Friday, March 2, 2012

Channeling Bob Dylan.

What’s that feeling when midnight’s reeling and you’re stuck to the bedpost staring at the ceiling? It’s time, it’s time, just time you’re stealing but that ain’t worth but a rusty nickel in the bottom of a coffee pot. Grounds ain’t ceilings but for my last meal I might take, might take that deal, cause what good’s mealing when you know you got but one more hand and you ain’t done dealing. And that ace up your sleeve won’t make you believe and you can’t leave cause you’re in too deep and you can’t sleep cause the covers weep and the walls creep and crawl with every thing you scratched on every bathroom stall…the words come back but you can’t read em all, so you stall…you wait, you wait and pray, but it’s too late and your hair’s gone grey and there’s bills to pay and the man with the tie won’t buy your lie even if it is the truth. And who gets truth anyway, you can hear truth if you listen, hear it every day or you can hear a freight train bray, but it ain’t honest and it ain’t the same as sitting under a tree at sunset. That tree’ll shade ya and the ground that made ya, hell it will be there til the sky falls down. It was there when you were gone, nowhere around, nowhere to be found, lost in the light and strobe and sound. Stumbling, shuffling, subway bound. Underneath the streets you listen to the trains run by and the rocktime beats and you try to feel original. But original is just a word and it’s a word that everybody’s heard. And Woody heard it before I did, and I knew it all when you were still a kid. Still tossing a ball against the wall where fifteen years later your body falls and you can’t get up. They’ve beat you down and you’re sure that you’re the clown and the world’s the circus and just when you think you got it all figured out, you realize you ain’t figured out nothing but another cut out snowflake xylophone fake…and it makes ya nervous. But shit, son, don’t you know, ain’t you listening, did you really think God was at that christening? Did you really think it meant anything at all, those hymnals, those words on the bathroom stall. So close your eyes and let it be, there ain’t enough room for you and me…and time, that’s the only thing you see, cause when you’re knee high you got it all laid out and in a snap you’re laid up and outta luck and nobody really gives a fuck. You might as well quit, you might as well die, but you don’t cause you’ve got shit to buy…America’s got you boy, but good, and don’t try to play misunderstood cause it’s time you’re buying with that new car and it’s time you’re buying, but it won’t go far cause it’s all a sham, it’s all a joke, its all the lies and cigarette smoke, and it don’t make a difference anyhow – the train’ll be leaving any second now and whether you go or whether you stay we’ll still end up in the exact same way, same place, same face, same dreams you had that didn’t matter then, but you got your paper and you got your pen and if you don’t quit, maybe they’ll listen. Deep down you know they probably won’t, but hang to it, cling to it, play your guitar alone and sing to it. It may be all you got, but it’s a lot, son, it’s a lot.


  1. I'm staring at this little comment box and realizing that anything I say is going to be utterly inadequate in conveying my delight in reading your post. My reaction is a combination of "ohhhh, yes! now we're talking" and that inexpressible glee you feel when you stumble across something that tickles your senses from a whole bunch of different angles.

    @jtvancouver is right -- this is brilliant. (She's so much more succinct than I am.)

    1. Thanks so much, I appreciate the kind words. :) You're welcome here anytime. (Two drink minimum).


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