A freaking ankle crabbed his blissful trips, <br />this whiskey tastes like California <br />but is Kentucky, <br />like Berkeley where he truly worked at it <br />but nothing broke all night—no fires—one dawn, <br />crowding his luck, <br /> <br />flowed down along the cliffs to the Big Sur <br />where Henry Miller's box is vomit-green <br />and Henry bathed in sulphur <br />lovely, hot, over the sea, like Senator <br />Cat, relaxed & sober, watery <br />as Tivoli, sir. <br /> <br />No Christmas jaunts for fractured cats. Hot dog, <br />the world is places where he will not go <br />this wintertide or again. <br />Does Striding Edge block wild the sky as then <br />when Henry with his mystery was two <br />& twenty, high on the hog?<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-65-a-freaking-ankle-crabbed-his-bliss/
