If I were still in Ohio, I’d die in Springfield. Contempt surrounding this acceptance, in a way. Knowing only I’d be in Ohio because I would be contempt. Which only means my best friend Brandon would bury me. I request I be buried by Brandon next to my pop in St. John’s Cemetery. After I die in Springfield. I don’t mind, though. Wherever is fine. Sell my body, Brandon. If you ever read this, Brandon: sell my body. It needs to be free of me, already. No intent.
The road side lady stumbling asking for a hit off my joint, hitting it while telling me she been in the jail because sex, and I left the joint with her when the light turned green. My Jeep with a hole in the passenger-seat floorboard. Carrying a shotgun we bought for mom and having to walk the perimeter of the mall because Dick’s told us it was a liability. A bunch of parties too close together.
Springfield hanging in a cemetery between the big bridge and buildings. Smoking too much reefer, but not enough. That drive home existing a forever landscape to portray a memory. Cosmic Compositions missed a mark when Blu Jeen by Blu Jeen was produced years too late. But the thumb drive:
More about: Blu Jeen
