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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.

<{Baba^Yaga}> 11-Dec-02/3:54 PM
all poetry is confessional. prison mentality? slam poetry? these are all words that you toss around, not me, i would never be caught dead reffering my poetry to either of those labels. what others write about me or classify my shit as, and with, is their opinion. also my nose is cretian, olive brown and not detachable. this piece was not planned, nor is it something i would sit and stare at, and go, well... let's try and make this hunk of "confession was it?" ten worthy. that's what editors are for and assholes like you. i don't get paid for this, so it retains its pure value to me as a magical process that goes against 'images', 'pre-conceived notion', 'edges', and whatever other critique-ing term you throw around, loosely might i add, to help you sleep at night. see...it's like this your generation played pinball...mine played atari. heroin sadly, has nothing to do with anything, nor has it ever. it's just another plant amongst many that can be used not to write 'better', but to sleep longer. then, never sleep again. you are a sad, sad little man.




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