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Poem	A freaking ankle crabbed his blissful trips, this whiskey tastes like California but is Kentucky, like Berkeley where he truly worked at it but nothing broke all nightâ€”no firesâ€”one dawn, crowding his luck, flowed down along the cliffs to the Big Sur where Henry Miller's box is vomit-green and Henry bathed in sulphur lovely, hot, over the sea, like Senator Cat, relaxed & sober, watery as Tivoli, sir. No Christmas jaunts for fractured cats. Hot dog, the world is places where he will not go this wintertide or again. Does Striding Edge block wild the sky as then when Henry with his mystery was two & twenty, high on the hog?
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