I ate a gram of mushrooms somewhere
short of the bus station
while some redhead and I were
waiting for someone to give us directions
to the subway because that's all
that we could pay,
all we could afford.

And she was bitching about the metric system
and somewhere between
little nutmeg sandwiches and
a little piece of pie I left her
dying ODing dragging a sad
little girl out the car,
I dumped in front of the ER
outside of a Philly
while I drank some Thunderbird
and wept into a steak sandwich.

And it's April and I'm hungry
and a blonde girl with a Sonic Youth
shirt tells me that I kinda remind
her of the way she used to think
before Catcher In the Rye came out
but just as I start to say that
makes no sense she's taking off
my clothes

my heart is wide open.
Exploding.
I am aching with the sin
of feeling good or
feeling something and right before
she gives me some bus fair and about
half a pack of Newports she accidentally
washed the night before
she tells me all about this skinhead
that's been breaking in her car

But I'm in Houston and the heat
is killing me.
heat that eats away
the rays are rot and my mind
is slowly dwelling on the bus station sign
and there's a goth girl who I think
is on meth but she's a beauty
and her hair is tangled up in
little knots.
I tell her not to worry
is the first thing that I say to her.
We're nothing and it's nothing more than play
and all the world is just some tragic
little whistle in the alleys of our distrust.

So she buys me a sandwich and somewhere
in between the talk of missed stops
and passed go's
and drunk boys who never really got
the sex they wanted so they
beat on little goth girls in the summer sun
and now she's crying and asks me
if I'll run with her
but I lie and say that my ankle is sprained
and she doesn't get it.

And I get the ticket to N'aerlens
and a black guy asks me for the time
but I don't have any time I tell him
and he just laughs but he won't stop laughing
and it's killing me because he's the only friend
I've had in seven thousand miles
and he doesn't know my name
and I ask him for directions but it's October

and the streets are lit up and I try to think
of a good word to describe
how bad this aches
when a brunette walks right up to me and asks
what are you writing and I tell her
that I'm writing everything so that
I never have to remember.

No it'll all be there and all this time
will pass but then I'm shirtless
and she's telling me the seafood isn't
really all that good
and that I'm a wasted boy and
she doesn't get why I don't stick around
but then her phone rings and she calls
him baby and I'm drinking
on the streets and some mad sickness
puts the gun to my head
and tells me that the wallet's going one way
or a bullet goes the other

and I grab him. I just grab him and I cry
while he twists and turns and screams
and now there are people looking
and I tell him I'm sorry even
though I don't know why. But it's
okay I guess because it's
January. The girls are sweet honey
in this ugly town just south of San Bernardino
and some dock worker tells me
it's all ****ed we may as well just buy the gun
and let the fingers do some talking
and I tell him that my wrist is broken
and now I can't remember if it was.

And somewhere near the midwest but not
quite in the middle or something this redhead offers
me a Pepsi but I've been throwing up blood on a curb
outside this gas station for hours and I
say sure and she starts to tell me
how much I remind her of her father
before she died and ate up all the cash
and she asks me if I'm hungry and I tell
her that I don't think I will ever eat again.

The sky is some color but the noise
it makes is tearing through a blindness
and lifted off the trolley like a horrible backwards
cartwheel she is lifting herself off of me
the windows and the doors are all so wide open
and my heart is beating way too fast
I think that it's the Pepsi or the coke
and I just smile.

And a dead girl from Detroit keeps writing me
and tells me that it's been too long
the mantle-piece is dusty and
the christmas lights have been up for a year
and she jimmied open the door and I ask
how but she says I told her and says
there's nothing but postcards that I wrote
to myself and empty booze bottles, receipts,
relics, reminders of some place or some time
that I can't remember now

it's locked in curls of hair and vaguely aware
girls who used to ask me what I dreamt of.
But she's dreaming and I can't go back
'cause home's a home and no the road is
no home for nobody but sometimes
I feel that nobody might know me
and nobody might really be a purple-haired
pacifist with fists the size of tears
and beating me again with all this prayer.

Sounds like a dream, I love how everything flows together seamlessly. I reactivated on the off chance you might have posted something, thanks for making it worth it.

An amazing write PP...Fanbloodytastic...

Best write that I've read in a while, thanks man.
I like the reference to Catcher in the Rye;
Rest in Peace J.D. Salinger

nicely done...

In my opinion-the best one yet-a detached voice telling a most amazing story. I'm floored.

most amazing deep green