O gloomy hazy heirs of Oakland, if it weren’t for your less-than

     desirable height I might love you

I spilled my Boston absurd imaginations into your night and got

     nothing back but muffled vibrations

Your ******* statues aren’t quite a turn-on to the starry-eyed mill-

     ions who walk your streets each day

Excess scores of madmen seep out of your unwashed pores

Was it your love that kept me gazing at cloudy skies?

Was it your hands that built the offices of unkempt loneliness?

The vacant-eyed gargoyles won't stop staring at my book of angels

     where I keep my holy...
Your dumb ears refuse to listen to that which is greater than my

     childhood dreams

Grand Ave. took me to the top of the 80 and I cried and shouted

     obscenities of pure joy

“Beautiful! Oh beautiful! People!” “Perfection! You crave perfection!”

“Attention! Help me you beautiful people!”