Sunday, August 13, 2017

Four Poems by Scott Sparks

I received these poems in the mail yesterday (the “old fashioned” mail, with an envelope and stamp and a human based delivery system,) and I’m pleased as punch to be able to share them with you. My good friend, Scott Sparks, has had more horseshit thrown at him than most people, but he’s still trying to roll with it and look for those few positive moments that come his way. Here are his words:
“Prison Paper” (3/5/13)
A thorn in my side which I wake up with
Of whom will I collide and have to make up with?
Fitting into established grooves isn’t on my agenda
Insanities to quell, how they’re piled and pent up
How fortunate I am with a bed and a shelf
Quietly content at my desk by myself
Will within the guidelines of current confines
Comforted by the light’s shine of the other side
So I reach for the sky’s eye in a distant location
Looking down over me as I ponder what’s been created
Stationed on an island where the only escape is within
Writing on paper allotted by this prison
Letters I’ve sent and things I write down
Living on the page never to be spoken aloud
When no one is around but there’s always at least one
Might as well try instead to block the light of the sun
When it’s too much to ask for some shade now and then
What more can I do to get through but grab paper and pen

–SS

“Trying to Breathe” (9/11/12)
Time creeps by and the lights are killed
What other complications wish to be fulfilled?
Thank goodness for this light switch
Since dawn refuses to break when I most need it
Remaining bed-ridden, sickened
Purging bad influences with my desk as the only witness
The company you creep is at your door imploring
For fear that you may sleep when it’s clearly store day
Time to get this out for all just once
The inherently indolent all abscond inner nonchalance
What they feed on is still trying to breathe
Stoically suckling tricks falling from sleeves
As time creeps by, so does your company
Maladroitly employing ingrained contumacy
Only when my door is opened do I experience
Statically electrical frequented interference
Adjusting my antennae, likewise my retinas
Sensory overload is what locked doors are for in these instances
What an unfamiliar territory I’ve come to inhabit
Sickened by thought patterns seen only as idiopathic
The company you creep and the lights are killed
What other complications wish to be fulfilled?

—SS

“Worse” (12/20/12)
Why wait?
Or is it fate to keep my head straight?
You don’t darken my door anymore
But still you manage to pollute
Feel better yet?
Have you passed on what was meant to infect?
When I looked around I thought I’d set it down
But no matter the weather I’m tethered and bound
A knock on the door now feels much different
Circumspection insignificant
Inviting in the curse
What could be worse?
Why stay?
Or do I need to pay for the pretense you allocate?
The path decided for me is plastered and cemented
Despite any such disaster you wish to implement
Still speaking death?
Out of breath yet?
Have you passed on what you meant to infect?
When I looked about I thought I’d let it out
But no matter the weather I’m tethered and bound
A knock on the door now feels much different
Breathing shallow, insignificant
Inviting in the curse
What could be worse?

—SS

“Sucrose” (12/25/12)
Old habits die tragic
On the roadside or the mattress
Candlelight passage upon prayer vigils
Shame and sorrow among time now digital
The season wishes for times stereotypic
A would-be fitting end centripetally simplistic
Painted pavement ideally herds the day’s shift
Pavlov-like sensitivity to non-sequitur directives
Sunshine is hidden although there’s a window
May be some shine seen but it lacks effervescent glow
Collapsing ’til daybreak despite the ongoing sleet
What is lacked in comfort, made up for in concrete
Days like now leave a friendly embrace overdue
Indignant of causation fictionalized by each clue
I’ll smile in awhile and even right now for a bit
With good times fleeting I’ll take what I can get
Old habits die at a snail’s pace
Bottlenecked amidst rush hour traffic disgrace
A diabetic predicament of low blood sugar
Candy sticks and finger pricks couldn’t fix this musculature

—SS
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.comhttp://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.comhttps://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
[Originally posted 12 Mar. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]

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