I remember the taste of

by blake ellington larson

Dave’s cigarettes

circa ninety seven years old we were not but seventeen

in a car, a jetta, upwards north, fast like a fenzy, we

quit our jobs for a quick and sudden taste of the pacific northwest

how we could smoke inside that diner, next to sub pop, the mega mart,

below where we stayed, and we smoked cigarettes out the window, watching

the crocodile cafe in all it’s hidden late night wonders, and I

bought a CD and a shirt from a band I only heard for maybe

nine seconds with the headphones on, and how we found

cobain’s under the bridge, how we blew a tire

in aberdeen, how we found his high school,

and how we visited hendrix’s grave

and met young cloud who was

somehow hovering over the grave

him and his swollen feet and his

coming rain and his buddy

went by the name satan or god

ours to decide

the difference

I guess

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