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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.
Up the ladder:
Moon and Azalea
Down the ladder:
Stolen Away
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 8.428572
Posted: December 11, 2002 12:18 PM PST; Last modified: June 9, 2003 5:37 PM PDTWeighted score: 5.922085 Overall Rank: 1410 Comments:
[10]
god'swife @ 209.179.214.60
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11-Dec-02/12:52 PM
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Can someone help me, I think that I'm lost here, lost in a place called America... I am crying now because of your poem and Mr. Foster's poem and talking with Andrea last night about her dead dad, and Joey asking me questions about how exactly did his father's head get bashed in, and how did it look and an articleIi just read about the decay of my homeland and everythings so overwhelming. Joey put on his band uniform last-night for a final fitting and he looked so dear with his little bowtie and cumberbund. He'll be 12 tomorrow and still doesn't understand what a frightening, pain-filled world this is. It's layers deep. I will cry for a few more minutes and then i must pluck up the courage to trudge ahead for your boy, for my boy, for me. I love your poem. The soft sweet part of you.
[0]
poetandknowit @ 65.101.212.6
> god'swife
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11-Dec-02/3:08 PM
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Reply
I think if California (minus San Francisco) would fall into the ocean it would be a great news story. But first I would want the 40,000 goofs who traveled here in 1993 and started a craze that has lead to the ridiculous californiazation (sprawl, cars, sprawl, ugly buildings, look how pretty I am) of Colorado to go home and join the swim. Then we could work on building real culture and real cities again; (minus SF of course), but if we have to give it up, well we can build a new one on the chunk of land left over. Of course, the democratic party would take a beating, but they need to refocus anyway and find a new progressive direction. Maybe this would be the first step. Just maybe the world be a better place without Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson and Poison and soap operas and people who get off an sticking hands in cement.
[10]
god'swife @ 209.179.214.75
> poetandknowit
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11-Dec-02/4:41 PM
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If I call you on my cellphone will you come out to save me? I'll be the little thing floating on a raft made of silcone implants (and they called Noah crazy). Would you PAKI would you brave the Tsunamis to come to my rescue ? Just think of the photo-op... Giant Journalist saves Petite Poetess from Drowning in an Ocean of Tears. accompanied by a picture of me standing on a chair my arms around your big neck. I had a boyfriend once who was 6'5" are you as tall as that?
[n/a]
<{Baba^Yaga}> @ 24.126.113.154
> god'swife
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11-Dec-02/6:29 PM
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could you not use my little 'moments' in time for your befouling attempts at sluttery? i'm trying to have a moment with davy crocket here damnit.
[n/a]
<{Baba^Yaga}> @ 24.126.113.154
> poetandknowit
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11-Dec-02/6:24 PM
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Reply
funny story 'confessional actually' don winger and his brother's hand prints and names are right outside my front door on the sidewalk...ha!1!ha1HA!HAAA!!!isn't that hilarious?! WINGER! HA! HA! HA!! remember that kid on beavis And but head show with the winger shirt wasn't that the pre-bobby bobby from king of the hill...what am i talkingh about again? ah yeah WINGER! HA! HAAAAA! HA!
[n/a]
<{Baba^Yaga}> @ 24.126.113.154
> poetandknowit
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11-Dec-02/6:35 PM
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tommy should put his peter in the cement along with his post motley crue fucking smirk...residuals and royalties must be nice...god knows he hasn't done shit since but tape himself banging skanky bay watch trim, and try to rap.
[n/a]
<{Baba^Yaga}> @ 24.126.113.154
> poetandknowit
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23-Dec-02/12:46 PM
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Reply
i counted, there would be 14 large islands left over (being the tops of certain mountains. lets name them?
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."
i'll put your opinion right next to my guitar pick collection. To be lost in the dulling colors and teeth marks. here let me help you out, i'll give myself a zero and take your critic to my eyebrows like a straight-razor cuz that's how fucking much i care about what you think mr. poetry.
At least I gave you a 3.
Hey, I know. I predicted your response. You are so far ahead of your time, man. Confessional poetry will be all the rage one day. And you my friend are doing things that no one else is doing. I was giving constructive notes. Take the big red nose off. You have nice images here, but a good deal of muck. But I know, slamming poets like yourself are above rewriting. It takes the edges off the work. It loses the prison mentality. Please. I think you would actually be more interesting if you were on heroin.
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.
Funny, you put a generation between us. I believe I am only a few years older than you, but I must admit I love pinball, still do. Never had the pleasure of owning Atari or coloeco )sp) or a TV for that matter. Maybe it is all those diplomas. Yes, my friend, it was that hard knocks on the streets of KC. The tinman here wandered day after day through the drug infested mean streets until one day I met this guy and did a favor for him...because everthing dies hours8 that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back, put you makeup on fix your superman hair up pretty and meet me tonight in Culver City. Please define sad little man; I am actually quite tall, and I am not sad, I am happy. Are you happy hours8. Do you get free food from the Boston Chicken?
No all poetry is not confessional. Only a pretty boy would say that. I changed my vote; feel better. This is a revolutionary work of heartbreaking, staggering genius.
have you just read a certain novel, p&k? why is that the compliment du jour?
unfortunately, there will be no drawings of my mother's scissors.
i do get free food from boston market. are you in culver city? what at the airport? pinball is arguably better than sex occasionally. i know everything dies, my hair looks nothing like superman. no, i'm not fucking happy DAMNIT! south parks on tonight though, and ha! made you say coeleco!? what else? oh yeah..sony studios is in culver city, why are you?
are you in culver city? i'll buy you a beer.. i'm bored anyway. and i will have you know i am to viggo mortenson what pretty is to a chunk of colby cheddar.
i like colby cheddar.
i played both pinball and atari. i am older than both of you, which is why i suppose i preferred pinball. actually, it's the physicality of slightly grinding the machine, to move the heavy steel ball, but never tilt it, that was so attractive. violence, tightly reigned in, and seductive--when you get that inanimate 4-legged box to go your way.
my brother, on the other hand, preferred the joystick. he would go sleepless playing space invaders. he is one year my junior, and still older than you guys. my mom still prefers a typewriter to a computer. old habits die hard, h.
i hate x-mas, and all this fucking waiting..I WANT A JOB! I WANT A JOB! i want to feed my fish god damnit. i want a joint...why won't they call? will they call..they should just fucking call, CALL, CALL CALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i did a good job damnit why wont the phone ring????ringie dingie dingie RING!!!!!!!!!!is he in culver city?
maybe they are caught up in a game of resident evil 0, and that's why they don't call. maybe they still haven't defeated the masters in zelda: occarina of time. maybe they're still playing space invaders, DAMMIT!!!!
oh, and i don't know where he lives, zackly.
besides the whole death thing, the flashbacks tend to remind me of what i did...well, today. and yesterday. and next weekend, pending the new job's drug testing policies. how much longer can i revel in my youth?
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