Today, we slipped down the side of an eroded staircase, onto Dockweiler Beach. The stairs, slighted of angles, head straight for the sand. The sky is blue, sailboats on the horizon.
Yesterday, overheard down the street from home, on the way back from a walk. One surf punk turns to the other and says, "Hey, let's go smoke a blunt and listen to the new Sublime record." Warring haircuts, fun-shapes tucked under their arms, missing teeth. Bicycles circle Winward, succulents thick with sugar, membranes on Grand.
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