In the upper reaches of a multipurpose stadium,
Thunder has been set afire.
In these distant perches,
In this nest of a hawk tent revival,
Cheap of the dollar, rich of the possible,
I am ransacking you with my 1972 mouth and my 5,000 B.C. cock.
Baseball is below us.
Baseball is about us.
Joe Rudi is working in a quarry.
The horizon is a waterbed.
Oakland is a dance move.
And we are fighter-fuckers.
On this stunted firmament,
Your teeth and blue damn jeans
Taste scared to death.
I am kissing you with my bad neighborhood.