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a set of poems which all emerged in a dream; i actually got up at 3AM and wrote it down |
The Dylan Sutras (in memorium: David McFedrin & Scarlett McKeachern) I last night i came across Bob Dylan, in the alley playing poker with mah-jongg tiles and a cellar of kosher salt, and he explained how to cure meat, and all the sins of man with just a song, and where to find the forgotten Rites of Spring; and as the light beneath the East River emerged into morning the children sang, of Truth and the times before Man’s cruelty had made the Earth fallow and unproductive. II this morning in the River’s light i saw and heard Bob Dylan screaming & stalking out of the alley, throwing a fit and the stolen mah-jongg tiles back at his childhood friends, sitting drunk on stolen wine and the follies of youth. he swore he was fed-up with humanity and its heinous addiction to death and war, and power; he snapped every pencil on Earth, broke every lying instrument of musical denial, and skulked-away, muttering about the Failure of God and All Light. III i found Bob Dylan sitting at a card table munching salted mah-jongg tiles, mushrooms and bitter (Russian folk songs and) fruits; he wept, right there, for hope lessness, and lectured on the curing of meats, and the recurring itch of war, and of the need for love, and then, of the pain of living. i left him there in the rotting stench of uneaten garbage and the Fall of Man; and i went looking for the bus to daylight, the Lost Tablets of (all-Powerful) Stones, and the last day, when all guns were memories, and when school teachers taught First Aid, and common decency. IV i am Bob Dylan and my centuries’ old bones can no longer hold the shape of man erect or a stringed instrument of any kind; “i cannot write”, i said, “one more song to tell of a past full of Sunday morning light, or warn of the poison pellets (once more) flooding Our waters”. “i will not even try, ever-again, to save this planet from the cancer of Man, will not give hope to one more generation or new-born child; No, i will never again sing of a dove in the sand, or a Man of peace, or love.” V when i got to heaven, God was Bob Dylan, with (just about) Everything blowin around in the Celestial Wind (which is, in fact) what we call Time; every mah-jongg tile ever carved, or struck is on the wall behind Him, in their Absolute order, and Every soul, of Man has been cured; and each and Every moment was filled with music, echoing, “...you’ve gotta Serve Somebody...” the demented smile on His (not)face belonged in an interview, in an airport, in SanFran, in the sixties, and i, was, paralyzed as Every single fact fit into perfect place and the Son smiled as well, seeing deep in my eyes the same startled (incredulous, suspicious, but no-longer-stuck- in 3D dichotomies) light of revelation that every soul before me had worn; able to see, finally, the Whole Picture. and we sang of peace and glory, of love and complex Simplicity, we sang the final song of Life. |