The companionship of Watching The River Flow, later Tangled Up In Blue, and others—Dignity I pulled the car over when I first heard it on the radio—Jokerman–I brought home and alone listening was transfixed—it was riveting—so alive—earlier I learned that white & black folk music go together—that the sound of the words is as important as anything—somehow it led me to Shakespeare—Kerouac also a part of this—the WORD—Eliot as a kid—Stevens—now Notley—that life is an adventure, an opportunity, is important.    Life—is holy—Death so powerful—the mystery—anima—the invisible world—the champions of civil rights—the dignity & value & stature he brought to rock & roll & folk—music etc—is no small thing—he made me want to live, to strive, to contend—wisdom of the street—the vision the powerful sweep & scope—Chimes of Freedom—It’s All Right, Ma—Baby Blue—he sang for freedom of the spirit & the soul—”the guardians and protectors of the mind”–“it is not he or she or them or it that you belong to”– ““an’ mine shall be a strong loneliness dissolvin’ deep/t’ the depths of my freedom/an’ that, then, shall/
remain my song”

–“don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue”—“when you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose” —“she’s got everything she needs she’s an artist, she don’t look back” —“she never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall”–  like Bob in ’64-’65—(“he never stumbled” said Penny)– when I was a teen—“somebody got lucky but it was an accident”–  “goin’ back to New York City I do believe I’ve had enough”– (marvelling at the chaos of life & New York.) The beauty of Girl From The North Country—Went To See The Gypsy hit me in my 1971 isolation—at my biker friend Rose’s Cadillac dealership, waiting in the parking lot for her to get off work– in the days before I left town for good—the last song that moved me like that for a while—’til Billy—which also I loved & identified with–Billy’s trouble as I was on the lam 70’s style—so vivid & finally got that great inscription in the pink lyrics book perused at the SF bookstore two thousand miles from my home—“to all those high on life—from all corners of the wild blue yonder.”

*  Long Time Gone, an early Dylan song, from my cd “HWY 62” on Omnivore Recordings, 2016.

Bill Evans if you’ve ever fallen in love with someone and its late at night & time stops–the futures beautiful but sad and pretty complicated the way the moments of glory become the next moments of doubt–life & death putting off the disaster–the reckoning–the bill will come due–the piper will be paid in full at midnight—tho’ the air is clear the horns are muted the traffic outside occasional–a whoosh & the moon crawls over–the stars wheel & you fall asleep earlier than me it’s all worth it to be here with you–it’s ok we’ll pay & live to see another day–some better & some worse blue shades drawn green sky at dawn & the moments balanced on a crescent. A kiss the touch of your skin the beating of our hearts–our breaths entwined it’s good now & true forever as the clock turns eternity on its wheel [head] I don’t know what will happen–we’ve thrown the dice–picked up the phone & dialed heaven—there will be a moment and a series & an epoch—the night will answer our fears & it’s on our side no running now stand up and take it–three a.m. forever–melts into lessons–trials melt into sentences–sentences into freedom and we’re free to love forever, tonight

Blue In Green:

the one who led you on into the night following a musical call—we poured our hearts out into the charge of the air—gave up the separations & intellectual positions & walls of reserve—it melted at the pitch & we all went with it—there was no right or wrong—no individuals, just waterfalls of roaring sound—a surrender to the light & the rumble of quick silver, mercury, molten steel, red elastic, death defeated just for a while, lost the voice talking to me now its drained out—these were the moments we chased—loud electric rock & roll—a mess—no concise message but a big fat head & mouth—rewarded by the love & charm of the crowd—they crushed together too, in the heat, the jostling, the tight contact of bodies—nothing reserved nothing hidden—& the music hit moments where it seemed to create itself—spring out of there with new power—I’d always hold a little back—style in these moments—the jacket shed     the hair      sweaty & messed  the roar of guitar feedback  & drum rolls      Dionysius—God against death—the poison the trance the escape—

primitive—from the heart the parts the tongue of your enemy licking you—physical not diffused through prismatic gimmicks—from low below the belt—courageous—or? impulsive simplicity—directness—sweat on the brow—bursting against the seams—hungry—the lunge of need—fear of eclipse—dancing to extinguish terror—sex over death—ego over sacrifice—Jesus not a primitive—Holy Ghost? fighting with your own self—dirt—blood—saliva—come—raised voices chanting—wood smoke—torches—heavy drumming on logs—poison leaves—itching from teas—fear of strangers—not arguing the points!—no poetry outside of desire—descriptions of fulfillment—wonder at sexual favor ok—amazement of size—power of personality—deep feeling—Justice?—not about memories but in the present—breathing through nose hairs—the surprising sensation of a punch in the nose —the heat felt in dryness—watching through windows after dark.

out on the chilly winds  & fog—the breakers breaking the waves waving goodbye & the whales wailing under the railings of the golden alley bridge—a world wide -retro-coop, super group—a pox o’yr swindle yr bag of used tools—the prez is leering from a Lear jet—and cargo boats with soggy bottoms & pastel hills & primary containers jelly fish out into the harbor—pass water the gate & motivate—east to Hong Kong—Singapore—Peking don’t forget to duck—weighed down with boxcar size quantities of gargle, paddle balls looking for a racket, kittens prowl the poop deck, the first mate he got drunk, climbed a mast to masticate, wrote a letter to the magistrate, bought a parcel of promised land by the acre–by the time I got to the taste of ashes–songs composed on ouija boards, the ouija bored itself—the ships cutting through the scar & sky blue empress of the package & always lick your stamps before dropping them in the box–Mr Lucky Reels, the Hambone Sisters grimace, Skye Page gathers trinkets, soldiers on glass elevators throw stones at Billy Boy who drools like a crooner.