Holly beach crime scene.

In it.
Stopped speaking with words.
Using poems instead.
Like the breeze swaying through the ally to the beach.
Hitting her hair.
Identical.
Like that night in 68.
Where the air cooled on top of the roof.
Where the surfers.
Dopers.
And surf saxers.
Congregated for the haze of a shindig.
And fell into the space and time.
Of love.
Acid.
And continuous sounds of The Doors.



Garrett Johnson.