She was a
prophet of sorts,
lived in a Toyota Camry
around a small town outside Portland.
Skinny jeans, frayed ridges
exposing slashed skin

like

undercooked burger
on the perfect palate, but
I was young
and into that
sort of thing.

Dextromethorphan is the active
ingredient in many
cough syrups and
Lindsay (oh, don't ever spell it with an "e")
was addicted to these
little red pills,
OTC heaven, hallucinations spilling.

Cleanup in aisle 11.

The night Bukowski died (certainly,
coincidence)
Oregon established a monthly
limit for the
personal consumption of
ephedrine based medicines.

Lindsay drove to my
little (little little little)
room closet thing
and read me some of
his final works,
drank my last beer, smoked half
my last cigarette and begged
me to buy her some
little red pills.

Now, this poor thing
in my grasp, and I am only
a boy
with a torn paper airplane of
a girl. She cried until
her blonde and pink
striped hair
was stuck across my face.

She pulled it off, strand by strand,
undressing herself
as quietly as she could through her
modest handstrokes
and, with all
her clothes on
she asked me if I'd
ever gotten oral sex before.

She pretended to sleep
with me that night
while I dreamt of her love
and her barter
and her lips.

When I attended her funeral her
mother (who I never met
before) asked me to speak
because, as it was,
out of everybody,
I guess I knew her best near the end there.

Stepping to the podium like
a debater at his post, with
no possible cause to win, as
Lindsay's hair had
fallen so much out by
then and
she even
looked dead, so much so
I couldn't touch her,
I told a room full of strangers
that she liked Bukowski poems
and numerology.

But Bukowski did not know Lindsay and
this is
all pure coincidence
and timing
and loneliness talking
but
but
oh, wait,
for a while she wore me
(out)
like a smile.

Sometimes love is wrapped in
iambic pentameter with a
diamond bow, but love, as real as any other,
can also be
spilled across
the edges of a book of poetry in
one instant
of overexcited release
and
how indifferent must the gods be,
when they watch us
dance our little synchronized
self-imposed death.

Pages stuck together
I am sure
I am
reading
too much
into this.

You cannot read to much into this....it would be a shame to "not" read it...more shame if you fail to read Too Much into it...Fabulous PP!!

Thank you!!

Evocative, very nice.

very nice my friend, very, very nice!

Incredible write PP..Awesome..

Like a single strandof hair, brought together, they form a great head,
of beauty...Can anyone say BRAVO dude!!!!!
This was VERY,,YOU,,,COOL....

Wow...

You amaze me ... thank you

My new favorite. If it is possible-your craft continues to improve.