By Jason Peters
Driving with an irresponsible center console.
Filled with funeral cards with misquotes from the Bible.
One Hitter drops to the bottom,
Ashes to ashes.
Passport & sunglasses.
Reminders of high times & sombre masses.
Expired parking passes & drive-thru ketchup packets.
A Doctor warned me about the places I’d go,
something about pockets full of Wockets.
Now everywhere I go, I try to line my pockets full of profits.
It’s easy to feel lied to after the whole world has tried you.
Regret is just a word for “past mistakes”.
On my deathbed telling stories about how acid tastes.
Explaining what it takes to turn lemons into lemonade,
laying with a smile like look at this fucking mess I made.
Both feeling bad & feeling bad about it,
one second, I’m alone – next minute I’m surrounded.
by fog draped over the dashboard.
Red and blue lights stop me & they asked for
my license, registration, and “where exactly are you headed to?”
I ashed my cigarette and said “the cemetery, like the rest of you.”