A hit of acid. Wearing rubber boots.
Standing in water
up to our chins. Laughing.
Our disembodied heads bobbing up and down
like buoys in a motor boats wake.
Our voices in helicopter laments.
Stuck in 1972. Tripping.
I wonder why they call it blotter acid.
I keep coming to the beach ever since
to lay in the sun and listen. To the patter of angels.
You can call me
William Shakespeare.
download At The Beach
