but sometime in the not-too-distant future
when you've found yourself hazarding new occupations
like psychonaut deep out in that Coney Island cosmos,
"oh look, here's something going on at the ballpark,"
and that tactile sun is setting on your fingertips
and the neon wind is blowing and the hum of those
huuuuge amps is crawling up the fine hair on your shins
with a "shhhhhhizzle," and it's so cold you can feel it!
Wait! The inchworm bass is bumping! And are you home
or far far away? Is this a bayou or death row?
Whose Southern California is this waiting for me
at the Atlantic edge of our almighty Brooklyn?