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 night—no fires—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?