the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind
king light of mind, ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all
drained of brilliance in the ghostly clothes of jazz in cry that
shivered the cities down to the last door closed at 4. A.M. and the last
furnished room and even that imaginary, ah, Carl, while you are