Nicotine Suite (No.4)

the bridge is out between charm school
and my reptile brain. tornadoes meet
dirty clothes like sticky metaphors looking
death in the face and holding fast
which means something, I think, but
as no clear punctual ending motif drags itself
forward through the boulevard
to lay claim saying "it was me, I was 
  Little Albert" or something like that, what
have we got to go on? Ted Berrigan is
great, sure, but how much more does
the world not know it needs? all these
words setting up the long con, the con
in consciousness, the self-schlep section
a glasspack exhaust leaking iced tea

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