Perfectly Berkeley Days
Today, mostly, the imperfect hurt of not
being perfectly in love. Today, when
a trapezoid sun slices knee-wise over
bent-walled shops where we used
to go 'cause they're "good", not
when Zap Comix girls and co-eds glide,
slant and arrogant,
sluicing men's routines.
A surfeit of nasty Negroes-and-such
bump up curbs stencilled with the blame
they shout out loud for what they see.
"Hunger Pang" is replete with ethnographic
mouths pronouncing lunch precisely.
And, yep, the boogie boys are out, camouflaged
in frat talk and skate boards, and dread locks and
distant looks of genius; grinning 'cause
they can't not. Cody's is near-empty, since
the sun shuns pretenders.
Still, knees, shoulders and buns joggle
a giggle of colors carpeting upper Sproul.
California Hall has no doors. Potempkin
lentils suffice. Anyway, this day is lost.
Secretaries lag their cursors to no good end.
Pointless seminars bask outdoors on grass.
Hey, bang the Campanile! Finger and blow
Durant. Days like this are rare. Say!?
Where's the lady who comes here, sometimes,
To save me from these glorious days?