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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Hunter Thompson Wannabe (A Literary Exercise) by Eric Sparks

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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.

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.  

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.

When It Rains It Pours by Eric Sparks

And when she sleeps, she snores,
so I don’t think I’m ready
for what that silence implies.

And yet, silence only fits
at moments like this;
I can’t remember through all the noise.

Shit, look how useless metaphors are,
as if they could save my soul.
See, my dog died today; this
poem is for how lost I feel.

I guess it’s not enough that I’m drug-addicted,
or that my favorite gypsy went to Spain,
because last night, while I slept through,
the dinosaurs came and
took my favorite dog too.   

Two Minutes by Eric Sparks

I have not but two minutes to write this poem;
somebody sing me a song; teach me the right and the wrong;
it’s hard enough to get along without the
drugs bum-rushing my head;
those days, the love falls instead
of the haze. Then the Cubs crawl back into back into bed;
they will never win the world series.

I keep hoping they hear me; but clearly, no one
I really need is anywhere near me. Heal me
and cure me, bad drugs give me that feeling; Shit,
I have nearly every reason in the world to fear me. I can
hear myself talking, saying “Pour me a beer please”
in a distant tone; this is a queer dream.

Those old fools are peering; they see me
as they’re equal; each night that they pray,
they hope I’m their sequel. But I look in their eyes,
and I see the beetles; despite the lies and disguise,
their minds are see through.

And I think that I’ll leave soon; I’ll wave goodbye to
the bad and leave the mad to their own lane. I’m not saying
I need a entirely new way, but I think some change
could potentially save my life. Believe me, I’m not ready
to fall apart; I’ll just put one foot in front of the other,
because I’m scared of the dark.

Last Night by Eric Sparks

Last night, I met a dancer at a dance club.
Intrigued, I asked her for a name and she smiled, but she didn’t answer.
She stood tip-toe and whispered, “You’re handsome,
but I have husband, and my husband has cancer.
I know it sounds insane, and I promise I don’t play games, but
will you come home with me, and not tell me your name?”

Taken by surprise, I carefully checked her eyes
and at sight of the cold blue my heart broke twice.
I took the stripper by the arm
and left with her. I meant no harm;
it would have be wrong to leave her alone.

Outside on the curb, she checked her phone and
smiled sadly. She said we could go to her home and
I just had to be gone by six in the morning. I shook
my head no, but I was willing to roam, to walk
and talk for awhile.

 She took me by the hand and led me to the park,
where I smiled in the dark at my part in this
young girl’s life. Beneath the stars she started to
cry; long, deep sobs about the unfairness of life
and the cruelty of God. At the end of the day, as she would
later say, she would trade everything to have her
husband back again, before he had even passed away.

I told her the truth: “Life is never alright; how could
everything be fine in times like this? How much
time could we find to fight this fight?
Please hold up your head, because in the end
there’s nothing more than death and the dead.”

At the end of my advice, she blinked twice,
and something extraordinary happened. She gave me a hug,
wished me good luck with love, told me I must be
one of the nicest guys and then disappeared into the night.

I think she probably lied, but I don’t think I mind.

Just For You Though by Eric Sparks

I could write some prose about a rose, or a poem about my mom;
maybe a sentence for repentance, about how everything is wrong.
I could probably make you smile; we’re only here for a while;
we should probably spend our time grinning like a child.

I could write a book about my crooks, hanging in Seattle nooks
with highs like Peter Pan and lows like Captain Hook.

I could write a whole series, entitled When She Was Near Me,
about nearly every girl that I've loved.

I’d tell you about the drugs, about how they affect love;
they’ll leave us on the ground, by the bugs and the slugs,
but with a few hugs, we manage to persevere.

I could describe addiction, entitle it Fiction,
and then tell only the truth.  

Bored by Eric Sparks

Bored and wishing these poems away;
they won’t do me any good anyway.
And I could write a thousand or more any day;
so I write today or tomorrow; it doesn’t matter either way.

If they could save my soul,
I’d probably let them grow until
they blossomed into full-fledged worlds
filled with fairy tales and reality;
you know, fancy spins and whirls.

As it is though, I write them down,
just how they come to me. Because in
actuality they can’t save me or anybody
else from these tragedies or any kind of happenings;
our best hope is to sit still happily.

Break My Heart by Eric Sparks

Fucking tear it apart, because
I stayed in Seattle last night and
heard five gunshots in the dark. And
I see the tall coke dealers with black hoodies;
they stand on street corners and double-dare me
to glance in their direction.

At a party last week, four drunk men
beat a random stranger to death;
read the story; this tragic murder
was practiced in the honor of chivalry.

Please take hold of my heart;
squeeze and don’t let go. I know
you feel the beating, forever there,
but slow.

Because my big friend went in today,
locked up behind steel bars; so I guess that means
the nickname Aids isn’t so funny anymore.
I hope he knows he has part of my soul,
more than my useless hopes and dreams.
He’ll experience more than love and hate; he’ll
see the real things in between. He’ll see more
than life can give and then he’ll see the true path of the dead.
And after those nights, there’s no going back;
Adrian, hold your head.

The world can have my heart;
fucking take it, I won’t make a sound.
But I don’t want that shit back again;
just leave it somewhere on the ground.  

Diving Into the Shallow End by Eric Sparks

I could say “superman ain’t saving shit”
as a metaphor for how lonely I wish I felt,
but I won’t, because I’m more like the
pull-out-the-chair type and I don’t listen
to the rest. I’m not so worried about manners
or romantic politics so much as I hate hurting
people and it’s so easy to not be an asshole
that I hardly think I could be.

So if I kiss you on the cheek,
we’re probably still just friends
and I’m probably just impressed
with some way that you make me feel.

This it is to say, sometimes I
go out of my way just to make someone’s day
only because they made me smile at some point; it’s the
same reason I call my favorite people "love"
and the same reason I always hug tight. 

Me and My People (Metaphors) by Eric Sparks

We ain’t hard; we’re just some sad fools,
riding in my car with the back full
of apples that we could use anytime to smack you.
Of course we don’t carry guns; we just tell suckers
they smell like dung and tell nuns to jump
in if they’re looking for fun.

Every day we float to the moon, hanging
from green balloons with built-in speakers,
so the tunes scream like kazoos. We
party in outerspace, or really anyplace,
and throw plates like Frisbees when we’re baked
or even just irate.

We stay away from the fakers and frauds;
we watch the Lakers, then flirt with soccer moms.
And the haters’ words don’t reach our ears; we tie
their arms in a bow and laugh when they squirm,
then cook up the porridge and feed
them cabbage, rabbits and earthworms.

Really, we’re all about smiles;
for every second you sit still, we’ve traveled miles;
and we’re the shit still, we were all the while.
The little people talk big and talk down; we
talk real and fly often, leaving the scrubs on the ground.

You can find us in Seattle with the seagulls and eagles;
and our egos are huge; we stand tall like the Space Needle.

Don’t take a false image of who we are;
we only represent our experience,
so far.      

I Once Fell in Love with the Olympic Peninsula by Eric Sparks

And I saw everything that was supposed to make it wonderful:
            I saw the tremendous mountains, and I saw the snow-capped peaks.
                        I saw the towering forests and I saw the subtle rivers.
                                    I saw the sandy beaches and I saw the endless ocean.
Actually, on that trip, I saw almost everything worth our time.

And I enjoyed them all, but I didn’t fall in love
with mountains or their peaks; I didn’t fall in love with the forests or the rivers,
and I didn’t fall in love with mammals or the fish,
because it was the beach (which means it was actually the ocean)
that truly captured my heart.

Some nights, I think about nothing but that beach and the endless ocean.
Do you know how long you can stare into infinity?

I know how long I can stare into infinity. We stayed until one bottle of wine was empty, three or four beers had been consumed and it was too dark to cook Macaroni. We stayed until sunset because from the pacific coast, the world truly seems endless.

And infinity is the cousin of beauty.   

It's Worst When the Silence Screams by Eric Sparks

I win first for fucked-up dreams.
To me, it seems the kings and queens have lost
everything that was supposed to mean anything.
Shit, I’d sell you any dream for a smile or grin;
you should walk a mile or ten, not in my shoes,
but with my feet and my friends;
walk down my street again and again. I’m stuck on High Street
and I see the dead end, but my sneaks
have big holes that I can’t mend. So I pretend to be perfect
while my nose grows longer. My stomach keeps hurting
and I feel the hunger, but food is worthless
except after bong rips.

Then Nietzsche shrieks, “Fuck everything,
I’m done with the dumb shit.”
But we don’t really hear him.  

Eric, You Forgot About the Moon by Eric Sparks

“Fool, you call yourself a writer or poet
or some other bullshit and I will admit you know
some big words and I know you’ve read some
long books, but how can you write, and love to write,
and not write about the moon. You spew words out
about friends and about love and about drugs;
shit, all you write about is you.
Wouldn’t it be poetic, wouldn’t it be grand, wouldn’t
it be beautiful to write about something that’s bigger than you.
Eric, you should write a poem about the moon.”

And I looked in his eyes and up at the moon and I sighed,
maybe cried and then smiled because, for me,
the moon will never die.

I said, “Fool, the moon’s not bigger than me. Don’t
you see it up there, it’s about the size of a penny. The
moon will never be more than a bright silver nickel
that lights that dark sky and laughs at me during the night.
Perhaps one day I’ll blast off to the moon and see what, if anything,
is true. And on that day, the moon will change to me;
and I remember that as a little kid, I asked nothing more of life
than that the moon would be made of cheese and a spaceman would
gift me a spaceship.

To All of You (You Should Stop) by Eric Sparks

Because I love each and all of you
far too much to play this game of possibility;
this game of impossibility;
this act of disappearing.

I try to live my life aware of the possibility;
aware of the probability; understand the weight of what
could happen; try to guess what should happen.

And when I look at you; each of you;
all of you; the weight of “what could” is
far too much; and leaves me feeling crushed;
remember what was, what will and such.

So every day I write the same exact poem,
about each and every one of you; and I’ve written
them every single day for hundreds of years.
But as much as that means, and will continue to mean,
the poem is not very good;
it’s just Webster’s definition of happy.

Twisted Fiction; Sick Addiction by Eric Sparks

Have you ever smoked so much that you
knew the next spliff wouldn’t get you high?
It would burn in your lungs, but it’d only
make you feel more sober.
It happens; trust me it happens
and it’s a nightmare, just like that
split-second when you don’t love your best friend.
But it does make me feel, just a little invincible
to know that the THC in my sober brain would have
most grown adults lying half-asleep on the couch.

Today It Hurts by Eric Sparks

But tomorrow it won’t be so bad, as
I tell my friends the feeling was mutual;
and that we both needed our space
and we just didn’t feel the same,
even though I did.

And the next few weeks won’t be so hard,
as I hide in blue clouds, but only for a short
while, as not to terrorize my life, but just as
a small, and I feel appropriate, memorial.

And within months I’ll be able to laugh again,
and will soon be making jokes about life and
about you, like, “No, I’m not jealous, my dick
was in that mouth.” Even though I am
slightly jealous (more like missing you) and relatively unconcerned
with where my dick has been.

But within the year, as it turns out,
I’ll be quite over it, and one sudden day
I’ll read a poem that reminds me why
I loved you and I will realize that even when
the love fades, the reason can’t.

Sometimes I Write Too Real by Eric Sparks

I’m weak; I’m sorry
and I don’t care.
I’ve been here, I’ve been there;
I’m still scared.

Apathy might be the worst trait,
I might be the worst person alive, but
I always tried; I know everybody always
saw my tries; I just wanted to be the nicest person alive;
I just wanted to make the world right, in everybody’s eyes.
I always thought everything would be fine if I would just flash my smile lines.
I gave myself to the world and I gave myself to those girls;
the world kicked me in the balls and the girls left me in a room full of walls.

Don’t lie to yourselves, we have no control;
I was born with the best intentions;
the world took those and gave me depression.

The world is just backwards:
I hate hurting people and people love hurting me.
Funny, she’s the one calling me weak, but I gave her
everything and she still couldn’t help but ____; she couldn’t wait
a week so that everything was over, before that heat.

I loved baseball more than anything,
but then in spring of senior year, I found my arm in a sling;
I thought about surgery, but there was no time in between.
I guess that means college baseball is no longer a dream.

I didn’t train every day;
only six out of seven days.
That wasn’t that much effort, besides
it’s just a game; I shouldn’t be upset
about fucking baseball anyway.

I’m supposed to count my blessings,
and be thankful for what I have;
but I don’t know where they came from,
I didn’t even ask.
These blessings aren’t blessings,
the world can have them back.

I Don't Even Like Crackers by Eric Sparks

The other day, while I was sleeping, my parents came to visit me; for some reason, they arrived late, around midnight or maybe even one. They hadn’t told me they were coming, but I still knew; I can always feel it when they’re coming; it’s the only time I’m happy and sad.
For some reason, they brought an industrial size box of Goldfish crackers. If a normal, grocery-store box holds three hundred or so crackers, then they must have given me four or five thousand little yellow fish. Obviously I was pleased; free food is free food and I have been hungry lately anyways. For all intents and purposes, it was a good visit and a good gift.
I put the Goldfish away in the cupboard and I laughed because the box hardly fit; it all seemed a little ridiculous. With the crackers carefully put away, I turned my attention to my family, where it had really been the whole time. I hugged my dad; I kissed my mom on the cheek.
We talked and lounged for a long while; whenever I see my parents, there is always lots to be said. My mom is worried about my health; my dad is concerned about my soul. But they don’t do all the talking; it’s more like a Socratic dialogue about the nature of suffering. Buddhists believe all life is suffering; they’re wrong, but they’re the closest to the truth.
In the middle of the night, during the conversation, my mom went to the bathroom. My dad I talked about the Lakers while she was gone; we talked about school when she got back. Later my dad used the restroom, so my mom and I talked about videogames; then we talked about school when he got back.
It was around this time that the entire situation went absurd; simply bizarre. My mom looked up, and spoke up, in a meaningful manner, “Eric, we need you to take care of the Goldfish…”
I was obviously confused, “The crackers?”
“Yes, the crackers.”

I sat down surprised; why were those fucking little fish so important?
So I asked, “Mom, why are those fucking little fish so important?” And she rattled off an answer while my dad sat behind her and looked somber, but still agreed with her. I wish I remembered the answer, it would make life easier when they ask me about the Goldfish now; trust me, I still have to take care of the Goldfish now, and if I knew the truth, or any truth, then maybe I wouldn’t have to lie.
It’s all fucking absurd though; I don’t even like Goldfish.  

"I Don't Care" Said Pierre by Eric Sparks

(But I went a step further than him)

“It doesn’t matter” said Eric,
and I meant it, that’s why I’ve been
ignoring my best friends and didn’t do any
homework last night. I wish you could
convince me that tomorrow meant something,
but every morning there’s nothing and more
than anything I’m tired. So I sleep and I eat and
I keep instant fire, but I don’t think we can get any higher;
so there’s no holes to hide in, when the world transpires,
into the abyss of emptiness;
but I’m not worried, we’ll soon get plenty rest.

Death was supposed to offer us the very best,
but I’m guessing there’s room for some variance.

My world is actually collapsing; I’m not happy,
grab the saran wrapping; I wanted to kill
the dinosaurs, but that’s probably not happening.
I’m not sad either, I have both my families
and there’s no gambling in real love, except fantasies.

Sociology is Actually Life by Eric Sparks

(For Jodi O'Brien, literally and metaphorically)

For most of my life, the last twenty years, I have felt trapped
and lost within the classic American game; they told me
it’s just the American way. I guess you could say my mode of orientation
didn’t match the mode of production; until now, my life was just an abduction
with a reduction of creative energy.

Albert Camus said life is just a game for us fools, complete with irremovable rules
and we either play or we quit, for which, suicide is the only way. I knew all along
that I would have to compete, leaving death for the weak,
but I didn’t see the sense in their ways, so I decided to cheat.

Reason was my primary tool; in high school,
the principal held up the hoops and we were supposed to jump through,
but me, I crawled under and hid all my blunders. I yearned for real knowledge,
but couldn’t learn what I wanted; so I dozed off during class and only studied
my topics; what I learned was determined by my personal logic.

Consequently, I only learned what was important to me;
I’m sorry that it wasn’t American history.
See, its basic, I’m not a racist, which means slavery is nothing to me,
except a reminder of how fucked the world can be. In this way,
the hard facts did not hold a new lesson for me. I still learned them,
but only as well as I could without any real care and I barely did well,
but somehow, they considered it enough to be proud.

Of everything from sociology, I’m most in love with Liberty;
the idea that reason allows us to be free. But individualism has
its flaws and competition has its drawbacks, because the system is a
waterfall that causes some to crawl back defeated. In a world with winners,
there also comes losers and if arbitrary means fair, then consider me scared.

These were the flaws I saw from the start; these were the
reasons I did not want to play. America, Seattle U, and South Whidbey
High School wanted to toss me into the economic pool without
water wings just to see if I drowned; would Eric float down to the bottom?

Ferguson saw society as an organism, made up of interdependent parts;
and this too, I saw from the start. But in my heart, I wasn’t ready for
everybody to depend on me; I’m still not sure if I rely on me.
I’m just a broken organ of an organism; I’m a heart that doesn’t pump blood.

High school was much easier to cheat than capitalism,
which watches like Big Brother and holds the concern of our mothers.
In a weak attempt to be a societal rebel, I began smoking weed, hoping
to free myself from disillusionment. It didn’t work; it only made me a blank slate;
so I dubbed the bong John Locke, and moved on to my next fate.

College was supposed to be a blessing and it certainly wasn’t a curse,
but I wasn’t ready to submerse myself into arbitrary words; I needed
more time to mature. But my back was pushed forward, toward the
economic prison of capitalism; and my back is still pushed today; pushed by my parents,
by the world, and by the lack of our days. But I already decided I wouldn’t play;
if those bullies push me again, I’ll find a new way.

I’m ready for an egotistical suicide, in the metaphorical sense;
I’m ready for new ride; I’m ready to jump the old fence.    

Fine; I'll Do It (Just a Poem about a Rose) by Eric Sparks

I once saw a rose, quite withered and old,
and small dew drops dripped from the petals
like old-lady tears, on a particularly late night in the winter.

The flower was stained light pink, with
little white lines that ran horizontal across
only a few of the petals. The flower blossomed
out of a green, spiky stem, which reached all the way
to the ground; they blossomed out of an armed sentry,
who served watch and protected the fading moments of
the subject of his eternally secret love.

He waits for flower's dying day and he brings
her food while he waits. She’s gone blind by this time,
 but it doesn’t matter, she never saw her valiant stem
before; soon the last petal falls and then it’s truly the end.

The stem is not sad for his love; again, he knows he must wait.
And soon enough, it will be spring again and the new sun will give birth
to another new friend. And he’ll watch his eternal love grow,
and protect her faithfully, until she is old. And then he’ll have to let her go,
without ever letting her know.

Softspots by Eric Sparks

I've walked so many long miles in these shoes that I've become them,
or rather, they've become me. When I look down,
myself is all I see; they've spent so much time on my feet that by now,
they only remind me of the ways things were supposed to be. They've
seen everything I've seen, until now from Halloween; they helped me
jump and watched me fall and everything in between.

The shoes are ripped around the edges and they'll stay that way forever;
but the soles are soft and springy and they've never felt better.
We all make mistakes, so my shoes are stained with paint
and the remains of a jello shot that my fellows dropped on my feet.

No matter what stains I make or falls I take, the shoes will watch me through;
they certainly have holes, but they have more soul than any average brute.
They ache from kicks, leaps and runs; they always cry in the rain;
the downpour never stops; the shoes step over the drain.

Absurdity (An Allegory, A Fiction, An Explanation)

Well, I used to pray to God every day;
he was the only man to who I could say
whatever I please as long as my knees
were bent the right way. So I strapped on my kneepads
because I had some bad needs; I needed some feedback
about my mad dreams.
I crept next to the bed slow,
clenched my hands, and laid my head
on the pillow. I just wanted to mumble
and I wanted God to reply, "I know."
Isn't that the ultimate flaw?
We are trapped in this world of universal law
with no idea of what anything means; how do you
distinguish between truth and your dreams
when everything could be the exact opposite of
how it seems? Who knows what the next corner brings
and who's really to say God's the creator of things?

Watch Me Grow; Watch Me Go by Eric Sparks

This is just another drug-filled poem from the drug-filled poet
who enjoys sweet, blue dreams and white, powdered donuts.
Lucy in this guy with potent plants; there's drinks that make you sleep
and drinks that make you dance. Most moments we live are subject to chance,
so my belly stays full and I stay lost in a trance. Now most don't understand
the joys of my past, but I just record the facts of a man who must walk the old path.

It breaks my heart that I'm not Jack Kerouac anymore;
I've lost some smiles and some sighs and they've been gone for
a while; so no, I am no longer that starstruck child who would
always venture into the wild. It kills me though; he always had
and will always have some part of my soul; I always know when
it's time to grow, but when you're bored and you're scared, time creeps by slow.

I'm more of a Thompson now and they whisper it's a problem.
Problems stacked on problems; can I have more time to solve them?
Reality is just a process; but with these words, I'm nothing short of Lochness.

My Books Are Water by Eric Sparks

That makes me a creature of the sea; I swim calmly
beneath white-capped waves and still sleep sound
in underwater caves. Down in the deep blue,
darkness surrounds me at most times; only when the
sun shines do I have any light at all; so my eyesight
turns pitch black when day turns to nightfall.

I’m from the ocean, but I’m not much a swimmer;
I’m sailor and a drifter, as long as a skinny skimmer.
I’m more concerned with where the wind may take me;
no mind can make me, but only the wind, sea and stars;
only my eyes, feet and heart, but they will eventually break me.

I will always struggle in the fishing net, but never forget,
I’m a fighter not a drowner; a Lochness not a clownfish.
A monster ready to conquer his domain of the sea;
The big boats, thin lines, and sharp hooks will never catch me.
No need to wait and see.

Dreams by Eric Sparks

People like to make dreams more complex than they are.
The word dream has many meanings, and within those many meanings
are so many positive and negative nuances that one can never truly
know if he is asleep dreaming or awake following his dreams.
In all honesty, nightmares, more than dreams, are complex
workings of the imagination. What kind of terrible fear must we
hide in our chest all through our lives in order to store up such horrific imagery
in our subconscious that our dreams wake us up in a nervous sweat too early in the morning.
There are no nightmares when we are awake; that is the curse of reality.
When I couldn’t sleep, my mom told me to count sheep like all the other children;
when you counted sheep, did you ever slip into a dream with sheep bouncing on the moon?

Helen by Eric Sparks

I once saw the most beautiful girl in the world,
who I will forever call Helen, because I would happily
steal her away from her castle forever or
break down any wall, if the situation was reversed,
and she had been kidnapped from me. Shit,
I’d probably sit in the Trojan Horse all night by my lonesome,
just for the chance to fight for her, just to show her I cared.

It was strange though, seeing her, because I wasn’t allowed
to meet her and was only briefly blessed with her presence
as she was hustled away into a locked office right in front of my eyes.
See, I saw Helen, for the first and last time, in the waiting room
of an addiction center, where she waited to be cured of her heroin
sickness and I waited to be told I wasn’t addicted to weed.

After Helen went into that office, which meant I would
never see her again, Helen’s mom pulled out a little baggy,
and politely asked a doctor for assistance. His eyes shifted to the floor as
he walked over and quietly, but audibly, told her it was smack, but he
used the word heroin.

I was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, but not really shocked or surprised.
Mainly I was confused as my imagination contrasted the most beautiful face
I have ever seen with ugly face of heroin, and the uglier face of addiction. This
day represents the only experience I have where I look back and think,
“Life fucked up. Life got this one wrong,” even though I don’t believe
in irrationality.

The Village Idiot by Eric Sparks

I am the village idiot, although I don’t
have a village and will quickly refute
any accusations of stupidity. That doesn’t
matter though; not at all; there are no requirements
to be the village idiot, save for one.

You Must Care!

If I said that a million times, it wouldn’t
be close to enough.

You Must Care!

See, the relative success or failure
of hundreds of people depends directly,
if only slightly, on me. In the olden days,
it was the success of the villagers that
hinged on their village idiot, but my
situation is much more complex.
When my peers and friends see me,
it is necessary that I fill the notorious role of
The Village Idiot.

My friends, my peers, and most people are scared.
Like me, like they should be, they are most scared
of failure. I hate fear and I hate seeing fear;

You Must Care!

The Village Idiot helps. I show my friends
(and also my peers) how easy their tasks really are.
That’s why I write papers in not but three hours.
Some of my friends spend weeks on those same papers
and when they see how long the paper took me,
they then realize how hard they worked.
And it makes them feel good.

You Must Care!

The Village Idiot plays this role for all
who will listen and all those he loves.
If you think all my friends see this
in me, you are tragically mistaken, but you’re
also missing the point. Listen.

You Must Care!

Monster by Eric Sparks

“Stop it, stop it! Momma just stop it.
I already know I have a motherfucking problem.”

My life is simple, as simple as an addict who can’t
manage his habits; as simple as a writer with no talents.
I’m as powerful as a wizard with no magic; I’m a gymnast
on the high beam with no balance.

My brain draws blanks when it strains for the memories;
too many drugs; too much rock and Hennessey.
I can’t seem to grasp what they’re telling me;
They’re trying to explain why my love is the enemy.

There has to be a sweeter melody.

There's An Odd Future Ahead by Eric Sparks

They want a story with glory of epic proportions

to satisfy the minds of the academic historians. So
I write every word with meaning like I'm laying there bleeding
and then blow across the pages so that the ink will dry even.
Every decision I make is weighed on a scale;
is this the path of the great writers or am I simply derailed?
Stupid questions exist: have I already failed?
Are the rest any better? They miss the details. 
I inhale then exhale and then impale Moby Dick.
I'm bigger than whales, what the hell, I want to be the best.
I'll make Melville confess, Eric wins every contest. Then I'll box
with Mark Twain until he remembers my name and I'll fight every
great writer until they all are impressed. Just remember my generation is next;
and I'll remember that life is more than a test.
I can't digest the request from these scholarly fools;
check my toy chest, I know the Wild West, but only a few tools.
I've invested in the protests of the suppressed and repressed; life is crude,
full of rules and ran by the cruel; that, my peers will attest.
I also write truths, I'm obsessed with the tea. I'm possessed
by the weed, but you should be impressed, I'm still a success
to every degree. Keep tabs on my progess and watch the flaws I address.
I'll grow until I'm the biggest bird in the cuckoo's nest.   



Fuck, why wouldn't I want my books in every library;

if they would, the whole world could read my diary.

Take a stroll through my life, everyday I invite you.

Walk through my mind and watch every cycle.

I'm Not A Poet by Eric Sparks

I want to write a poem for every time I didn’t smile at a joke;
for every time I was too broken to laugh at laughter.
This is for every time I closed my eyes and cried even
though I was happy. This is a poem for every time I punched
my best friend.

See, the world spins and it spins, but it never bends
and it’s supposed to end; we’re not friends; we’re
strangers in a strange land. The world’s true mission
is much more bizarre than any science fiction;
if people took the time to listen instead of falling asleep
then maybe life would be more than a dream. Isn’t that
why the angels were supposed to sing? Their sweet voices
were supposed to bring freedom and joy, both wonderful things.
But look around now, have you seen the scene? Is everything you
see really what God was supposed to mean?

This poem’s for suicide, without killing myself;
and for the tired children who can live without help.
This is for the books that are piled on shelves,
because mine will be in their hands.   

Tradition by Eric Sparks

Head spins:
Too many drugs and
I overdosed on love.
I shouldn’t shrug and ignore this
feeling anymore. Before this nausea I roared
like a lion and screamed because the passion was
formed into my core. Four times I rapped on the door;
my teacher answered and said I was trapped like before;
so I’m lost and I’m bored and they promised me more.
I’m tired of this war.

It’s simply absurdity: no more and no less;
The average man assumes we’re naturally blessed,
but his average mind can’t offer more than a guess
at what could have possibly made us or why we consider
ourselves the best. When the sun sets before the night,
we see life is no more than a mess and I’ll be damned if I let
the stress continue to eat at my chest. We all need a rest and
you’ll never sleep if you think life’s only a test.  

Subterranean Homesick Fuck You’s by Eric Sparks

Johnny’s in the basement, mixing up the medicine.
I called him yesterday, he said it’s not ready yet.
So I started on a new trek looking for a new bed
for bruised kids with few friends and there’s
no end to this bullshit, only more bends and old men full of bold sins
and oranges.

It’s funny; I actually loved you and now that’s too bad;
it’s in my new past and I can’t look back; there’s a wolf pack
behind me and if they find me they’ll grind me, tie me up and
bind me; they slyly creep and silently, so quietly they sneak.
So violently I weep and wildly I sleep; so mild is the reek.

Jimi smashed me with his guitar for going too far
in his new car with his old wife. I know no life
free from all strife, but I like bagpipes and most dikes;
they’re alright and they like crude jokes, good folk and rude blokes;
I like long tokes of bong smoke and song notes with wrong tones.

He Said Hush by Eric Sparks

But it couldn’t have been directed at me, because
I crept silently across his room in a purple dress
(he says it reminds him of Barney), while holding
my tall, shiny heels. More likely, he was complaining to
the noisy street sweeper cleaning the alley below us.
He didn’t stir again, but I was still scared because I know his doorknob
sticks. I gave the door a quick twist and heave, hoping the speed
would overpower the noise and he would remain fast asleep.

Once outside, I regretted leaving.
It was cold and early and I couldn’t decide whether to
walk in my heels or carry them. An elderly lady, certainly
a grandmother, walked by in boxy black shoes.
My heart cried with jealousy and my mouth screamed ridiculously.
“How much for the shoes!?” but grandma assumed I was on drugs
and only quickened her pace.

During my walk home, I thought of the night before.
He had told me I had flat knockers and was as useful
as an empty dishpan. If he wondered why I left before
he awoke, he wouldn’t have to wonder much.