I once took a walk through the forest
and as I was stepping over logs, I saw
a small frog who was jumping along,
I probably would have let him be if he
hadn't reminded me of a certain writer that
I always wanted to be. So I followed him along
as he croaked a mournful song until we
reached his destination. It was a fallen space station
that was only filled with books. I took one look
through the titles and I became slightly bothered;
the names that I saw were only my favorite authors.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Sartre Jr. Goes to the Doctor by Eric Sparks
I remember how my finger tips felt when they took my finger prints,
alien. And I wouldn't linger another minute if they had said that I was finished.
Help. All I wanted was to leave that clinic; my self had been abolished and diminished. Hell.
I stiffened up, went rigid, when they told me not to fidget. Bells. I heard them tolling
in the distance. I asked the doctor why and he told me it was Christmas. Christmas already?
But I hadn't made my wishlist. Well, that wasn't my fault; Santa never listened. My presents went missing.
alien. And I wouldn't linger another minute if they had said that I was finished.
Help. All I wanted was to leave that clinic; my self had been abolished and diminished. Hell.
I stiffened up, went rigid, when they told me not to fidget. Bells. I heard them tolling
in the distance. I asked the doctor why and he told me it was Christmas. Christmas already?
But I hadn't made my wishlist. Well, that wasn't my fault; Santa never listened. My presents went missing.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
In Case I Wasn't Clear by Eric Sparks
Last night, the moon was stunning. It was bright, but not full.
Instead, it was the shape of a crescent except that here,
where I am, it did not look like a bear claw or a "C" like it always did at home.
Last night, the moon appeared as a smile or a "U" as if he was saying,
"You are more important than me."
Instead, it was the shape of a crescent except that here,
where I am, it did not look like a bear claw or a "C" like it always did at home.
Last night, the moon appeared as a smile or a "U" as if he was saying,
"You are more important than me."
Thou Art True by Eric Sparks
In the same way that dead puppies are true,
which is to say that shit does happen and Freud
could spend eternity researching the shit
that happened to happen to you.
And I do miss you, in the same way I miss rusty nails in my foot,
which always remind us that life could be worse, but I would swim
bare-ass naked through a pool of those nails before I dealt with you again.
So on a happier note, I will probably never hear your cat-killing
voice again and you will never read this.
which is to say that shit does happen and Freud
could spend eternity researching the shit
that happened to happen to you.
And I do miss you, in the same way I miss rusty nails in my foot,
which always remind us that life could be worse, but I would swim
bare-ass naked through a pool of those nails before I dealt with you again.
So on a happier note, I will probably never hear your cat-killing
voice again and you will never read this.
A Poem for Charles Bukowski by Eric Sparks
Just because I struggle
for every word,
doesn’t mean that I cannot write.
I just know how important,
the perfect poem is.
And on some days
the words tumble out of me,
with little to no effort, and I step back
and read what I hardly thought.
Other times,
it is all just shit,
so I close my computer
and my notepad, for I know that
day’s battle is already lost.
But generally, I think.
I think so hard that after I’m done,
all that is left
of my ragged brain is beautiful,
and I put that on the paper,
as best I can,
and call myself complete.
for every word,
doesn’t mean that I cannot write.
I just know how important,
the perfect poem is.
And on some days
the words tumble out of me,
with little to no effort, and I step back
and read what I hardly thought.
Other times,
it is all just shit,
so I close my computer
and my notepad, for I know that
day’s battle is already lost.
But generally, I think.
I think so hard that after I’m done,
all that is left
of my ragged brain is beautiful,
and I put that on the paper,
as best I can,
and call myself complete.
Take This Here (he says) by Eric Sparks
It’s flavored happy.
And then try this fruit,
it reminds me of sweaters.
(i think) Oh shit,
I love this, its
just like,
when mom
would hug me…
Take a bite of this apple, (he pleads)
Chew and then swallow,
Feel the clouds on your tongue,
And the sun in your stomach.
(he asks) Does it remind you of winter,
of warmth by the fire,
or maybe of spring,
of waking up clean?
No, (i say) its better than that,
This pear tastes like my favorite shoes,
like her cuddles, or mud puddles
like breaking the rules.
(he grins) Try the berries now,
(he says) relax in the sun,
don't they feel like a nap?
Close (he orders) your mind,
and sleep your stress
away.
He’s right, (I sigh), I feel,
like I want. I'm lost in a thunderstorm;
he's the one holding my hand.
Careful, (he laughs) I know,
how you feel, (he warns) but while this fruit
tastes like love,
its laced with the numb.
And then try this fruit,
it reminds me of sweaters.
(i think) Oh shit,
I love this, its
just like,
when mom
would hug me…
Take a bite of this apple, (he pleads)
Chew and then swallow,
Feel the clouds on your tongue,
And the sun in your stomach.
(he asks) Does it remind you of winter,
of warmth by the fire,
or maybe of spring,
of waking up clean?
No, (i say) its better than that,
This pear tastes like my favorite shoes,
like her cuddles, or mud puddles
like breaking the rules.
(he grins) Try the berries now,
(he says) relax in the sun,
don't they feel like a nap?
Close (he orders) your mind,
and sleep your stress
away.
He’s right, (I sigh), I feel,
like I want. I'm lost in a thunderstorm;
he's the one holding my hand.
Careful, (he laughs) I know,
how you feel, (he warns) but while this fruit
tastes like love,
its laced with the numb.
A Recognition Undervalued by Eric Sparks
I want to make you love him.
But I probably can’t.
I mean, these words never did work
quite as well on you
as they did on everyone else.
But anyways, he doesn’t get high;
and will only drink in moderation.
He hates his homework
and he does it anyways. Besides,
you shouldn't overlook how hard
he tries to try his best.
I know he’s not an artist;
He’s not Picasso, Neruda,
or Warhol. He’s not
Marley or Lennon
or Socrates.
Fuck, he’s not even me. But
lets not lie to ourselves;
we all know that’s probably
for the best.
So he’s not the greatest speaker;
remember that there are far worse things to lack
than the innate ability to mumble an intriguing conversation.
He’ll do what he supposed to,
bring home bacon and milk.
He was raised to believe that would make you happy.
How can you blame him for that?
Don’t misunderstand me:
don’t compromise your societal values,
don’t stray from your personal morals,
just consider you might not be so different,
I mean, most people aren’t.
But I probably can’t.
I mean, these words never did work
quite as well on you
as they did on everyone else.
But anyways, he doesn’t get high;
and will only drink in moderation.
He hates his homework
and he does it anyways. Besides,
you shouldn't overlook how hard
he tries to try his best.
I know he’s not an artist;
He’s not Picasso, Neruda,
or Warhol. He’s not
Marley or Lennon
or Socrates.
Fuck, he’s not even me. But
lets not lie to ourselves;
we all know that’s probably
for the best.
So he’s not the greatest speaker;
remember that there are far worse things to lack
than the innate ability to mumble an intriguing conversation.
He’ll do what he supposed to,
bring home bacon and milk.
He was raised to believe that would make you happy.
How can you blame him for that?
Don’t misunderstand me:
don’t compromise your societal values,
don’t stray from your personal morals,
just consider you might not be so different,
I mean, most people aren’t.
The Philanderer by Eric Sparks
He was a philanderer. And because of this, his other characteristics paled in the light of such a vibrant definition. It no longer mattered whether he liked coffee, or if he watched bad movies; it only mattered that he slept with multiple women.
He lived in a small town, and would casually engage in meetings multiple times a day, throughout the year. But once a month he would take his favorite lady, his someday wife, to a special place.
It was never the same place. Early in his sexual career, he would seek waterfalls, shaded woods, and country inns to use as his special places, in an immature attempt to create romantic perfection. But as he became more and more practiced, he grew to resent these places. Only amateurs and cliché enthusiasts fucked in waterfalls.
The philanderer only wished to offer his someday wife the most primitive, desirable joy of sex.
His someday wife was basic lady, and had no interest in the classic definition of sexual ecstasy. She did not care for manly aromas, long phalli, or toned muscles. She didn’t want a soft bed, silk sheets, or fluffy pillows. They were useless.
She loved the philanderer.
The philanderer’s new special place was a couch. An old, black couch. There was no sexy appeal to the couch; no erotic smell, no sensual fabric, and it was shit to look at. But it was comfortable to sit on, to lie on, to sleep on, to fuck on.
When in the town, they would occasionally get together; they really did enjoy each other. But in public, they generally acted as if they hardly knew each other, as if they were mere acquaintances. In fact, people who knew the philanderer often speculated that she was one of the few women with whom he refused to sleep with.
The someday wife knew about the philanderer’s habits, but ignored them as much as possible, and would not admit to him that it bothered her.
In actuality, she resented every woman he fucked, but she understood that ignoring his extramarital affairs would drive the philanderer crazy. She wanted tit for tat.
One day, while lying on the couch, the philanderer grabbed his someday wife’s hand, and quickly hurried through his marriage proposal. She responded yes, she would like that very much, but he would have to honor the promises of a traditional American wedding. While staring at the ground, the philanderer promised that he would.
She was scared.
The next week, they announced their wedding to be in the local paper, and that Sunday, once it was read, the town collectively rolled their eyes.
Six months later, they were married, in a small church, while sitting on the couch. They stayed seated there until everybody, all their friends, had left. They sat there quiet, and held hands and stared into the future. After they made love, the now current wife, looked him in the eyes, and said I hope to god you can do this. He said he could.
After sixty years of marriage, the philander lay on his deathbed. And his still current wife still held his hand. She said my friend, my husband, until we were married you fucked whoever you wanted. But this town is too small and so I know, after our wedding day, you did not fuck not one. I’m ashamed to tell you I’m surprised.
He said to her, friend, I knew I wouldn’t. Before I met you, I liked waterfalls, and sunny valleys, and trickling creeks and bed and breakfasts.
After I met you, all I needed was that couch.
He lived in a small town, and would casually engage in meetings multiple times a day, throughout the year. But once a month he would take his favorite lady, his someday wife, to a special place.
It was never the same place. Early in his sexual career, he would seek waterfalls, shaded woods, and country inns to use as his special places, in an immature attempt to create romantic perfection. But as he became more and more practiced, he grew to resent these places. Only amateurs and cliché enthusiasts fucked in waterfalls.
The philanderer only wished to offer his someday wife the most primitive, desirable joy of sex.
His someday wife was basic lady, and had no interest in the classic definition of sexual ecstasy. She did not care for manly aromas, long phalli, or toned muscles. She didn’t want a soft bed, silk sheets, or fluffy pillows. They were useless.
She loved the philanderer.
The philanderer’s new special place was a couch. An old, black couch. There was no sexy appeal to the couch; no erotic smell, no sensual fabric, and it was shit to look at. But it was comfortable to sit on, to lie on, to sleep on, to fuck on.
When in the town, they would occasionally get together; they really did enjoy each other. But in public, they generally acted as if they hardly knew each other, as if they were mere acquaintances. In fact, people who knew the philanderer often speculated that she was one of the few women with whom he refused to sleep with.
The someday wife knew about the philanderer’s habits, but ignored them as much as possible, and would not admit to him that it bothered her.
In actuality, she resented every woman he fucked, but she understood that ignoring his extramarital affairs would drive the philanderer crazy. She wanted tit for tat.
One day, while lying on the couch, the philanderer grabbed his someday wife’s hand, and quickly hurried through his marriage proposal. She responded yes, she would like that very much, but he would have to honor the promises of a traditional American wedding. While staring at the ground, the philanderer promised that he would.
She was scared.
The next week, they announced their wedding to be in the local paper, and that Sunday, once it was read, the town collectively rolled their eyes.
Six months later, they were married, in a small church, while sitting on the couch. They stayed seated there until everybody, all their friends, had left. They sat there quiet, and held hands and stared into the future. After they made love, the now current wife, looked him in the eyes, and said I hope to god you can do this. He said he could.
After sixty years of marriage, the philander lay on his deathbed. And his still current wife still held his hand. She said my friend, my husband, until we were married you fucked whoever you wanted. But this town is too small and so I know, after our wedding day, you did not fuck not one. I’m ashamed to tell you I’m surprised.
He said to her, friend, I knew I wouldn’t. Before I met you, I liked waterfalls, and sunny valleys, and trickling creeks and bed and breakfasts.
After I met you, all I needed was that couch.
Welcome I Guess by Eric Sparks
Skittles sans needles,
beetles and peanut brittle,
fiddles and small people,
seagulls and riddles,
ritalin and the philadelphia eagles,
egos for kiddos.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
Sweatshirts with hoods,
goods for dessert,
alert in the woods,
should we hide in the dirt,
flirt with robin hood, and
we withstood, when it was time to desert.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
En route to success,
blessed but in doubt,
leave out from the nest,
best in the drought,
ouch, is this really, only a test,
messed up on the couch.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
beetles and peanut brittle,
fiddles and small people,
seagulls and riddles,
ritalin and the philadelphia eagles,
egos for kiddos.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
Sweatshirts with hoods,
goods for dessert,
alert in the woods,
should we hide in the dirt,
flirt with robin hood, and
we withstood, when it was time to desert.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
En route to success,
blessed but in doubt,
leave out from the nest,
best in the drought,
ouch, is this really, only a test,
messed up on the couch.
nike mids, and high tops,
oh boy am I high pops,
too much though, so I stopped.
Ideal by Eric Sparks
She once told me, that I write in the ideal,
which means I try to make an imperfect world perfect.
She said it like a crime, like I was on trial,
accused of turning the beast back into a beauty.
But I find it, just a little bit comforting,
there are things in this world that are worth
the effort of trying to see the good.
And don't get me wrong, I value the truth,
and that doesn't subtract from my point.
He once told me, I watch basketball shallow,
perhaps even biased,
and see foul calls only when I want to.
And I think that he's probably right
and there's not much that I can say.
I just like the Lakers.
which means I try to make an imperfect world perfect.
She said it like a crime, like I was on trial,
accused of turning the beast back into a beauty.
But I find it, just a little bit comforting,
there are things in this world that are worth
the effort of trying to see the good.
And don't get me wrong, I value the truth,
and that doesn't subtract from my point.
He once told me, I watch basketball shallow,
perhaps even biased,
and see foul calls only when I want to.
And I think that he's probably right
and there's not much that I can say.
I just like the Lakers.
Existence Always Comes Before Essence by Eric Sparks
I woke up this morning, and I thought to myself,
'maybe I can write a poem today.'
I mean, its probably what I do best,
besides smoke weed and disappoint people and eat.
And of these things, writing is definitely the most creative,
and conducive to success, except for eating perhaps,
seeing as life necessarily precedes achievement
and existence always precedes essence.
And writing probably makes me feel the best,
besides smoking weed, but I've learned being high,
and being happy, aren't the same thing after all,
so I don't mistake those feelings anymore.
And I like writing, much more than disappointing anyone,
and relieves my stress and I can show people that I care.
So, I guess, I wrote a poem today.
'maybe I can write a poem today.'
I mean, its probably what I do best,
besides smoke weed and disappoint people and eat.
And of these things, writing is definitely the most creative,
and conducive to success, except for eating perhaps,
seeing as life necessarily precedes achievement
and existence always precedes essence.
And writing probably makes me feel the best,
besides smoking weed, but I've learned being high,
and being happy, aren't the same thing after all,
so I don't mistake those feelings anymore.
And I like writing, much more than disappointing anyone,
and relieves my stress and I can show people that I care.
So, I guess, I wrote a poem today.
Culture by Eric Sparks
We make jokes about testicles (or lack thereof),
and draw penises on everything in sight,
but I'm not much of an artist, so everybody asks me,
why I always draw those funny looking spaceships.
I’ve always liked obscenity, cursing,
and crude jokes, so you can find me in my house,
in the classroom or practically anywhere,
and I’ll still say fuck, and shit, but never cunt,
because that is a stupid word.
But obscenity is more than curse words,
more than talking penis and vagina,
the real beauty of obscenity comes from
offending people, not so much that they’re hurt,
but just enough to make them smile upside down.
and draw penises on everything in sight,
but I'm not much of an artist, so everybody asks me,
why I always draw those funny looking spaceships.
I’ve always liked obscenity, cursing,
and crude jokes, so you can find me in my house,
in the classroom or practically anywhere,
and I’ll still say fuck, and shit, but never cunt,
because that is a stupid word.
But obscenity is more than curse words,
more than talking penis and vagina,
the real beauty of obscenity comes from
offending people, not so much that they’re hurt,
but just enough to make them smile upside down.
Nate and Nikki by Eric Sparks
I guess they knew each other when they were young; they didn’t remember that though, and it didn’t really matter; not that young people don’t matter, but their history really happened during high school, and after high school, I guess.
Nate and Nikki really met their freshman year; they were fourteen years old. It was around the second week of school and Nate was on his way to class just after lunch. Nikki walked by him; he noticed her, even though there was nothing special about her. She wasn’t wearing makeup or earrings; she proudly sported an old sweatshirt and an average pair of jeans. Her hood was on, a dark frame for her face, and her smile. After she had passed, Nate smiled to himself. He felt the same way as when he saw good things happen and realized the world wasn’t completely shit.
Nikki didn’t notice Nate, not until he tripped her in the hall. To be fair, he didn’t trip her hard, and she knew it. She turned around, smiling, “Hey Dickfuck, don’t be rude.” He smiled back and walked away. She turned around grinning; a trip was by far the most original pickup line she had ever heard.
A week later, Nate walked straight towards Nikki. She was eating lunch and focused on her sandwich, she didn’t notice him until he had sat down next to her. She was impressed, because she was eating lunch with her friends, and to the best of her knowledge, Nate didn’t know any of them. She looked at him, and saw the he had a slight frown, but she could tell he wasn’t unhappy. Curious, she asked, “Sup G?”
Nate looked around the table for a second, briefly analyzing her friends, and finding none of them predator-like, answered, “I don’t like anybody I know, we should go to homecoming.” She nodded.
Homecoming was good, certainly not an outrageous affair. They didn’t magically fall in love; they didn’t fight; nobody spilt food or drink; nobody got felt up. One good thing did happen. At the end of the night, when Nate dropped Nikki off and walked her to the door, before Nikki went in, she turned around, jumped up and kissed him on the forehead, and then hugged him tight, tighter than most hugs, and whispered, “Hey, you seem cool.”
The rest of their freshman year was good; they didn’t date, not officially, but they began hanging out consistently. They both knew they were more than just friends, but they were happy not to rush into anything. If it felt this good; it should probably take a while.
The summer before freshman year was pretty uneventful, except for one notable change. Nate, and consequently Nikki, discovered a euphoric drug called marijuana. They only smoked a couple of times, but they enjoyed it; it was relaxing.
Homecoming-time sophomore year Nate was confused and didn’t know why he was confused. He wasn’t confused about Nikki, he understood how he felt about her. But he was still lost. He called Nikki, and spoke as soon as she answered, “Hey babe, I need stability. Can we make this, us, a relationship?” She nodded and somehow, he heard.
Sophomore year happened quickly; they were high a lot. For some reason, she didn’t care. Somehow this relationship worked for them; they didn’t need to high to hang out, but they could hang out high and maintain their emotion. In some sense, it was perfect; it was balanced. There was one night, when Nate and Nikki were hanging out at a friend’s house, smoking and watching TV. Nate looked around, glanced around at his and her friends before he looked over at her. Through his hazy vision, he saw her smile and wink at him. He loved her.
The summer before junior year was fairly uneventful, except they spent their first night together. Both pairs of parents knew, which was a good thing. As they lay in bed, Nikki felt Nate’s warmth. She smelt his apple-shampooed hair and felt his pajama bottoms. She kissed him on the cheek. She loved him.
During the autumn of their junior year, Nikki freaked out. She said she didn’t know what was happening, but she needed a break, she needed some time. She asked her parents to send her somewhere, for two weeks or so. Her parents flew her to New York, where she stayed with her grandparents. Nate was sad, but he was ok. He smoked a lot, spent as much time as possible with friends, and did his schoolwork. He only cried once, on homecoming night, as he wondered where she was.
Nikki came back from New York and immediately called him. As he picked up, she cried, but not loudly. All Nate could her was her breathing heavy, and he knew what it meant, so he nodded, and somehow she heard him. They were back together.
In the spring of their junior year, just after Nate’s soccer season had ended, Nate freaked out. He was worried in a different manner however; this relationship had been too easy, he didn’t know if he really loved her, and the relationship was so good it didn’t feel right if he didn’t love her. He told her he now needed a break, and because she was Nikki, she understood. She was sad, but she had had her doubts, and trusted Nate to figure out what he needed to.
He drove around his town for two days, he’d smoke occasionally, but not often and mainly he would just think. He remembered how he had thought the relationship had been so good that it was wrong if he didn’t love her. He realized this meant that he loved her; he smiled; he was happy; Nate wanted to love her.
The next day he called her, and they met at the park. As soon as he saw her, he hugged her hard, and spoke quickly, “Nikki, I love you. In our relationship, stupid shit happens, stupid romantic movie type shit. We should be together.” They kissed.
The summer before senior year was perfect.
Homecoming of their senior year was fun; they got high for it, the first time they had gotten high for a school function. The black lights were exceptionally spectacular. After the dance, they drove to Nate’s house. But they stayed in his driveway, and rolled down his windows, and slow danced while listening to Kanye West. They felt too cool. They felt their arrogance level rise.
Graduation was a big moment; they had made it. Again they got high, they were happy and cared less about what people thought. They’re parents threw a big party for both of them, a joint graduation party. They giggled together as they wolfed down brownies and cookies and hamburgers. They had the munchies.
They did not attend college immediately. The summer after they graduated, they kissed twice and moved to New Zealand together to work on an organic farm.
Nate and Nikki really met their freshman year; they were fourteen years old. It was around the second week of school and Nate was on his way to class just after lunch. Nikki walked by him; he noticed her, even though there was nothing special about her. She wasn’t wearing makeup or earrings; she proudly sported an old sweatshirt and an average pair of jeans. Her hood was on, a dark frame for her face, and her smile. After she had passed, Nate smiled to himself. He felt the same way as when he saw good things happen and realized the world wasn’t completely shit.
Nikki didn’t notice Nate, not until he tripped her in the hall. To be fair, he didn’t trip her hard, and she knew it. She turned around, smiling, “Hey Dickfuck, don’t be rude.” He smiled back and walked away. She turned around grinning; a trip was by far the most original pickup line she had ever heard.
A week later, Nate walked straight towards Nikki. She was eating lunch and focused on her sandwich, she didn’t notice him until he had sat down next to her. She was impressed, because she was eating lunch with her friends, and to the best of her knowledge, Nate didn’t know any of them. She looked at him, and saw the he had a slight frown, but she could tell he wasn’t unhappy. Curious, she asked, “Sup G?”
Nate looked around the table for a second, briefly analyzing her friends, and finding none of them predator-like, answered, “I don’t like anybody I know, we should go to homecoming.” She nodded.
Homecoming was good, certainly not an outrageous affair. They didn’t magically fall in love; they didn’t fight; nobody spilt food or drink; nobody got felt up. One good thing did happen. At the end of the night, when Nate dropped Nikki off and walked her to the door, before Nikki went in, she turned around, jumped up and kissed him on the forehead, and then hugged him tight, tighter than most hugs, and whispered, “Hey, you seem cool.”
The rest of their freshman year was good; they didn’t date, not officially, but they began hanging out consistently. They both knew they were more than just friends, but they were happy not to rush into anything. If it felt this good; it should probably take a while.
The summer before freshman year was pretty uneventful, except for one notable change. Nate, and consequently Nikki, discovered a euphoric drug called marijuana. They only smoked a couple of times, but they enjoyed it; it was relaxing.
Homecoming-time sophomore year Nate was confused and didn’t know why he was confused. He wasn’t confused about Nikki, he understood how he felt about her. But he was still lost. He called Nikki, and spoke as soon as she answered, “Hey babe, I need stability. Can we make this, us, a relationship?” She nodded and somehow, he heard.
Sophomore year happened quickly; they were high a lot. For some reason, she didn’t care. Somehow this relationship worked for them; they didn’t need to high to hang out, but they could hang out high and maintain their emotion. In some sense, it was perfect; it was balanced. There was one night, when Nate and Nikki were hanging out at a friend’s house, smoking and watching TV. Nate looked around, glanced around at his and her friends before he looked over at her. Through his hazy vision, he saw her smile and wink at him. He loved her.
The summer before junior year was fairly uneventful, except they spent their first night together. Both pairs of parents knew, which was a good thing. As they lay in bed, Nikki felt Nate’s warmth. She smelt his apple-shampooed hair and felt his pajama bottoms. She kissed him on the cheek. She loved him.
During the autumn of their junior year, Nikki freaked out. She said she didn’t know what was happening, but she needed a break, she needed some time. She asked her parents to send her somewhere, for two weeks or so. Her parents flew her to New York, where she stayed with her grandparents. Nate was sad, but he was ok. He smoked a lot, spent as much time as possible with friends, and did his schoolwork. He only cried once, on homecoming night, as he wondered where she was.
Nikki came back from New York and immediately called him. As he picked up, she cried, but not loudly. All Nate could her was her breathing heavy, and he knew what it meant, so he nodded, and somehow she heard him. They were back together.
In the spring of their junior year, just after Nate’s soccer season had ended, Nate freaked out. He was worried in a different manner however; this relationship had been too easy, he didn’t know if he really loved her, and the relationship was so good it didn’t feel right if he didn’t love her. He told her he now needed a break, and because she was Nikki, she understood. She was sad, but she had had her doubts, and trusted Nate to figure out what he needed to.
He drove around his town for two days, he’d smoke occasionally, but not often and mainly he would just think. He remembered how he had thought the relationship had been so good that it was wrong if he didn’t love her. He realized this meant that he loved her; he smiled; he was happy; Nate wanted to love her.
The next day he called her, and they met at the park. As soon as he saw her, he hugged her hard, and spoke quickly, “Nikki, I love you. In our relationship, stupid shit happens, stupid romantic movie type shit. We should be together.” They kissed.
The summer before senior year was perfect.
Homecoming of their senior year was fun; they got high for it, the first time they had gotten high for a school function. The black lights were exceptionally spectacular. After the dance, they drove to Nate’s house. But they stayed in his driveway, and rolled down his windows, and slow danced while listening to Kanye West. They felt too cool. They felt their arrogance level rise.
Graduation was a big moment; they had made it. Again they got high, they were happy and cared less about what people thought. They’re parents threw a big party for both of them, a joint graduation party. They giggled together as they wolfed down brownies and cookies and hamburgers. They had the munchies.
They did not attend college immediately. The summer after they graduated, they kissed twice and moved to New Zealand together to work on an organic farm.
He Told Me by Eric Sparks
“Stop now kid,
its not worth your time.
This business requires ludicrous talent,
and besides, you’re already too high.
I can’t imagine you making it,
I doubt you’ll even get by.
I wouldn’t worry about it too much,
it’s not really your fault.
In this illiterate age, it’s a terrible time,
for any young writer,
to be anybody at all.
Even if people did like to read,
and loved every word that you wrote,
you still lack the effort, the desire to be more,
and instead glide by on your talent.
Give up friend,
I know you know
I’ve spoken the truth.
I know you as I know myself,
and as I’m part of you,
you know that’s the truth.”
To which I replied,
“As you know me, I too know you.
You speak from that part of my soul,
so deep down you only know truth.
So deep down, that despite the honesty,
you’re still nearly always wrong, and the words
that you speak, don’t mean so much in the end.”
its not worth your time.
This business requires ludicrous talent,
and besides, you’re already too high.
I can’t imagine you making it,
I doubt you’ll even get by.
I wouldn’t worry about it too much,
it’s not really your fault.
In this illiterate age, it’s a terrible time,
for any young writer,
to be anybody at all.
Even if people did like to read,
and loved every word that you wrote,
you still lack the effort, the desire to be more,
and instead glide by on your talent.
Give up friend,
I know you know
I’ve spoken the truth.
I know you as I know myself,
and as I’m part of you,
you know that’s the truth.”
To which I replied,
“As you know me, I too know you.
You speak from that part of my soul,
so deep down you only know truth.
So deep down, that despite the honesty,
you’re still nearly always wrong, and the words
that you speak, don’t mean so much in the end.”
09 by Eric Sparks
I watched the best people I know,
fall apart in the course of one singular night,
and we all called out, but the wind pushing our backs
kept the sound from finding our ears.
I’ve seen years burn, in just a couple of minutes,
I’ve watched brawls and falls between best friends,
I’ve heard laughter, poured out from a bottle of rum.
Shit, those hugs turned to punches,
“I love” turned to “Fuck,” and those carefree nights
turned into awkward, clumsy silences.
I’ve watched life, through that marijuana haze,
for several months at a time. I’ve slept through years,
when the clarity of sobriety infested my brain.
I’ve seen true love change to quiet, memorial embraces.
I’ve danced for a night, but was alone in the morning.
I waltz alone, most of the time.
Cute little squares.
I jumped off of my island, because it wasn’t
supposed to be home anymore,
but instead of flight, I fell,
and had to take the ferry back home,
to nurse my wounds.
I’ve danced around campfires, I’ve blacked out with them all.
We spill wine on the rug,
puke on the porch,
and play beer pong until dawn.
But after that party, my head hurt, my eyes were sore,
and my liver pointed a gun at its head. And when I woke up,
their cars were gone, with no note left behind.
This is no accusation, because when they've called,
I’ve pressed the red button as well. Texts I ignored,
emails unanswered, memory hurts like a scar.
Just remember, we see more backs than we ever will faces,
we see more mud than clouds, more of those trees fall than those that will grow,
we see more failures than anything.
fall apart in the course of one singular night,
and we all called out, but the wind pushing our backs
kept the sound from finding our ears.
I’ve seen years burn, in just a couple of minutes,
I’ve watched brawls and falls between best friends,
I’ve heard laughter, poured out from a bottle of rum.
Shit, those hugs turned to punches,
“I love” turned to “Fuck,” and those carefree nights
turned into awkward, clumsy silences.
I’ve watched life, through that marijuana haze,
for several months at a time. I’ve slept through years,
when the clarity of sobriety infested my brain.
I’ve seen true love change to quiet, memorial embraces.
I’ve danced for a night, but was alone in the morning.
I waltz alone, most of the time.
Cute little squares.
I jumped off of my island, because it wasn’t
supposed to be home anymore,
but instead of flight, I fell,
and had to take the ferry back home,
to nurse my wounds.
I’ve danced around campfires, I’ve blacked out with them all.
We spill wine on the rug,
puke on the porch,
and play beer pong until dawn.
But after that party, my head hurt, my eyes were sore,
and my liver pointed a gun at its head. And when I woke up,
their cars were gone, with no note left behind.
This is no accusation, because when they've called,
I’ve pressed the red button as well. Texts I ignored,
emails unanswered, memory hurts like a scar.
Just remember, we see more backs than we ever will faces,
we see more mud than clouds, more of those trees fall than those that will grow,
we see more failures than anything.
The Purple Existentialist by Eric Sparks
In Seattle, I always knew some crazy people; in fact, I tended to keep two or three of them with me. However, of all the village idiots, wild drunkards and general crazies that I chose to associate with, not one was more exceptional than my dear friend Michael, who insisted we call him Mikos with no apparent cause, except perhaps that he liked it better than Michael. Unlike my other, more excitable, companions, Mikos was not generally exuberant or particularly wild. His insanity always manifested itself in other ways. The best example of this that I can demonstrate were his expectations, which always fell outside the norm.
I saw Mikos the morning after his birthday and he appeared to be in a haggard state. His eyes were low and dark, his clothes were stained with unknown substances, although there were at least three different colors, and he walked very slowly. Now Mikos wasn't much of a drinker, so I must admit that I was intrigued to learn what could have put him into such a bewildering state. As he approached me, I smiled warmly and said cordially, “Mikos, my friend. Why, you look like you just boxed a few rounds with Saint Lucifer. Didn't I tell you he had lightning quick fists?”
At this, Mikos only nodded, “Yeah, I'd say the good old saint won. That's for damn sure at this point.”
I stared at him amazed. “No, what? I was mainly kidding. It was your birthday last night. We talked before you left your party. You were in fine spirits then. What happened?”
Before I continue, it is important to mention that, although he only drank occasionally, Mikos loved to do drugs. At his party the previous night, he had been in a tremendous, chemically-created stupor, twisted off several drugs, notably acid and MDMA. However, anytime I had seen Mikos take drugs before, he had always risen the next morning in excellent spirits, jabbering about taking over Canada and starting an empire or some such nonsense. Never had I seen him tired or worn.
He looked at me solemnly and, before he spoke, his eyes fell to the ground. “Well, as you know, last night was my birthday. Knowing that, I wanted to celebrate, and what better way to celebrate than bringing home Sophie for a casual night of fornication. Between that and the drugs, it all seemed so perfect.”
I nodded, “Yes, I could see why it seemed that way. What then?”
Mikos looked at me with shame, “Well, she came over. And we fornicated, but, but... but dude, we had sex standing up. I mean, what is that, I didn't want that.”
I stared at him, flabbergasted. “Look man, maybe that isn't something to get super excited about, but its at least neutral, I can't imagine it being a bad thing. What are you worried about?”
He continued, “Well, that's not all I suppose. This morning, the diner was out of coffee.”
“Mikos, you don't drink coffee.”
His head snapped up and he stared me in the eyes, apparently surprised I could recall such a simple fact about him. He said, “No, I know. But its all about the balance of the matter. The balance between red and blue, if you will.”
At this point, I wondered to myself, 'What the fuck is this lunatic talking about?'
Mikos continued speaking, “Yes, the balance between the red and blue has been very off center today, leaning towards the red I dare say. Just remember, its obvious in anything you see. There was a large automobile accident today on a backstreet; that's an example. The grocery store stalked watermelon and cantaloupe, that's an example too. Really it's everywhere.”
And I will never forget the last thing he said to me as this was, unfortunately, our last conversation.
He said, “Eric, life is only about balance between the red and the blue. Everything is purple.”
I saw Mikos the morning after his birthday and he appeared to be in a haggard state. His eyes were low and dark, his clothes were stained with unknown substances, although there were at least three different colors, and he walked very slowly. Now Mikos wasn't much of a drinker, so I must admit that I was intrigued to learn what could have put him into such a bewildering state. As he approached me, I smiled warmly and said cordially, “Mikos, my friend. Why, you look like you just boxed a few rounds with Saint Lucifer. Didn't I tell you he had lightning quick fists?”
At this, Mikos only nodded, “Yeah, I'd say the good old saint won. That's for damn sure at this point.”
I stared at him amazed. “No, what? I was mainly kidding. It was your birthday last night. We talked before you left your party. You were in fine spirits then. What happened?”
Before I continue, it is important to mention that, although he only drank occasionally, Mikos loved to do drugs. At his party the previous night, he had been in a tremendous, chemically-created stupor, twisted off several drugs, notably acid and MDMA. However, anytime I had seen Mikos take drugs before, he had always risen the next morning in excellent spirits, jabbering about taking over Canada and starting an empire or some such nonsense. Never had I seen him tired or worn.
He looked at me solemnly and, before he spoke, his eyes fell to the ground. “Well, as you know, last night was my birthday. Knowing that, I wanted to celebrate, and what better way to celebrate than bringing home Sophie for a casual night of fornication. Between that and the drugs, it all seemed so perfect.”
I nodded, “Yes, I could see why it seemed that way. What then?”
Mikos looked at me with shame, “Well, she came over. And we fornicated, but, but... but dude, we had sex standing up. I mean, what is that, I didn't want that.”
I stared at him, flabbergasted. “Look man, maybe that isn't something to get super excited about, but its at least neutral, I can't imagine it being a bad thing. What are you worried about?”
He continued, “Well, that's not all I suppose. This morning, the diner was out of coffee.”
“Mikos, you don't drink coffee.”
His head snapped up and he stared me in the eyes, apparently surprised I could recall such a simple fact about him. He said, “No, I know. But its all about the balance of the matter. The balance between red and blue, if you will.”
At this point, I wondered to myself, 'What the fuck is this lunatic talking about?'
Mikos continued speaking, “Yes, the balance between the red and blue has been very off center today, leaning towards the red I dare say. Just remember, its obvious in anything you see. There was a large automobile accident today on a backstreet; that's an example. The grocery store stalked watermelon and cantaloupe, that's an example too. Really it's everywhere.”
And I will never forget the last thing he said to me as this was, unfortunately, our last conversation.
He said, “Eric, life is only about balance between the red and the blue. Everything is purple.”
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
And Why Shouldn't The Kids Be Scared by Eric Sparks
Little Billy thought he had nightmare;
at least, he woke up screaming anyways.
Within moments kind Mother was right there,
“What is wrong my sweet baby-cakes?”
Little Billy said, “Oh mother, it was so awful
that I almost toppled out of bed. I remember there
were monsters in our shed and warmongers chopping heads;
there were demons of every size and sort so I tried to build a fort,
but they moved quickly in the dark and tore everything apart.”
Mother said, “Oh honey.”
“No, that's not all,” said Little Billy.
“They pulled my covers from my face and left them on the floor.
Then they sent the smallest monster back and had him lock my door.
They tied me to my bookshelf and stuffed a sock inside my mouth
when I tried to call for help.”
Kind Mother wanted to soothe her son, “Nightmares
are scary it's true, but remember, they will never hurt you.”
And she smiled reassuringly.
Little Billy wiped his tears with his cuff
and puffed up his shoulders, an attempt to look tough.
He climbed the stairs and opened his bedroom door
where he found his covers on the floor although
he hadn't left them there. The was a rope tied to his
bookshelf in a tightly knotted square.
And Little Billy cried.
at least, he woke up screaming anyways.
Within moments kind Mother was right there,
“What is wrong my sweet baby-cakes?”
Little Billy said, “Oh mother, it was so awful
that I almost toppled out of bed. I remember there
were monsters in our shed and warmongers chopping heads;
there were demons of every size and sort so I tried to build a fort,
but they moved quickly in the dark and tore everything apart.”
Mother said, “Oh honey.”
“No, that's not all,” said Little Billy.
“They pulled my covers from my face and left them on the floor.
Then they sent the smallest monster back and had him lock my door.
They tied me to my bookshelf and stuffed a sock inside my mouth
when I tried to call for help.”
Kind Mother wanted to soothe her son, “Nightmares
are scary it's true, but remember, they will never hurt you.”
And she smiled reassuringly.
Little Billy wiped his tears with his cuff
and puffed up his shoulders, an attempt to look tough.
He climbed the stairs and opened his bedroom door
where he found his covers on the floor although
he hadn't left them there. The was a rope tied to his
bookshelf in a tightly knotted square.
And Little Billy cried.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
A Song for Tomorrow by Eric Sparks
It kills me when poets hide meaning in obscurity;
the point of poetry cannot be a secret desire to be misunderstood.
Poets of the future, do not hide behind vague words and the foggy
undertones of complex metaphors. Let your meaning ring true!
If you are brave, if you are bad, if you noble, if you are scared...
Let us know.
It is not hard to write an incomprehensible poem;
it is much more difficult to write a poem that many people happily
and easily relate to. That it success. If one tells you that they feel
precisely how you wrote your poem, you can be paid no higher compliment.
Oh my friends, keep your big words and glamorous meanings, that is who you are.
This is who we've always been and I wouldn't dare challenge that.
But poets of the future, make sure your meaning is loud. And make sure
it resonates in the air and that at the end of the day, there is no way it could be missed.
That is all the future could expect of you.
the point of poetry cannot be a secret desire to be misunderstood.
Poets of the future, do not hide behind vague words and the foggy
undertones of complex metaphors. Let your meaning ring true!
If you are brave, if you are bad, if you noble, if you are scared...
Let us know.
It is not hard to write an incomprehensible poem;
it is much more difficult to write a poem that many people happily
and easily relate to. That it success. If one tells you that they feel
precisely how you wrote your poem, you can be paid no higher compliment.
Oh my friends, keep your big words and glamorous meanings, that is who you are.
This is who we've always been and I wouldn't dare challenge that.
But poets of the future, make sure your meaning is loud. And make sure
it resonates in the air and that at the end of the day, there is no way it could be missed.
That is all the future could expect of you.
One Way Out (Prelude to Water Down the Drain) by Eric Sparks
It was time to go, that had been clear for some time. Brian glanced at the sky, frowned slightly, and rubbed his hands together quickly. Gray clouds dropped rain onto the sparkling baseball field, where Brian stood still. He glared at the umpires, one behind home plate and another behind first, who still refused to cancel the game. “Bastards…” but only the shortstop, Ben, heard and he only nodded at the curse.
The pitcher, Brian's friend Lucas, reared back into his windup and threw another pitch; the wet ball slipped from his fingers and spun wildly into the batter's shoulder with a soft, “thump.” The batter, jogged to first through the downpour, resentful of his pain and the weather. As the catcher asked for a new ball, the umpire reached his hand out and felt the rain. Painfully oblivious to the dangerous conditions of the game, he handed the catcher a dry ball from his pocket and Lucas stepped back onto the mound. The ball slipped out of his hand nearly every pitch and he walked two batters in a row. Each of opposing base runners stood shivering in the rain; at this point, they would have rather struck out and enjoyed the comfort of the dugout. Lucas asked for another ball from the umpire and did all he could to keep it dry. He stepped back slowly, before snapping his arm and hurling the ball directly towards his catcher’s glove. The batter reacted quickly and whipped his bat to the ball. A line drive sizzled through the rain straight towards Brian’s position at second base. He easily picked the ball out of the air and tossed it to Ben who was already standing on second base. Ben caught the throw and slung it across to the diamond to first base, completing a triple play. Brian, Ben and Lucas shared high fives as they ran to the safety of their dugout.
In the dugout, their coach was already on a rampage; he had always been known as a hothead, but he did not usually lose control this early in a game. “Are we seriously playing through this shit, I can’t believe these fools.” After the other team finished their pre-inning warm-ups, Brian’s team took their turn to hit. Brian was listed at the bottom of the line-up, but he had been hitting second before his recent slump. In this situation, he laughed at the line-up change and put on a jacket on with a hood framing his toothy grin. The rain continued to fall and the opposing team’s pitcher had even more trouble than Lucas. He gave up a hit, walked two men, and hit a batter without getting an out. Even in the field, the fielders were struggling. Anytime the ball hit the ground, it became impossible to throw accurately. Although he was hitting ninth, Brian still got to bat in the inning; he stepped into the chalked box with one out and runners on second and third. The first pitched soared wildly towards his head, but Brian ducked instinctively and avoided the ball. He stepped out and adjusted his helmet and batting gloves. The soft, “tink, tink, tink” of raindrops on his helmet echoed in his ear and the water dripping from the brim of his helmet distorted the field. The second pitch caught the outside corner and was called for strike one, even though Brian could hardly see it. Through the rain’s tap dance on his helmet, Brian heard Lucas yelling at him. He sounded angry, supportive, happy, but mainly confused. Brian smiled.
He stepped back into the white batter’s box with the count tied at one-one. The pitcher eased back into his wind up and let the ball fly towards the plate. Through the waterfall in front of his eyes, Brian saw the pitching spinning towards the middle of the plate; he pushed his arms through the air and whipped his bat when it connected with the baseball. The ball flew between center field and left field while the opposing players frantically chased it down. Brian slid into second base cleanly, before there was any chance for a tag out. He jumped to his feet proudly, content with a two run double. As the pitcher prepared for his next pitch, Brian took a comfortable lead off of second base. Ben was at the plate; he was a good hitter and a fast runner, so he almost always had the responsibility of hitting lead off. The first pitch came in quick and accurate, so Ben smacked it as hard as it could. As he watched the ball fly over his head, Brian felt sure that it was a certain double and planned to score. He ran quickly towards third, making sure to round the base, but while his back was turned, the centerfielder dove, slid across the wet grass, and made the catch. He leapt to his feet and tossed the ball lazily to second, where Brian was called out. As Brian and Ben waited for their gloves to be brought by their teammates, the umpires called a meeting with all the players. The players gathered around the pitcher's mound, where they stood shivering and getting pelted by rain. Brian examined the faces of both his teammates and the opposing team; they were all drenched and looked miserable. Meanwhile, the umpires, who were wearing thick, winter jackets, spoke up.
“Hey guys, we’ve noticed the weather’s picked up a bit, but my associate and I have talked, and we've agreed we can play this one through. Sorry ‘bout the cold, but young lads like you will be just fine.”
Brian exploded, “Are you fucking shitting me? Can you even see through this goddamn rain?”
The opposing team exploded with laughter; Brian’s team snickered nervously.
The umpires looked into Brian’s eyes, “Son, there’s no cursing on this diamond. And if I get one more hint of attitude, and I’m sending you straight home. Understood?”
Brian shivered in the rain and felt his cold, soaked clothes sticking to his body; the cold sunk down to his bones. “You’re fucking crazy, bat-shit, bastards and you’ve no right to tell me how to talk.” He saluted the umpires and walked to the dugout quickly.
They yelled at him as he left, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t say anything now.
The pitcher, Brian's friend Lucas, reared back into his windup and threw another pitch; the wet ball slipped from his fingers and spun wildly into the batter's shoulder with a soft, “thump.” The batter, jogged to first through the downpour, resentful of his pain and the weather. As the catcher asked for a new ball, the umpire reached his hand out and felt the rain. Painfully oblivious to the dangerous conditions of the game, he handed the catcher a dry ball from his pocket and Lucas stepped back onto the mound. The ball slipped out of his hand nearly every pitch and he walked two batters in a row. Each of opposing base runners stood shivering in the rain; at this point, they would have rather struck out and enjoyed the comfort of the dugout. Lucas asked for another ball from the umpire and did all he could to keep it dry. He stepped back slowly, before snapping his arm and hurling the ball directly towards his catcher’s glove. The batter reacted quickly and whipped his bat to the ball. A line drive sizzled through the rain straight towards Brian’s position at second base. He easily picked the ball out of the air and tossed it to Ben who was already standing on second base. Ben caught the throw and slung it across to the diamond to first base, completing a triple play. Brian, Ben and Lucas shared high fives as they ran to the safety of their dugout.
In the dugout, their coach was already on a rampage; he had always been known as a hothead, but he did not usually lose control this early in a game. “Are we seriously playing through this shit, I can’t believe these fools.” After the other team finished their pre-inning warm-ups, Brian’s team took their turn to hit. Brian was listed at the bottom of the line-up, but he had been hitting second before his recent slump. In this situation, he laughed at the line-up change and put on a jacket on with a hood framing his toothy grin. The rain continued to fall and the opposing team’s pitcher had even more trouble than Lucas. He gave up a hit, walked two men, and hit a batter without getting an out. Even in the field, the fielders were struggling. Anytime the ball hit the ground, it became impossible to throw accurately. Although he was hitting ninth, Brian still got to bat in the inning; he stepped into the chalked box with one out and runners on second and third. The first pitched soared wildly towards his head, but Brian ducked instinctively and avoided the ball. He stepped out and adjusted his helmet and batting gloves. The soft, “tink, tink, tink” of raindrops on his helmet echoed in his ear and the water dripping from the brim of his helmet distorted the field. The second pitch caught the outside corner and was called for strike one, even though Brian could hardly see it. Through the rain’s tap dance on his helmet, Brian heard Lucas yelling at him. He sounded angry, supportive, happy, but mainly confused. Brian smiled.
He stepped back into the white batter’s box with the count tied at one-one. The pitcher eased back into his wind up and let the ball fly towards the plate. Through the waterfall in front of his eyes, Brian saw the pitching spinning towards the middle of the plate; he pushed his arms through the air and whipped his bat when it connected with the baseball. The ball flew between center field and left field while the opposing players frantically chased it down. Brian slid into second base cleanly, before there was any chance for a tag out. He jumped to his feet proudly, content with a two run double. As the pitcher prepared for his next pitch, Brian took a comfortable lead off of second base. Ben was at the plate; he was a good hitter and a fast runner, so he almost always had the responsibility of hitting lead off. The first pitch came in quick and accurate, so Ben smacked it as hard as it could. As he watched the ball fly over his head, Brian felt sure that it was a certain double and planned to score. He ran quickly towards third, making sure to round the base, but while his back was turned, the centerfielder dove, slid across the wet grass, and made the catch. He leapt to his feet and tossed the ball lazily to second, where Brian was called out. As Brian and Ben waited for their gloves to be brought by their teammates, the umpires called a meeting with all the players. The players gathered around the pitcher's mound, where they stood shivering and getting pelted by rain. Brian examined the faces of both his teammates and the opposing team; they were all drenched and looked miserable. Meanwhile, the umpires, who were wearing thick, winter jackets, spoke up.
“Hey guys, we’ve noticed the weather’s picked up a bit, but my associate and I have talked, and we've agreed we can play this one through. Sorry ‘bout the cold, but young lads like you will be just fine.”
Brian exploded, “Are you fucking shitting me? Can you even see through this goddamn rain?”
The opposing team exploded with laughter; Brian’s team snickered nervously.
The umpires looked into Brian’s eyes, “Son, there’s no cursing on this diamond. And if I get one more hint of attitude, and I’m sending you straight home. Understood?”
Brian shivered in the rain and felt his cold, soaked clothes sticking to his body; the cold sunk down to his bones. “You’re fucking crazy, bat-shit, bastards and you’ve no right to tell me how to talk.” He saluted the umpires and walked to the dugout quickly.
They yelled at him as he left, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t say anything now.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Tonight, We Had a Date by Eric Sparks
So I dressed up as nice as I could; I wore
a short, purple dress with sequins that sparkled
like the ocean and tall, black heels that made
my ankles hurt. I also tried to wear a fabulous
smile and a sincere look as if I could save the world.
He was late.
When I asked why, he said
“in that dress, you look like an eggplant.
But those heels are nice, on the street you'd
be worth a few hundred dollars more, at the least.”
Then he laughed.
A waiter appeared with our drinks. I drank red wine
while he sipped his whiskey. Really, he slurped his whiskey
and it sounded disgusting. So I said,
“You sound like a hippo. A very handsome
hippo. The pride and desire of all the female hippos.”
He snorted into his drink, proving my point; sort of.
Before we left, he reminded me of his eggplant line.
He stared at my dress thoughtfully and I could tell that
he thought he was hilarious.
Somehow, I managed to keep my fabulous smile and the sincere look
stretched across my face.
Maybe next time I'll wear my blue dress.
But that comes with the risk of being called a blueberry.
And I hope that he doesn't, because I might lose
my fabulous smile and sincere look.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Psychiatrist’s by Cayla Calderwood
Its awful nice of them to keep chocolates
In a small bowl in the reception room,
I especially like the dove ones, they have quotes.
Once I saw an old man leaving. He was proud
And can’t have come for himself,
Too familiar with life to be troubled with it
Anymore. No, he was here for the younger
Generations that still give a fuss about things like happiness.
He had marvelous hands. I could imagine holding those
Hands by a fireplace and believing anything about them,
Once in fact, they skipped a small grey stone 27 times,
Something I could never do. Men have tried to teach
Me to skip stones all my life.
If I was the stone, I’d rather slip into the water
Than bounce off its surface. I like swimming,
I like when I can use a mask and snorkel
And stay under the water until my
Skin wriggles and scrunches impatiently.
Then I feel bad and crawl back to dry land,
I wonder if eventually my skin could adjust to
The water, it’s always been softest during the summer
So I know it loves the sun- but I wonder if I broke it in,
If it could accept staying there forever and ever,
If I could mush into the water and devolve
I’d make a fantastic dolphin, except they’re needy,
Dependent on air and company, no if I was to be an animal
It would be a tiger or a bird of some kind
I could never decide between a falcon or an osprey
Did you know that there’s only one kind of osprey,
And they’re on every continent but Antarctica?
They should put that on a dove wrapper.
It was nice of them to put out the chocolates.
In a small bowl in the reception room,
I especially like the dove ones, they have quotes.
Once I saw an old man leaving. He was proud
And can’t have come for himself,
Too familiar with life to be troubled with it
Anymore. No, he was here for the younger
Generations that still give a fuss about things like happiness.
He had marvelous hands. I could imagine holding those
Hands by a fireplace and believing anything about them,
Once in fact, they skipped a small grey stone 27 times,
Something I could never do. Men have tried to teach
Me to skip stones all my life.
If I was the stone, I’d rather slip into the water
Than bounce off its surface. I like swimming,
I like when I can use a mask and snorkel
And stay under the water until my
Skin wriggles and scrunches impatiently.
Then I feel bad and crawl back to dry land,
I wonder if eventually my skin could adjust to
The water, it’s always been softest during the summer
So I know it loves the sun- but I wonder if I broke it in,
If it could accept staying there forever and ever,
If I could mush into the water and devolve
I’d make a fantastic dolphin, except they’re needy,
Dependent on air and company, no if I was to be an animal
It would be a tiger or a bird of some kind
I could never decide between a falcon or an osprey
Did you know that there’s only one kind of osprey,
And they’re on every continent but Antarctica?
They should put that on a dove wrapper.
It was nice of them to put out the chocolates.
Oh, But You Sold Us the American Dream by Eric Sparks
The other day at business luncheon, I was blessed with the company
of the Old Generation. The man wanted to explain to me why these
are the lives we choose to lead, about how America is the land of the free,
and why nothing in life can ever be free.
He said, “Oh shits, these fucking kids;
they couldn't make me any madder. They want
the world on a silver platter. They're as crazy
as the fucking Mad Hatter. When will they learn that
they have to work, that everything in life is earned.
They think the fire just burns without any wood.
Will they ever do what their told and what they should?
They take everything for granted and see,
every tree that's planted comes from a seed.
Do you see what I mean?”
I said, “No sir, not in the slightest. The rope around our neck is
feeling much tighter. You say that the kids need to work
so give us a job, just once, that doesn't need a college degree
and the hundred thousand up front.
Oh my parents told me to work hard and that life would be what I want.
But I feel stuck, out of luck, and I'm two minutes away
from not giving a fuck. Pay me eight dollars an hour
to put cans on a shelf and I'll go home with just enough money
to feed myself. Your promise broke open, the system is just broken,
and you're still lying to the kids outside who are still hoping.”
He said, “No, that's not the point. Stop smoking the joint,
get off of your ass, get your ass into class, graduate as fast
as you can, get a good job and forget the whole past.”
I said, “Sir, those memories last. There's no forgetting
the old track. These are our best times; I can't give you
four to ten years of my life in exchange for only strife and a wife.
I'd end up putting a knife through my fucking throat,
getting addicted to coke, or just wasting away until I finally croak.
The kids and I hoped for more. You broke our hearts.
He said, “It's not my fucking fault.”
“Sir, how much money is locked in your fucking vault.
You hoard it, don't spend it; it should go to us by default.
I see that you labored long hours and earned the world.
Then you told us kids to do the same, and promised us there's more to gain,
but you won't share a piece.”
of the Old Generation. The man wanted to explain to me why these
are the lives we choose to lead, about how America is the land of the free,
and why nothing in life can ever be free.
He said, “Oh shits, these fucking kids;
they couldn't make me any madder. They want
the world on a silver platter. They're as crazy
as the fucking Mad Hatter. When will they learn that
they have to work, that everything in life is earned.
They think the fire just burns without any wood.
Will they ever do what their told and what they should?
They take everything for granted and see,
every tree that's planted comes from a seed.
Do you see what I mean?”
I said, “No sir, not in the slightest. The rope around our neck is
feeling much tighter. You say that the kids need to work
so give us a job, just once, that doesn't need a college degree
and the hundred thousand up front.
Oh my parents told me to work hard and that life would be what I want.
But I feel stuck, out of luck, and I'm two minutes away
from not giving a fuck. Pay me eight dollars an hour
to put cans on a shelf and I'll go home with just enough money
to feed myself. Your promise broke open, the system is just broken,
and you're still lying to the kids outside who are still hoping.”
He said, “No, that's not the point. Stop smoking the joint,
get off of your ass, get your ass into class, graduate as fast
as you can, get a good job and forget the whole past.”
I said, “Sir, those memories last. There's no forgetting
the old track. These are our best times; I can't give you
four to ten years of my life in exchange for only strife and a wife.
I'd end up putting a knife through my fucking throat,
getting addicted to coke, or just wasting away until I finally croak.
The kids and I hoped for more. You broke our hearts.
He said, “It's not my fucking fault.”
“Sir, how much money is locked in your fucking vault.
You hoard it, don't spend it; it should go to us by default.
I see that you labored long hours and earned the world.
Then you told us kids to do the same, and promised us there's more to gain,
but you won't share a piece.”
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
E by Eric Sparks
She smiles, I smile;
and shit, what I love to think,
'I haven't felt this way in a while.'
Have a smoke, have two, then have a drink,
and we walked with hands-locked for miles.
Funny how a grin can have me on the brink
of madness; funny how happiness comes so easy
at times; funny how her mind can please me
so much more than firm breasts or a soft ass,
which she sports shyly at all times. She feeds me
love and drugs and hugs, whatever need be.
I'll mumble; I'm humble, but only in this game.
With her, I'll fumble, and bumble, happily unashamed.
And she's different; she loves Seattle and the rain;
so we sat for hours, watching the water down the drain.
She talks softly and picks at my brain
while I pick at hers; and I've never heard sweeter words
or felt a sweeter hurt than our goodbyes in the sun.
This is more than youth and what it means to be young.
and shit, what I love to think,
'I haven't felt this way in a while.'
Have a smoke, have two, then have a drink,
and we walked with hands-locked for miles.
Funny how a grin can have me on the brink
of madness; funny how happiness comes so easy
at times; funny how her mind can please me
so much more than firm breasts or a soft ass,
which she sports shyly at all times. She feeds me
love and drugs and hugs, whatever need be.
I'll mumble; I'm humble, but only in this game.
With her, I'll fumble, and bumble, happily unashamed.
And she's different; she loves Seattle and the rain;
so we sat for hours, watching the water down the drain.
She talks softly and picks at my brain
while I pick at hers; and I've never heard sweeter words
or felt a sweeter hurt than our goodbyes in the sun.
This is more than youth and what it means to be young.
Deeper Deeper Deeper by Cayla Calderwood
Deeper deeper deeper, I’m dripping into those silver-lined glistening eyes.
Crab eyes. They watch me in the hundreds from the corners of my blood red house.
Measuring my little scars, pincers: clickity-clack.
Those pesky little foreign scars like the Indian in my thigh or the Chilean in my breast,
The European in my earlobe, the American in my tongue.
The crabs like my foreign scars,
and at night when I sleep they scuttle across my sheets and pillow
to stroke them gently with their little soft satin claws.
Once I woke up to find them all wearing velvet gloves, they looked at me, eyes bulging and then vanished back between the cracks.
I once wondered how we could live in the same bleeding house, me and these cold, moist, cerise creatures of shallow water and changing skin.
It’s an easy question of bathing my wounds with fish scales,
Smearing myself to draw their attention.
It keeps them away from my eyes.
I also have a deep red cherry, which sits on my kitchen table. Bulbous.
It watches me through to the bedroom, but it’s cruelly undistracted.
It likes to scrape away my skin.
‘Every moment’ it tells me, ‘all that life has accumulated on you. It’s all a scar.’
I would scream but then it would control my mouth as well.
I hate that cherry.
Its vanity and innocence eating away, like I chose for this to happen.
Pretending I asked to live with small claws, that only care at night.
I would burn the cherry,
But my mouth decided I would wait.
And when it ripens I can eat it.
Pop my teeth into it and then with red juice streaming down my cheek I can dye yet another part of my house a deeper red.
Crab eyes. They watch me in the hundreds from the corners of my blood red house.
Measuring my little scars, pincers: clickity-clack.
Those pesky little foreign scars like the Indian in my thigh or the Chilean in my breast,
The European in my earlobe, the American in my tongue.
The crabs like my foreign scars,
and at night when I sleep they scuttle across my sheets and pillow
to stroke them gently with their little soft satin claws.
Once I woke up to find them all wearing velvet gloves, they looked at me, eyes bulging and then vanished back between the cracks.
I once wondered how we could live in the same bleeding house, me and these cold, moist, cerise creatures of shallow water and changing skin.
It’s an easy question of bathing my wounds with fish scales,
Smearing myself to draw their attention.
It keeps them away from my eyes.
I also have a deep red cherry, which sits on my kitchen table. Bulbous.
It watches me through to the bedroom, but it’s cruelly undistracted.
It likes to scrape away my skin.
‘Every moment’ it tells me, ‘all that life has accumulated on you. It’s all a scar.’
I would scream but then it would control my mouth as well.
I hate that cherry.
Its vanity and innocence eating away, like I chose for this to happen.
Pretending I asked to live with small claws, that only care at night.
I would burn the cherry,
But my mouth decided I would wait.
And when it ripens I can eat it.
Pop my teeth into it and then with red juice streaming down my cheek I can dye yet another part of my house a deeper red.
Metaphors Pt. 2 (Emotions) by Eric Sparks
I'm missing my monster team on Halloween;
my face should be painted like Mr. Gene
Simmons while I'm listening to Queen, dressed as a queen;
me and my bad boys have seen every scene; we are angry teens
exhaling green, stunting white like Charlie Sheen;
my boys' dicks hang lower than fucking green beans.
And you don't want to find us:
late night, alleyway, metal pipes, several dikes
we don't play in any way, black clubs like recording mikes.
We don't carry gats; we wear Guy Fawkes masks and ask
for our freedom back. They try to sell us smack from Afghanistan,
so I dress up like Eminem's Stan and try to play the man again.
We're going places with covered faces so they don't know who we are.
Eight masks in the car as it races past haters; shit, they know we'll go far.
I've already put my trust in every last one of these kids; I see what they do;
I've seen what they did. These aren't honors students or some prudent fucks.
Don't try us; these are the last faces you'll see if you push your luck.
my face should be painted like Mr. Gene
Simmons while I'm listening to Queen, dressed as a queen;
me and my bad boys have seen every scene; we are angry teens
exhaling green, stunting white like Charlie Sheen;
my boys' dicks hang lower than fucking green beans.
And you don't want to find us:
late night, alleyway, metal pipes, several dikes
we don't play in any way, black clubs like recording mikes.
We don't carry gats; we wear Guy Fawkes masks and ask
for our freedom back. They try to sell us smack from Afghanistan,
so I dress up like Eminem's Stan and try to play the man again.
We're going places with covered faces so they don't know who we are.
Eight masks in the car as it races past haters; shit, they know we'll go far.
I've already put my trust in every last one of these kids; I see what they do;
I've seen what they did. These aren't honors students or some prudent fucks.
Don't try us; these are the last faces you'll see if you push your luck.
Royals and Rebels by Eric Sparks
You can find me in the Royal Palace and the Opium Den;
I'm either chatting up the queen of England with a sincere grin or
exhaling blue clouds with the kingliest men of sin. The royal carriage
discreetly delivers my drugs in a nicely wrapped package. I'm an honors student
with a healthy drug habit; I'm a simple addict with a high taste for success.
So I'm blessed like an abbot and the rest think its backwards,
but they're failing their tests.
My big brother is a drug dealer fresh out of jail; my little sister is at the top
of her class, she's the best of Yale. So I walk both lines too afraid to fail,
laughing at cops who assail us and try to curtail success. They want to lock me up
for the inhale and exhale. But the royal family loves my tales
so I always make bail.
Harvard educated lawyers always fight for my case. But it doesn't matter,
because I know the judge, he's a mate of a mate. As judgment day nears,
my court dates disappear, and when I walk in the court room, they ask,
“What are you doing here? Didn't you hear, your case was just cleared.
Let's retire to the back room and discuss it over some gin or some beer.”
When you know the right people, and they come from the right places,
there's no use for fear.
This is a thanks to my families: the royals and rebels.
I revel in everything you've given to me.
Your efforts will be rewarded, straight from the Queen.
I'm either chatting up the queen of England with a sincere grin or
exhaling blue clouds with the kingliest men of sin. The royal carriage
discreetly delivers my drugs in a nicely wrapped package. I'm an honors student
with a healthy drug habit; I'm a simple addict with a high taste for success.
So I'm blessed like an abbot and the rest think its backwards,
but they're failing their tests.
My big brother is a drug dealer fresh out of jail; my little sister is at the top
of her class, she's the best of Yale. So I walk both lines too afraid to fail,
laughing at cops who assail us and try to curtail success. They want to lock me up
for the inhale and exhale. But the royal family loves my tales
so I always make bail.
Harvard educated lawyers always fight for my case. But it doesn't matter,
because I know the judge, he's a mate of a mate. As judgment day nears,
my court dates disappear, and when I walk in the court room, they ask,
“What are you doing here? Didn't you hear, your case was just cleared.
Let's retire to the back room and discuss it over some gin or some beer.”
When you know the right people, and they come from the right places,
there's no use for fear.
This is a thanks to my families: the royals and rebels.
I revel in everything you've given to me.
Your efforts will be rewarded, straight from the Queen.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
so I write. by Peter Chapman
do you ever feel like you keep too much of it inside?
like there's something in your subconscious that's polluting your mind;
grinding your gears until all your thoughts and your fears
combine with the lie that you're fine and dry up all of your tears?
you smoke pot and drink beers just to keep the hurt beneath
until the truth breaks through your sanity and shocks all who can see it.
you bleed and you breathe but not yet are you free;
your mental disease tries to heal but psychosis is me.
fear hangs in the derangement of your inner mind,
but as you fall into madness you ask why
the third eye sees seas turn into rain.
the game's changed, now "sane" reigns
with the same stains on different brains;
but, all the pain that remains will see the task through
until no one can recognize you, not even you.
not even me, could bring ashes past masses
like black burned from the green.
at the seam, masking a scheme, blast gas cans in street;
whip lashes slash gashes backbone sliced, grin and bleed.
covering things, smothering dreams,
the Man winks as He sings
and walks fast past the last as He cashes His greens.
never seen, it’s obscene,
the mean wean you off dreams;
only to make you work harder and steal everything.
until you’re callously sane, observing through window panes rain
dropping like acid drenching the whole world in vain.
painting the perfect picture of our adolescent presence and perception on this planet;
too absorbed by our own egos but can’t think without the xanax,
and so quick on our feet to build up cities with concrete
and plant a tree on the sidewalk just to remind us that it was green.
it’s obscene how they think they control your life
and how they dangle a dollar in front of you like you need it to survive.
in the eye of the beholder, the torch of life is lit
so as you strive to be bolder, there’s no reason you should quit.
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
‘cause when the castle crumbles, there’ll be freedom for us all.
we tripped now we’re falling and the working-class citizen's
left hopping on one leg through the hoops they presented ‘em.
revolution calling change in the name of a broken system;
with a billion voices bawling, how the fuck could they resist them?
we fell, now we’re rising, surprising the Man in the top seat.
put down your pot and visine, take the uprising to the streets.
what’s the point in pride things when you give up your beliefs
to hide in the comfort of your bedroom underneath your white sheets?
like there's something in your subconscious that's polluting your mind;
grinding your gears until all your thoughts and your fears
combine with the lie that you're fine and dry up all of your tears?
you smoke pot and drink beers just to keep the hurt beneath
until the truth breaks through your sanity and shocks all who can see it.
you bleed and you breathe but not yet are you free;
your mental disease tries to heal but psychosis is me.
fear hangs in the derangement of your inner mind,
but as you fall into madness you ask why
the third eye sees seas turn into rain.
the game's changed, now "sane" reigns
with the same stains on different brains;
but, all the pain that remains will see the task through
until no one can recognize you, not even you.
not even me, could bring ashes past masses
like black burned from the green.
at the seam, masking a scheme, blast gas cans in street;
whip lashes slash gashes backbone sliced, grin and bleed.
covering things, smothering dreams,
the Man winks as He sings
and walks fast past the last as He cashes His greens.
never seen, it’s obscene,
the mean wean you off dreams;
only to make you work harder and steal everything.
until you’re callously sane, observing through window panes rain
dropping like acid drenching the whole world in vain.
painting the perfect picture of our adolescent presence and perception on this planet;
too absorbed by our own egos but can’t think without the xanax,
and so quick on our feet to build up cities with concrete
and plant a tree on the sidewalk just to remind us that it was green.
it’s obscene how they think they control your life
and how they dangle a dollar in front of you like you need it to survive.
in the eye of the beholder, the torch of life is lit
so as you strive to be bolder, there’s no reason you should quit.
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
that’s it, that’s all; are you ready for the fall?
‘cause when the castle crumbles, there’ll be freedom for us all.
we tripped now we’re falling and the working-class citizen's
left hopping on one leg through the hoops they presented ‘em.
revolution calling change in the name of a broken system;
with a billion voices bawling, how the fuck could they resist them?
we fell, now we’re rising, surprising the Man in the top seat.
put down your pot and visine, take the uprising to the streets.
what’s the point in pride things when you give up your beliefs
to hide in the comfort of your bedroom underneath your white sheets?
Bullies by Eric Sparks
It's just like when Little Billy came running home in tears;
his mother and father hugged him of course, before they asked him
what was wrong?
At that moment, all the meaning in the world
seemed to hinge on that one question:
what was wrong?
Little Billy stared up at his blurry parents;
their features were distorted by his tears like a fun-house mirror.
He almost laughed at his father's seemingly enormous ears,
but then he cowered when he saw his mother's large, bulging eyes.
Billy wiped his face dry with his cuff before he told them why he cried.
"Johnny pushed me off the swing today, then
he laughed and hollered and yelled and smiled
all because he got to watch me fall. He choked me by the collar
and hit me with a baseball."
Father said, "my son, you have to stand tall. Johnny's
just a bully. There's no reason to act sullen or sad.
It's just one bad kid doing bad kid things.
The heads not fit for crowns, never become kings."
"But dad, even the other kids saw it happen.
The bullies cracked stupid jokes and laughed,
but even my friends just looked the other way.
Why, I'd crack him in his brain; there's no other way."
Then mother finally spoke up,
"Little Billy, my love, you have to use your words.
That's the way to stop any bully or anybody
who will ever be on your nerves.
I understand your urge for violence,
but silence hurts more in the end so it earns more respect.
Do you see what I mean?"
And father agreed.
The problem is, we were all once kids;
so Little Billy's parents' lies should have no place in our mind.
Oh, I remember trying to use my words
when the fucking bullies pushed me around. I probably
screamed a million words per minute, but they didn't hear a sound.
I cried "stop, fuck, shit, why, stop, leave me the fuck alone,"
but I still fell bloody on the ground. (Bullies) are all around;
they come in every shape and size. The biggest giant can't fight back;
the smallest ant can't hide.
Funny thing is, nobody ever told me to use my words.
I just screamed as soon as they punched me, like every other kid.
Do the parents really think that we didn't think to tell the bullies to stop?
The little ones did; I did. The bullies ignored me like every other kid.
What falls from your lips when words won't work?
his mother and father hugged him of course, before they asked him
what was wrong?
At that moment, all the meaning in the world
seemed to hinge on that one question:
what was wrong?
Little Billy stared up at his blurry parents;
their features were distorted by his tears like a fun-house mirror.
He almost laughed at his father's seemingly enormous ears,
but then he cowered when he saw his mother's large, bulging eyes.
Billy wiped his face dry with his cuff before he told them why he cried.
"Johnny pushed me off the swing today, then
he laughed and hollered and yelled and smiled
all because he got to watch me fall. He choked me by the collar
and hit me with a baseball."
Father said, "my son, you have to stand tall. Johnny's
just a bully. There's no reason to act sullen or sad.
It's just one bad kid doing bad kid things.
The heads not fit for crowns, never become kings."
"But dad, even the other kids saw it happen.
The bullies cracked stupid jokes and laughed,
but even my friends just looked the other way.
Why, I'd crack him in his brain; there's no other way."
Then mother finally spoke up,
"Little Billy, my love, you have to use your words.
That's the way to stop any bully or anybody
who will ever be on your nerves.
I understand your urge for violence,
but silence hurts more in the end so it earns more respect.
Do you see what I mean?"
And father agreed.
The problem is, we were all once kids;
so Little Billy's parents' lies should have no place in our mind.
Oh, I remember trying to use my words
when the fucking bullies pushed me around. I probably
screamed a million words per minute, but they didn't hear a sound.
I cried "stop, fuck, shit, why, stop, leave me the fuck alone,"
but I still fell bloody on the ground. (Bullies) are all around;
they come in every shape and size. The biggest giant can't fight back;
the smallest ant can't hide.
Funny thing is, nobody ever told me to use my words.
I just screamed as soon as they punched me, like every other kid.
Do the parents really think that we didn't think to tell the bullies to stop?
The little ones did; I did. The bullies ignored me like every other kid.
What falls from your lips when words won't work?
Friday, September 9, 2011
Motion by Eric Sparks
I’m the tortured genius type;
Hunter Thompson look-a-like, minus the convertible
and dikes. I’m just Sherman Alexie without his history;
I’m a Ken Kesey but I’m missing the mystery. I write
fanciful myths about the kids who never want to grow old;
about the little bastards who did as they were told, but still let
their hearts grow bold and never sold out to the criticisms
of the devil.
even though it looks different to you. Now we’ve already called your bluff;
and we’ve had more than enough with this foolish fucking claim that life is a test.
only you get to decide.
Hunter Thompson look-a-like, minus the convertible
and dikes. I’m just Sherman Alexie without his history;
I’m a Ken Kesey but I’m missing the mystery. I write
fanciful myths about the kids who never want to grow old;
about the little bastards who did as they were told, but still let
their hearts grow bold and never sold out to the criticisms
of the devil.
My people swallow drugs, but they don’t have hollow chests.
As if we were different from you, we always try our best,even though it looks different to you. Now we’ve already called your bluff;
and we’ve had more than enough with this foolish fucking claim that life is a test.
Don’t you see?
It’s more like a quest.Remember.
There’s no such thing as blessed.There’s only failure and success
and when the yellow sun sets,only you get to decide.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Those Dumb Fuckers Told Me by Eric Sparks
That pain causes growth; that suffering is experience,
but man I didn’t believe that shit, and you can believe that I never will.
I don’t mean to say that suffering doesn’t strengthen the soul, but
just because torture increases our tolerance for pain,
doesn’t mean I plan to hang myself from the thumbs.
Shit, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” is just something for ignorant
parents and other authoritative figures to say, when they either don’t care
or can’t fix that pain that plagues their loved ones.
Personally, in a bad situation, I’d rather hear my father say, “Eric,
sometimes life fucks us up; sometimes it grabs us by the throat and we think it will never let go. And sometimes it stops, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
See at least that seems like the truth, instead of me and everybody
that loves me pretending I’m Jesus because I managed to get myself
drug addicted, and a few months later, un-drug addicted.
Pain should be avoided; emotional, physical, even sexual probably.
And we, as a species, should never make nor cancel decisions,
using our fear as a rationale. But we, as a species, should never let ourselves
be hurt, just because it sounds poetic.
but man I didn’t believe that shit, and you can believe that I never will.
I don’t mean to say that suffering doesn’t strengthen the soul, but
just because torture increases our tolerance for pain,
doesn’t mean I plan to hang myself from the thumbs.
Shit, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” is just something for ignorant
parents and other authoritative figures to say, when they either don’t care
or can’t fix that pain that plagues their loved ones.
Personally, in a bad situation, I’d rather hear my father say, “Eric,
sometimes life fucks us up; sometimes it grabs us by the throat and we think it will never let go. And sometimes it stops, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
See at least that seems like the truth, instead of me and everybody
that loves me pretending I’m Jesus because I managed to get myself
drug addicted, and a few months later, un-drug addicted.
Pain should be avoided; emotional, physical, even sexual probably.
And we, as a species, should never make nor cancel decisions,
using our fear as a rationale. But we, as a species, should never let ourselves
be hurt, just because it sounds poetic.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Red Swan by Laurel Marks
He’s the type of little boy
that in ten years
will make your limbs twist
and your heart heave.
He’s the type of little boy
whose brown eyes are set
in such lush lashes,
it’s like cutting through ragweed
to get to the hush he’s hiding.
He’s the type of little boy your grandmother
warned you about
as she shucked corn into
an empty dishpan,
eyeing the geese and the
whole aquiline slope that
stretched out
back.
“Boys like that will sweep you up,
will flat knock you with a brass tipped
bite.”
Tapping her
Boxy
Black
Shoes
She’d suck the half-ripe kernels between
her teeth.
But she didn’t know the twist and heave.
You,
Lolita in his redwing
Clasp.
The rain across your bowed backs
soft and feathered.
Skin dipped in pollen
His saffron finger prints
the only
sign.
Where the Wild Things Are by Eric Sparks
They live in your heart;
they hide in your chest.
Alive since the start,
they stay ‘til your death.
They’re the ones that say, “Hey,
make a bad decision today,
why not skip class and go smoke;
and why haven’t you tried coke.”
They’re the reason you take, just one last drink;
they’re the reason you hide, and the reason you lie.
They’ll push the best man to the edge, to the brink,
and then push him off, if he’s ready to die.
They’re why you run from your fears;
they’re why you’re scared of the dark,
they’re why you hate looking in mirrors,
and they feast on your heart.
They’re the reason love doesn’t last,
they’re the worst of your past;
they caused all of the wars,
they’re why kids ignore chores.
With that said, deal with your stress.
The Wild Things burn, life is a mess;
so live how you can, prepare for the rest,
and ignore the big cross, life isn’t a test.
they hide in your chest.
Alive since the start,
they stay ‘til your death.
They’re the ones that say, “Hey,
make a bad decision today,
why not skip class and go smoke;
and why haven’t you tried coke.”
They’re the reason you take, just one last drink;
they’re the reason you hide, and the reason you lie.
They’ll push the best man to the edge, to the brink,
and then push him off, if he’s ready to die.
They’re why you run from your fears;
they’re why you’re scared of the dark,
they’re why you hate looking in mirrors,
and they feast on your heart.
They’re the reason love doesn’t last,
they’re the worst of your past;
they caused all of the wars,
they’re why kids ignore chores.
With that said, deal with your stress.
The Wild Things burn, life is a mess;
so live how you can, prepare for the rest,
and ignore the big cross, life isn’t a test.
Talkin' Bout my Generation by Eric Sparks
We were sitting parallel, on a Ferris Wheel,
laughing and wishing we were like the freakish beatniks,
sitting in gondola beneath us, so we asked them to teach us,
and all they could say was ignore the preachers, and Jesus,
make nature our teacher, maybe live in a beach hut.
But we laughed at the cliché, and without delay,
searched through the big bale of hay, trying to find
a new way, something original to say.
I woke up as a teahead, worried, I reread
Kerouac’s Angels, and listened to what he said,
but I was still concerned the world would behead
me, and everything would soon be red, so I sat
and prayed to Oscar Wilde, for the chance,
to live a mild lifestyle for a while, with a dance and a real smile,
just to behave like a child, jump in the big leaf pile.
The best wishes aren’t granted; and the best trees aren’t planted,
but all opinions are slanted, angled, and the best people
are disenchanted and mangled; they all feel strangled,
but then falsely blame their faults on the star-spangled,
and ignore their old aim, no more bold claims,
sometimes the bottom of the ninth,
is not, the end of the ballgame.
laughing and wishing we were like the freakish beatniks,
sitting in gondola beneath us, so we asked them to teach us,
and all they could say was ignore the preachers, and Jesus,
make nature our teacher, maybe live in a beach hut.
But we laughed at the cliché, and without delay,
searched through the big bale of hay, trying to find
a new way, something original to say.
I woke up as a teahead, worried, I reread
Kerouac’s Angels, and listened to what he said,
but I was still concerned the world would behead
me, and everything would soon be red, so I sat
and prayed to Oscar Wilde, for the chance,
to live a mild lifestyle for a while, with a dance and a real smile,
just to behave like a child, jump in the big leaf pile.
The best wishes aren’t granted; and the best trees aren’t planted,
but all opinions are slanted, angled, and the best people
are disenchanted and mangled; they all feel strangled,
but then falsely blame their faults on the star-spangled,
and ignore their old aim, no more bold claims,
sometimes the bottom of the ninth,
is not, the end of the ballgame.
Noah by Eric Sparks
In 5th Grade:
Our fearless leader responsible for every last rebellion we held against the tyrannical rule of our totalitarian parents who sternly ordered us out of pine trees and into new, clean clothes. He led us into battle on soccer fields and random forests and snowy hills and he would let no man forget his duty to the whole, which only existed in a few children I saw, ready to grow and learn.
In 8th Grade:
Exactly one half of my best friends, and they both talked and stimulated thought and naively, we thought we were ready for the world, but mainly because we had each other. These were the days of a fierce triumvirate; these were the days of sleepovers and computer games; these were the days of tree-forts, bagels and a Whidbey Island childhood; these were the days friendship turned to love.
In 10th Grade:
My long-gone brother who sensibly left us for opportunity when it presented itself and he only received well-wished thoughts as my young heart missed him and we all quietly, privately mourned. We lacked something without him, but our memories made up for what we missed and our imagination kept the future intact. And when I saw him, we always hugged and smiled because we could see, it will always be the same.
In 12th Grade:
He wasn’t lost or long-gone or even absent as he was present when I needed him and oftentimes when I didn’t, which seemed better to me, or at least more impressive. During this time, we dappled with drugs and drank occasionally and enjoyed the opportunity to transcend reality together. Man, these times created more meaning and more reality and more understanding than one usually expects from drugs; but to be in the slightest binge with Noah was artistic in itself.
Now:
A part of my soul, which over the years took what it could from his bizarre, daring persona as I watched bewildered while he pushed me and the most important people into a different side of consciousness. Who inspired us, and was inspired by us, and didn’t hold (didn’t want to hold) any leadership over us although I will always think of him as our bold champion and follow him, but only when he chooses his own direction.
Our fearless leader responsible for every last rebellion we held against the tyrannical rule of our totalitarian parents who sternly ordered us out of pine trees and into new, clean clothes. He led us into battle on soccer fields and random forests and snowy hills and he would let no man forget his duty to the whole, which only existed in a few children I saw, ready to grow and learn.
In 8th Grade:
Exactly one half of my best friends, and they both talked and stimulated thought and naively, we thought we were ready for the world, but mainly because we had each other. These were the days of a fierce triumvirate; these were the days of sleepovers and computer games; these were the days of tree-forts, bagels and a Whidbey Island childhood; these were the days friendship turned to love.
In 10th Grade:
My long-gone brother who sensibly left us for opportunity when it presented itself and he only received well-wished thoughts as my young heart missed him and we all quietly, privately mourned. We lacked something without him, but our memories made up for what we missed and our imagination kept the future intact. And when I saw him, we always hugged and smiled because we could see, it will always be the same.
In 12th Grade:
He wasn’t lost or long-gone or even absent as he was present when I needed him and oftentimes when I didn’t, which seemed better to me, or at least more impressive. During this time, we dappled with drugs and drank occasionally and enjoyed the opportunity to transcend reality together. Man, these times created more meaning and more reality and more understanding than one usually expects from drugs; but to be in the slightest binge with Noah was artistic in itself.
Now:
A part of my soul, which over the years took what it could from his bizarre, daring persona as I watched bewildered while he pushed me and the most important people into a different side of consciousness. Who inspired us, and was inspired by us, and didn’t hold (didn’t want to hold) any leadership over us although I will always think of him as our bold champion and follow him, but only when he chooses his own direction.
Fear and Loathing by Eric Sparks
Like Hunter S. Thompson,
or that one time that cop pulled you over while you were high.
Paranoia, hate and fear adapted to one single emotion, which
mainly occurs when we are confronted with the tremendous
authority of the world. It’s that feeling in the pit of your
stomach that burns and shakes when you realize exactly
how small we are. It’s that longing for death when your parents leave
you locked in your room, only saying, “We need to talk tonight,
think about your life,” and you wonder how many mistakes
you can hide. When that teacher puts you on the spot and asks a question
that nobody fucking knows and still expects a fail-proof answer, it’s
that passionate hatred for pulling your face out of the crowd
and that unrivaled fear because you don’t want them to see you fail,
no matter how much you manage to fuck up in private. Fear
and loathing, as recorded by Dr. Thompson, as experienced by most,
exist only as the emotion we experience when we understand
the power of the universe, and realize for some reason she’s angry.
or that one time that cop pulled you over while you were high.
Paranoia, hate and fear adapted to one single emotion, which
mainly occurs when we are confronted with the tremendous
authority of the world. It’s that feeling in the pit of your
stomach that burns and shakes when you realize exactly
how small we are. It’s that longing for death when your parents leave
you locked in your room, only saying, “We need to talk tonight,
think about your life,” and you wonder how many mistakes
you can hide. When that teacher puts you on the spot and asks a question
that nobody fucking knows and still expects a fail-proof answer, it’s
that passionate hatred for pulling your face out of the crowd
and that unrivaled fear because you don’t want them to see you fail,
no matter how much you manage to fuck up in private. Fear
and loathing, as recorded by Dr. Thompson, as experienced by most,
exist only as the emotion we experience when we understand
the power of the universe, and realize for some reason she’s angry.
It Tested Him by Eric Sparks
I knew a man, who was happier
before he decided to give a damn, but
one day he had an epiphany and wrote
a big sign on his wall that said, "Life Matters."
For years, he adapted this thought
into his everyday life, and hated
wasting time and shallow people;
especially wasting time with shallow people.
I guess I should say that it worked for awhile.
I mean, he searched for meaning
and read some books; he ate healthy and
avoided TV. Also, over the years, he held
some real relationships, romantic and platonic.
But as the years wore on, I could see
the change, mainly in the bags under his eyes.
He rarely looked happy, and only occasionally smiled,
and mostly sat alone in his house.
I visited him one day and, trying to
make sure he was okay, told him a story
about a friend of mine. At which, he scoffed
and turned up his nose. Insulted, I asked,
how he could consider himself different from the rest of them.
He broke down in tears, talking about how god neglected him.
But I think the world just got the best of him.
before he decided to give a damn, but
one day he had an epiphany and wrote
a big sign on his wall that said, "Life Matters."
For years, he adapted this thought
into his everyday life, and hated
wasting time and shallow people;
especially wasting time with shallow people.
I guess I should say that it worked for awhile.
I mean, he searched for meaning
and read some books; he ate healthy and
avoided TV. Also, over the years, he held
some real relationships, romantic and platonic.
But as the years wore on, I could see
the change, mainly in the bags under his eyes.
He rarely looked happy, and only occasionally smiled,
and mostly sat alone in his house.
I visited him one day and, trying to
make sure he was okay, told him a story
about a friend of mine. At which, he scoffed
and turned up his nose. Insulted, I asked,
how he could consider himself different from the rest of them.
He broke down in tears, talking about how god neglected him.
But I think the world just got the best of him.
Colton Harris Moore- The Barefoot Burglar by Eric Sparks
Growing up in the Pacific Northwest for most of my childhood undeniably had its benefits, which I don’t feel inclined or required to include, and indeed, most of its shortcomings were intentional and only viewed as shortcomings by me and several of my morally corrupt peers. One such deficiency was the inherent lack of crime, or at least exciting crime, especially in the northern islands of the sound, which are quiet like slippers and lack the thrill of western bandits, cops and robbers. So when I heard about Colton Harris Moore, some free-spirited kid from Camano Island who apparently broke into summer homes and lived there, stole boats and planes, and basically lived off of other peoples’ expense all while unexplainably barefoot, I was understandably excited. I wasn’t particularly impressed by his balls, the large testicles required to become a full-time, committed criminal, but mainly I was intrigued by the genre of crime he perpetrated when he lived in others’ summer homes. I imagined him stealing planes or boats and taking to the air or to the sky and jealously tried to picture, to feel, the emotion Colton Harris Moore must have experienced every time he succeeded. With that accomplished, I prepared a bold statement specifically intended as a loose thesis for this prose: Colton Harris Moore, the Barefoot Burglar, is a hero criminal of our generation and his actions should not be undervalued as immature mischief, but as crimes indicative of the nature of this nation’s youth and actions that hypothetically, hopefully help shape the development of the country.
The beauty and meaning in Colton’s crimes lie in the nature and message of his actions, not in his intent or the arbitrary definition of crime. With that said, it should be understood that I do not know Colton Harris Moore or why he chose to become the northwest’s infamous criminal, and I am not interested in crime because it is a transgression of the law, but because it is a comment about human nature. So while Colton could have stolen boats and camped out in those summer homes for the most pathetic, infantile reasons (which I doubt), his logic, whatever it may be, cannot undermine the inherent statement of his crimes.
In particular, mooching off of some rich fucks’ underused, un-needed summer house is a beautiful act, as Colton Harris Moore gained his personal necessities: food, water, etc., with only a minute expense of effort. In a country that undeniably has too much wealth and other shit, without even a slightly comfortable disparity between wealth and poverty, the ability to provide for oneself is an excellent talent to have. Now while an obvious argument is that stealing is wrong, even irresponsible, I would contend that as long Colton realizes the gravity of his action, and is willing to accept the emotional and physical consequences of his crimes, whenever they manifest themselves, then he is acting in a controlled, responsible manner. This is where he should inspire our generation. First, as a country, we need to realize the impact of the economic crisis and how capitalism is to blame and we need to find unique, intelligent ways to solve the problem; but that’s not what Colton Harris Moore is worried, or even thinking, about, just something he should hopefully inspire a few eyes to see. More importantly, as a youth, as a generation, we need to take Colton Harris Moore’s manifestation of existentialism and apply it to our lives. As the children of the hippies, our generation has been yielded a somewhat outrageous amount of freedom, which we have managed to do little with so far. We need to begin to act completely disregarding what we feel we are supposed to do according to society or what the law says we should do, and we should make decisions based on what we personally feel is necessary for ourselves and the world. Jack Kerouac and his lovely friends, the hippies, and everybody in between allowed us the unique experience of individualism, in a time when the country wanted everybody to conform; because of them, now would be a good time for the youth of the country not to conform, but to unite in a sense. I don’t want to list out what needs to happen over the next sixty years, mainly because I don’t really know, but the world needs, and expects, a lot from the youth of America during our lifetime. It’s time we recognize that, but without losing the unique, liberated perspective that we have been granted. We probably can’t accomplish everything this world needs from us, but we have the responsibility and ability to do quite a bit. So we probably should, just saying.
The beauty and meaning in Colton’s crimes lie in the nature and message of his actions, not in his intent or the arbitrary definition of crime. With that said, it should be understood that I do not know Colton Harris Moore or why he chose to become the northwest’s infamous criminal, and I am not interested in crime because it is a transgression of the law, but because it is a comment about human nature. So while Colton could have stolen boats and camped out in those summer homes for the most pathetic, infantile reasons (which I doubt), his logic, whatever it may be, cannot undermine the inherent statement of his crimes.
In particular, mooching off of some rich fucks’ underused, un-needed summer house is a beautiful act, as Colton Harris Moore gained his personal necessities: food, water, etc., with only a minute expense of effort. In a country that undeniably has too much wealth and other shit, without even a slightly comfortable disparity between wealth and poverty, the ability to provide for oneself is an excellent talent to have. Now while an obvious argument is that stealing is wrong, even irresponsible, I would contend that as long Colton realizes the gravity of his action, and is willing to accept the emotional and physical consequences of his crimes, whenever they manifest themselves, then he is acting in a controlled, responsible manner. This is where he should inspire our generation. First, as a country, we need to realize the impact of the economic crisis and how capitalism is to blame and we need to find unique, intelligent ways to solve the problem; but that’s not what Colton Harris Moore is worried, or even thinking, about, just something he should hopefully inspire a few eyes to see. More importantly, as a youth, as a generation, we need to take Colton Harris Moore’s manifestation of existentialism and apply it to our lives. As the children of the hippies, our generation has been yielded a somewhat outrageous amount of freedom, which we have managed to do little with so far. We need to begin to act completely disregarding what we feel we are supposed to do according to society or what the law says we should do, and we should make decisions based on what we personally feel is necessary for ourselves and the world. Jack Kerouac and his lovely friends, the hippies, and everybody in between allowed us the unique experience of individualism, in a time when the country wanted everybody to conform; because of them, now would be a good time for the youth of the country not to conform, but to unite in a sense. I don’t want to list out what needs to happen over the next sixty years, mainly because I don’t really know, but the world needs, and expects, a lot from the youth of America during our lifetime. It’s time we recognize that, but without losing the unique, liberated perspective that we have been granted. We probably can’t accomplish everything this world needs from us, but we have the responsibility and ability to do quite a bit. So we probably should, just saying.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
They Told Me Attitude is 110% of Everything by Eric Sparks
And I told them that’s bullshit,
but for all intents and purposes,
I think of myself as invincible,
and quite possibly immortal,
but that will take awhile to prove.
And I don’t know about you,
but drugs and alcohol
could never hurt me,
or subtract from my smarts
or impair my art,
and my heart,
will be just fine,
as long as I believe its true.
And I write better than you,
with all the ease
of an experienced shortstop,
fielding his millionth groundball,
but mainly because I know I can.
But fuck the teachers and the preachers,
or for that matter, anybody else who told you,
a sunny smile and a bright outlook,
would make life how you want it to be.
And you should do what you think,
but please don’t judge me,
if I don’t believe even the best attitude,
could make it all ok in the end.
but for all intents and purposes,
I think of myself as invincible,
and quite possibly immortal,
but that will take awhile to prove.
And I don’t know about you,
but drugs and alcohol
could never hurt me,
or subtract from my smarts
or impair my art,
and my heart,
will be just fine,
as long as I believe its true.
And I write better than you,
with all the ease
of an experienced shortstop,
fielding his millionth groundball,
but mainly because I know I can.
But fuck the teachers and the preachers,
or for that matter, anybody else who told you,
a sunny smile and a bright outlook,
would make life how you want it to be.
And you should do what you think,
but please don’t judge me,
if I don’t believe even the best attitude,
could make it all ok in the end.
It's Nice to Meet You Pt. 2 by Eric Sparks
On the first night we met we smoked;
which was a first for me and I grinned even though
I knew you lived in the Marijuana Valley
and chose teaheads like me for friends.
But don’t think that I didn’t see
the smallest smiles in your eyes
even though they were awfully low,
and even though,
I could hardly see my hand,
through the clouds that filled the tent.
It was a funny smile; cute because it
only fluttered across your face when
I mumbled poorly, but beautiful,
because you meant it every time.
I smiled back because smiles like that
aren’t born of smoke and coughing. It’s
the grin of a child that saw the Angels win;
a beginning unconcerned with sin or origins.
I’m just saying: I don’t see that smile
in every stoner; even if I was less of a loner
I wouldn’t find the same belonging that I found
that day in our smoky tent.
which was a first for me and I grinned even though
I knew you lived in the Marijuana Valley
and chose teaheads like me for friends.
But don’t think that I didn’t see
the smallest smiles in your eyes
even though they were awfully low,
and even though,
I could hardly see my hand,
through the clouds that filled the tent.
It was a funny smile; cute because it
only fluttered across your face when
I mumbled poorly, but beautiful,
because you meant it every time.
I smiled back because smiles like that
aren’t born of smoke and coughing. It’s
the grin of a child that saw the Angels win;
a beginning unconcerned with sin or origins.
I’m just saying: I don’t see that smile
in every stoner; even if I was less of a loner
I wouldn’t find the same belonging that I found
that day in our smoky tent.
It's Nice to Meet You by Eric Sparks
The first night we met we danced;
we danced quietly under 3 am streetlights, while cops
sat in parking lots and friends climbed on jungle gyms.
It wasn’t a flamboyant dance; it was subtle,
and to many people it must have looked like a hug,
but I don’t think they saw me smile as our arms linked;
I don’t think they saw you smile when we waltzed
across America, stepping on most of the states.
The first night we met we talked;
we told stupid jokes, and said silly things,
and babbled as our not-so-sober minds
took full control of our mouths, but it didn’t
matter because I was just glad for the opportunity
to get to know you.
We stayed up until five;
the birds were chirping, and the sky had lightened,
but we didn’t really want to say goodbye quite yet,
so we just sat quiet for a while and let the night last,
because it had served us well as a true introduction.
It was really nice to meet you;
that’s why before I left, I stood tip-toe,
while you stood on the stairs, and whispered,
what I wanted you to know, “Hey, you seem cool.”
I think you smiled, which was probably the best answer,
so we hugged again before I headed home to bed.
we danced quietly under 3 am streetlights, while cops
sat in parking lots and friends climbed on jungle gyms.
It wasn’t a flamboyant dance; it was subtle,
and to many people it must have looked like a hug,
but I don’t think they saw me smile as our arms linked;
I don’t think they saw you smile when we waltzed
across America, stepping on most of the states.
The first night we met we talked;
we told stupid jokes, and said silly things,
and babbled as our not-so-sober minds
took full control of our mouths, but it didn’t
matter because I was just glad for the opportunity
to get to know you.
We stayed up until five;
the birds were chirping, and the sky had lightened,
but we didn’t really want to say goodbye quite yet,
so we just sat quiet for a while and let the night last,
because it had served us well as a true introduction.
It was really nice to meet you;
that’s why before I left, I stood tip-toe,
while you stood on the stairs, and whispered,
what I wanted you to know, “Hey, you seem cool.”
I think you smiled, which was probably the best answer,
so we hugged again before I headed home to bed.
My Buddy by Eric Sparks
Shit, I missed you and I knew that I probably would.
It's strange though, because when you left, I was supposed to feel
better and life was supposed to get easier and most of my problems
were supposed to disappear. Fuck, they had me excited; I was
going to be a new man, ready for the world, through trying trial.
But this didn't happen; I just got a little bit scared. Which meant
my days were a tad harder and being alone was more poetic
and I could wear my sadness in my eyes, along with the slightest
hint of sarcasm.
So you came back, and I think I needed it. Besides,
with a smarter outlook and a better understanding,
our relationship just might work.
It's strange though, because when you left, I was supposed to feel
better and life was supposed to get easier and most of my problems
were supposed to disappear. Fuck, they had me excited; I was
going to be a new man, ready for the world, through trying trial.
But this didn't happen; I just got a little bit scared. Which meant
my days were a tad harder and being alone was more poetic
and I could wear my sadness in my eyes, along with the slightest
hint of sarcasm.
So you came back, and I think I needed it. Besides,
with a smarter outlook and a better understanding,
our relationship just might work.
Fuck Me, and Kid Cudi by Eric Sparks
And everybody else who thinks
kindness will take them somewhere.
Because we saw through the bullshit
a long time ago, and changed, to maybe
inspire more change, but only now
realized that bullshit runs the world,
so the effort was probably for not.
And fuck everybody who smokes
like me, quietly and often, because it helps
us see the world and get through our day.
Because they don’t see that; all they see
is a drug.
And fuck everybody who smiles
deep and real, but only when they’re happy.
Because it’s these things, when I’m sad
or I’m dreaming, that remind me I’m me,
and the world can take it all back, but
nobody else can touch me.
kindness will take them somewhere.
Because we saw through the bullshit
a long time ago, and changed, to maybe
inspire more change, but only now
realized that bullshit runs the world,
so the effort was probably for not.
And fuck everybody who smokes
like me, quietly and often, because it helps
us see the world and get through our day.
Because they don’t see that; all they see
is a drug.
And fuck everybody who smiles
deep and real, but only when they’re happy.
Because it’s these things, when I’m sad
or I’m dreaming, that remind me I’m me,
and the world can take it all back, but
nobody else can touch me.
Write a Poem by Eric Sparks
Write a poem and maybe tomorrow will be ok.
That’s what the old man said.
He said he didn’t care if my back hurt, if I had a headache,
if I was hungover, if I was hungry.
We need a poem to make sure tomorrow’s ok.
I took a step back; seemed like a lot of pressure.
These are just some words; tomorrow probably isn’t going to be ok, anyway.
He took a step forward.
Then change the words.
Look old man, words are words.
Besides, nothing is going to change tomorrow.
He smiled. Come back when your words can change tomorrow, or the next day.
Then I’ll listen.
That’s what the old man said.
He said he didn’t care if my back hurt, if I had a headache,
if I was hungover, if I was hungry.
We need a poem to make sure tomorrow’s ok.
I took a step back; seemed like a lot of pressure.
These are just some words; tomorrow probably isn’t going to be ok, anyway.
He took a step forward.
Then change the words.
Look old man, words are words.
Besides, nothing is going to change tomorrow.
He smiled. Come back when your words can change tomorrow, or the next day.
Then I’ll listen.
Bad Habit Beauty by Eric Sparks
That little stick in your hand;
it won’t give you the inspiration you need.
It might give you the inspiration you want,
but only for awhile. That little stick in your hand;
it tricks and deceives, whether its brown or its green,
and it will never be as good as the leaves or the trees,
for the inspiration that you need.
That little stick in your hand;
I’m not saying ignore it; I know the
attention that it demands. So kiss it
just one more time, and then look up at the sky,
and then maybe find,
the inspiration that you need.
Two by Eric Sparks
I met a soldier, a little older than I,
and I could see his years and fears had made him wise.
When I shook his hand, I could see in his eyes that
between the mirrors and tears, he was ready to die.
He smiled often, but rotted inside. Cigarette smoke
down the throat had made his lungs dry. He
smelt like old fungi, but seemed like a fun guy
when he laughed like a child riding a new slide.
In between smelly gasps he grasped my hand tight;
and said, “I have nothing to say, no sound advice;
my profound life taught me nothing is nice. We
spend most of our time in irrelevant fights. Check
the price, nothing is greater than the might of Right.”
He taught me there are two ways to live;
one for the strong; the other will give;
how long could we stand still on the weak or the frail?
Every day is a choice, with a voice of its own;
do you do right or wrong when you’re all alone?
and I could see his years and fears had made him wise.
When I shook his hand, I could see in his eyes that
between the mirrors and tears, he was ready to die.
He smiled often, but rotted inside. Cigarette smoke
down the throat had made his lungs dry. He
smelt like old fungi, but seemed like a fun guy
when he laughed like a child riding a new slide.
In between smelly gasps he grasped my hand tight;
and said, “I have nothing to say, no sound advice;
my profound life taught me nothing is nice. We
spend most of our time in irrelevant fights. Check
the price, nothing is greater than the might of Right.”
He taught me there are two ways to live;
one for the strong; the other will give;
how long could we stand still on the weak or the frail?
Every day is a choice, with a voice of its own;
do you do right or wrong when you’re all alone?
Hunter Thompson Wannabe (A Literary Exercise) by Eric Sparks
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Thursday, August 4, 2011
Omphaloskepsis by Laurel Marks
OMPHALOSKEPSIS. : om·pha·lo·skep·sis. noun \ˌäm(p)-fə-lō-ˈskep-səs\. contemplation of one's navel as an aid to meditation
At twenty seven my father became lost in omphaloskepsis.
He hardly noticed when I, or my two younger brothers, were born. Of course doctors were called, but with no luck. Some blamed the absorbing slope of his aquiline nose. Others whispered of a psychotic break down while even more shook their heads at the dusty shambles our house had become with the stinging absence of a patriarch.
Whatever the prognosis, no remedy was found and my father continued to sit, his eyes cast down, resting like feathers on the pale ridges of his stomach. My mother wrung her hands and forbid us to speak of it to the neighbors or, god forbid, the rabbi.
She even, in a moment of desperation, hired a hypnotist to free my father from his contemplative shackles, but he arrived in such a layering of tangerine and blue robes, and with such a serpentine tongue of unknown consonants, that my mother shooed him from the house with a broom handle before he could even open his case of crystalline tools.
As we grew up it became a game, “who could get the closest to daddy.” We’d sneak up while my mother was busy in the kitchen, dipping her long apron strings in a vat of honey and drizzling it over the hot cakes, or dusting in the upstairs bath, and then we’d creep, on silent tip toe, closer and closer to my father and his dark, down turned eyes. Pressed against the wallpaper, we’d slide inch by inch until one of us could feel his shallow breathing or smell his cool tang. We’d slip so close we could almost follow his eyes in their downward spiral and then he’d blink, or we’d feel the slick softness of the cat as it brushed by and we’d run screaming into the backyard, our hearts doing frenzied summersaults till we lost ourselves in the tire swing or hopscotch on the hot cement.
My mother final gave up on the pretence of normalcy when I was in high school and would wrap her skeins of wool around his splayed fingers as she knit, or balance a coffee cup on his granited shoulder as she got ready for work in the morning.
When I was old enough to read Freud she whispered that she thought it was a mother thing. “It’s an abandonment issue,” she nodded as she ironed the table clothes, draping the stiff cotton across my father’s knees. “He feels disconnected from her, he always did and now,” she lifted up her own sweater, revealing a soft mother’s belly, dimpled and stretched, “he’s hung up on the one place that tied them together.”
Over the years my mother bathed my father with a washcloth, darned his socks, not holed from walking but from the flurry of moths that descended on our house each fall, sewed his shirts so the edges fell just below his nipples, and fed his spoonfuls of thick borsch each Sunday.
After a while, I forgot I ever had a father at all. Perhaps to give him some privacy, or merely to relieve us all from the burden of his hunched figure against the sideboard, my mother took to covering him with embroidered clothes and draperies. Each week she’d change out the apple green scalloped in purple, or the blue swirled velvet for a different pallet and shade, our house a fresh burst of new color each time I’d come home from college.
My mother noticed my father growing thinner and thinner, sinking into himself like a leaded paper weight the year I went abroad to get my post doctorate.
She didn’t want to worry me, or my brothers, who had scattered as soon as they’d saved some money and were old enough to shave.
One day my mother called me, as she often did, and spoke to me of the turning weather and the development of a new shopping mall down the street.
“I’m thinking of moving, it’s too nosy here. Plus the house is far too big for just me now.” I could here the sharp crunch of the pruning sheers as she trimmed the azaleas that bordered our sidewalk.
“But… what about dad?” The words came out cobwebbed and old, and although he wasn’t a taboo subject between the two of us, I realized that I hadn’t thought to ask about him in nearly a year.
“Oh, dear, I completely forgot to tell you! Last week he just up and… disappeared. I went to change the pink brocade, I was painting and wanted a simpler cream muslim, and he was just… gone. Not even a note or a button to be seen.”
There was a pregnant pause across the phone wires and for a moment I got lost in a memory from when I was five or six and had crawled over to see if I was brave enough to tap my father on the shoulder. It had been a hot august day, the kind that seems to slowly close on you as the sun climbs, like a stiff cardboard box folding in. It had been my turn to take the risk and I could feel my brother’s eyes watching me from around the corner. As I reached out to place my small palm on the large expanse of my father’s curving shoulders I thought I heard him whisper my name. It was so soft, nothing more than a drawn out exhale that I froze, the thrill and fear hot between my teeth. Was my father still there? Could he feel the heat of my skin so close and young next to his?
His hand twitched, the long pianist fingers flexing minutely within the alabaster stiffness of his bones and I jumped back, scrambling from the room on my hands and knees.
“Oh.” Was all I could reply as my mother told me the details of the funeral, next week at three at the cemetery a mile out of town. But was a funeral even appropriate?
Only one of my brothers could make it, so there were three of us graveside that afternoon, throwing handfuls of dirt into an empty hole.
“This doesn’t look six feet deep,” my brother scowled, scuffing his dress shoes along the edge of the fresh turned earth.
“It’s not. Only two or so feet, I told them not to bother, I mean, there’s no body…” My mother dabbed at her eyes but her mascara seemed fresh and perfectly even.
“Oh, well I guess that’s ok then.” My brother impatiently loosened his yellow tie and checked his watch for the fifth time, cleaning the speckled dirt from his black shoes with a handkerchief.
The irreverence was as thick as the low hanging clouds.
They both made excuses to leave, my brother to a meeting and my mother to her bridge club, but I stayed in the cemetery as it began to slowly rain, quietly lifting my black shirt to watch the pale skin beneath my breasts and above my hip, studying my own corkscrewed navel, hoping to catch a glint of the magic my father had found in his bones for just a hint/glint of what my father saw in his own marvelous flesh/ navel/ umbilicus.
At twenty seven my father became lost in omphaloskepsis.
He hardly noticed when I, or my two younger brothers, were born. Of course doctors were called, but with no luck. Some blamed the absorbing slope of his aquiline nose. Others whispered of a psychotic break down while even more shook their heads at the dusty shambles our house had become with the stinging absence of a patriarch.
Whatever the prognosis, no remedy was found and my father continued to sit, his eyes cast down, resting like feathers on the pale ridges of his stomach. My mother wrung her hands and forbid us to speak of it to the neighbors or, god forbid, the rabbi.
She even, in a moment of desperation, hired a hypnotist to free my father from his contemplative shackles, but he arrived in such a layering of tangerine and blue robes, and with such a serpentine tongue of unknown consonants, that my mother shooed him from the house with a broom handle before he could even open his case of crystalline tools.
As we grew up it became a game, “who could get the closest to daddy.” We’d sneak up while my mother was busy in the kitchen, dipping her long apron strings in a vat of honey and drizzling it over the hot cakes, or dusting in the upstairs bath, and then we’d creep, on silent tip toe, closer and closer to my father and his dark, down turned eyes. Pressed against the wallpaper, we’d slide inch by inch until one of us could feel his shallow breathing or smell his cool tang. We’d slip so close we could almost follow his eyes in their downward spiral and then he’d blink, or we’d feel the slick softness of the cat as it brushed by and we’d run screaming into the backyard, our hearts doing frenzied summersaults till we lost ourselves in the tire swing or hopscotch on the hot cement.
My mother final gave up on the pretence of normalcy when I was in high school and would wrap her skeins of wool around his splayed fingers as she knit, or balance a coffee cup on his granited shoulder as she got ready for work in the morning.
When I was old enough to read Freud she whispered that she thought it was a mother thing. “It’s an abandonment issue,” she nodded as she ironed the table clothes, draping the stiff cotton across my father’s knees. “He feels disconnected from her, he always did and now,” she lifted up her own sweater, revealing a soft mother’s belly, dimpled and stretched, “he’s hung up on the one place that tied them together.”
Over the years my mother bathed my father with a washcloth, darned his socks, not holed from walking but from the flurry of moths that descended on our house each fall, sewed his shirts so the edges fell just below his nipples, and fed his spoonfuls of thick borsch each Sunday.
After a while, I forgot I ever had a father at all. Perhaps to give him some privacy, or merely to relieve us all from the burden of his hunched figure against the sideboard, my mother took to covering him with embroidered clothes and draperies. Each week she’d change out the apple green scalloped in purple, or the blue swirled velvet for a different pallet and shade, our house a fresh burst of new color each time I’d come home from college.
My mother noticed my father growing thinner and thinner, sinking into himself like a leaded paper weight the year I went abroad to get my post doctorate.
She didn’t want to worry me, or my brothers, who had scattered as soon as they’d saved some money and were old enough to shave.
One day my mother called me, as she often did, and spoke to me of the turning weather and the development of a new shopping mall down the street.
“I’m thinking of moving, it’s too nosy here. Plus the house is far too big for just me now.” I could here the sharp crunch of the pruning sheers as she trimmed the azaleas that bordered our sidewalk.
“But… what about dad?” The words came out cobwebbed and old, and although he wasn’t a taboo subject between the two of us, I realized that I hadn’t thought to ask about him in nearly a year.
“Oh, dear, I completely forgot to tell you! Last week he just up and… disappeared. I went to change the pink brocade, I was painting and wanted a simpler cream muslim, and he was just… gone. Not even a note or a button to be seen.”
There was a pregnant pause across the phone wires and for a moment I got lost in a memory from when I was five or six and had crawled over to see if I was brave enough to tap my father on the shoulder. It had been a hot august day, the kind that seems to slowly close on you as the sun climbs, like a stiff cardboard box folding in. It had been my turn to take the risk and I could feel my brother’s eyes watching me from around the corner. As I reached out to place my small palm on the large expanse of my father’s curving shoulders I thought I heard him whisper my name. It was so soft, nothing more than a drawn out exhale that I froze, the thrill and fear hot between my teeth. Was my father still there? Could he feel the heat of my skin so close and young next to his?
His hand twitched, the long pianist fingers flexing minutely within the alabaster stiffness of his bones and I jumped back, scrambling from the room on my hands and knees.
“Oh.” Was all I could reply as my mother told me the details of the funeral, next week at three at the cemetery a mile out of town. But was a funeral even appropriate?
Only one of my brothers could make it, so there were three of us graveside that afternoon, throwing handfuls of dirt into an empty hole.
“This doesn’t look six feet deep,” my brother scowled, scuffing his dress shoes along the edge of the fresh turned earth.
“It’s not. Only two or so feet, I told them not to bother, I mean, there’s no body…” My mother dabbed at her eyes but her mascara seemed fresh and perfectly even.
“Oh, well I guess that’s ok then.” My brother impatiently loosened his yellow tie and checked his watch for the fifth time, cleaning the speckled dirt from his black shoes with a handkerchief.
The irreverence was as thick as the low hanging clouds.
They both made excuses to leave, my brother to a meeting and my mother to her bridge club, but I stayed in the cemetery as it began to slowly rain, quietly lifting my black shirt to watch the pale skin beneath my breasts and above my hip, studying my own corkscrewed navel, hoping to catch a glint of the magic my father had found in his bones for just a hint/glint of what my father saw in his own marvelous flesh/ navel/ umbilicus.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Below the Ceiling by Eric Sparks
I once took a walk,
from my house to the beach,
which was, as best as I can tell, remarkably similar
to the walks many people have taken
all across history, from their respective houses
to different beaches across the world.
Most of these people went to see the sea;
maybe for the water, or maybe for the sunlight dancing happily
on the roof of the sparkling ocean. Some of them
went to see the stars and the moon and perhaps
the misty clouds. The rest went to feel the sand and to take
the seashells, but tried to avoid the rocks beneath their feet.
But me, I walked out onto the ocean. And I’m
not saying I didn’t see the water beneath my feet,
or the sunlight lapping at my ankles; I definitely looked at the stars
above my head and watched the clouds wrap around
the moon in an intimate, albeit brief, embrace. I remembered
the sand between my toes and those rocks stabbing my feet
and the seashells lying on the beach. But me, I walked out onto
the ocean, just to look down, and maybe see the fish.
from my house to the beach,
which was, as best as I can tell, remarkably similar
to the walks many people have taken
all across history, from their respective houses
to different beaches across the world.
Most of these people went to see the sea;
maybe for the water, or maybe for the sunlight dancing happily
on the roof of the sparkling ocean. Some of them
went to see the stars and the moon and perhaps
the misty clouds. The rest went to feel the sand and to take
the seashells, but tried to avoid the rocks beneath their feet.
But me, I walked out onto the ocean. And I’m
not saying I didn’t see the water beneath my feet,
or the sunlight lapping at my ankles; I definitely looked at the stars
above my head and watched the clouds wrap around
the moon in an intimate, albeit brief, embrace. I remembered
the sand between my toes and those rocks stabbing my feet
and the seashells lying on the beach. But me, I walked out onto
the ocean, just to look down, and maybe see the fish.
Long Hallways by Eric Sparks
Have you ever walked down the hallway of blank faces?
Those black hearts and mute tears that follow us laughing, cracking
sad jokes so that we keep pacing the corridor. I see the poor souls racing
to the exit, but they’ll soon forget it;
they already told us there’s no escaping.
It all looks so familiar; I’ve been here before.
I told myself I wasn’t coming back, but I look back,
and hear them closing the door. At the sound
of the door shut, blank faces fall down to the floor; look
around; they won’t even make it, leave them to their fate on the ground.
Only the strong stand tall in this hallway;
do you think you could still see without the sun for a day?
Would you walk into the unknown, alone in the dark?
Try these things twice, multiply the feeling by nine,
and then ask me about the shape of my heart.
Those black hearts and mute tears that follow us laughing, cracking
sad jokes so that we keep pacing the corridor. I see the poor souls racing
to the exit, but they’ll soon forget it;
they already told us there’s no escaping.
It all looks so familiar; I’ve been here before.
I told myself I wasn’t coming back, but I look back,
and hear them closing the door. At the sound
of the door shut, blank faces fall down to the floor; look
around; they won’t even make it, leave them to their fate on the ground.
Only the strong stand tall in this hallway;
do you think you could still see without the sun for a day?
Would you walk into the unknown, alone in the dark?
Try these things twice, multiply the feeling by nine,
and then ask me about the shape of my heart.
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