The car seems to be going a wicked 102
But the speedometer says a slow 32
The air outside seems so one dimensional
kaleidoscopic play of colors running in slow stream across the night sky
Cut out trees of paper fly by as our priest driving chariot heads to where
Moves down the Green St. of this acid driven ride maybe to know where
reality speaks “trace ya with us” says the man who is counting his fingers
of course, I am here where else could I be ~ oops where is here?
1977 ~ trace