-Dec-02/2:48 PM
Cut the confessional wanderings and the telling-to-much antics and focus solely on some on the better images of this poem and you may have something in the end. But I know, I know, this is really high art and I should just go fuck myself because when we are all long dead they will be studying this in schools going "why didn't anybody understand that this man was ahead of his time. The Jimi Hendrix of poetry."




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