(For Bob Dylan)
Down for the count, but not dead yet.
Just remember death is not the end.
Swallowing fire and spitting out prophecy.
All along the watchtower, our enemies burn like friendless torches.
If this poetry does not define me, I’m not sure anything will.
The words wash over me like rhythm and blues.
I hear his voice, and my fears fall down like a savior’s tears.
Late last night you came a-rollin’ across my mind.
It was 1988 and nothing was happening.
I was working the graveyard shift at a gas station.
At the time this record didn’t do anything for me.
Now when I play it, even my close Dylan friends think I’ve lost my mind.
Down for the count but I’m still alive, and that must count for something.
I can tell you fancy, I can tell you plain. You give something up for everything you gain.
The tears of a clown won’t save us, but hasn’t it always been the thought that counts?
I know you’re in darkness, but trust me there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.
I was in the desert looking for a sign.
I looked up when a stop sign appeared and a voice asked if I needed a ride.
The driver gave me the twenty one dollars that he had.
I swear to God you can get relief if you just open your heart and mind to the miracles existing all around you.