Is this what it sounded like when Jacob wrestled the angel?
Is this how it felt when Marie Curie discovered polonium and radium?
Is this what Picasso was up to when he mixed up the medicine and warned humanity against the suffering and devastation of war?
I fear Heaven and Hell.
I won’t survive the persnickety way you strum the guitar strings into a hornet’s nest of everlasting dissonance. It forces me onto my haunches and pushes me back on my heels before leaving me in a heap of ashes and dust on the parquet flooring.
I hunger for nicotine as you get rid of the ashtrays. The creative zeitgeist scoops out your monkey brains as a fire in your belly becomes a fire in the sun that still howls today.
Is this what it sounded like when the hellhounds on Robert Johnson’s trail finally caught up with him?
Is this how it feels to have your cake and eat it too?
Is this what it was like when Eleanor launched an experimental community at Arthurdale, West Virginia, for the families of unemployed miners?
You take my breath away with every breath you blow into the harmonica’s black hole.
It’s hard to take this music standing up as I discover myself flying around the room, full of all the whimsy, mystery and indeterminate poetry you pitch at our heads like politically incorrect blood diamonds the size of baseballs.
The Transmigration of Bob Dylan by some cool cat whose name I didn’t quite catch. I’m starting to see why you wear a mask and how lonely it must be having no one to bounce ideas off of when everything is quiet and the cutting edge calls you out for being The Invisible Man.