The Trip With Ashlie And Jason

Driving through the open range;
the mountains, and the plains,
with friends who's names I have not yet
forgotten, like all the rest of them.
And Dean Moriarty, I see your ghost
drive past us, and drive through us
in an old
war era Chevrolet.
Already we have gone through
150 cigarettes,
72 beers,
and a half gallon of whiskey.
The trip has only
just begun.
And the car smells
of stale cigarette smoke,
that escapes with the indian reservation
atmosphere, every time
we roll down the window.
And the car smells of numerous bacteria,
and wet vaginas,
and morphine nights.
We round the corner to our
final destination,
because I know that by the end
of this trip,
I will be
Dead.
And you will lose my friendship
as I have lost my blood
that seeps into the permeable earth;
from which I came forth.
You unforgiving motherfucker!
Now all I have
to leave behind my legacy
are these words.
Dean, I saw you were headed west,
leaving behind
loves lost.
I'm begging you to let me
ride bitch;
as far as san fransisco
where we will
posthumously tear up the town.

by Carl A.I.

Other poems of A.I. (35)

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