For the longest of times
I never delved
into your music.
I don't know why,
I guess our paths
just didn't cross.

But this one time,
I was sitting at home,
listening to
“All Along the Watchtower”
and brother Hendrix
was slapping that guitar
without a care in the world.

And I decided
to read the lyrics,
to see what was
going on
behind the curtain,
because this interplay
between complexity
and clarity
was like nothing
I'd ever seen.

That's when I found out
that I had been listening
to a cover version
all these years
around the watchtower,
and that the original
was written by you.

And I just thought,
“Oh man, that's weird!”
Then I continued on with my life.
And at the time,
I was working with cleaning
rich people's homes.

I was cleaning their carpets
instead of
getting them dirty,
if you know
what I mean.

But I kept streaming music
into my brain,
as the only available remedy
to stay sane in a world
that's thrown sanity
out through the Overton window.

And the phenomenon
just repeated itself,
over and over again.
I found out, with song after song,
that there was some kind of
wellspring situation.

To me, most shockingly,
was this legendary ballad
from a Swedish progg group,
which I had been listening to
throughout
my whole upbringing.

It conveys what yearning
is all about,
because, surely,
with the right person
“Tomorrow is a long time.”

And I still remember that moment
when I read about their music
on my phone,
and your name just popped up
right in front of me.

I think I twitched there for a second,
and I just thought,
“Damn it, there he is again!
Get out of my head, dude!
How can all the roads lead to this man?”

And I was grabbed
by a force of nature,
in the most relentless manner,
and it made me click on that name,
for the first time in my life.

So I stepped into my jacket
and headed out for a walk,
and I started listening
through the Sennheisers.

Meanwhile, the juice bottle
in my refrigerator
took a breath
as the clock on the wall
started to slow down.

On that walk
I met a guitar that could sing,
I met a voice that could play
and I met a harmonica
that was trying to find its way home.

I don't know if you've ever
felt nostalgic
over memories
that are not yours?
Or if you've found yourself
peeking into an otherworldly place,
that's not meant to be seen
from our vantage point?

Have you ever avoided a thought
because the woman in front of you
can read your mind?
Or have you ever tried
to find the right rhythm
as you're standing
in the cusp of the storm?

Have you ever felt so lost
that you wished that you lived
on “Desolation Row?”
Have you changed your mind
when you find out what that row
is all about?

People ask me
if I'm trying to be like him.
It's a ridiculous question,
so I'll give you a ridiculous answer.

You see,
I'm not a new kind of him,
but I'm pretty sure
that he's an old kind of me.

He's one of the ravaged poets
under the bridges,
who can't be contained
by what Myers-Briggs is.

But drop all the labels,
drop the facade,
I want to see
if you're telling the truth,
show me the dirt
under your bootheel.

Man took out God
with a philosophical
sucker punch,
but then modernity
struck us all
right back
and turned us
into machines.

The street sorcerer
was destined to read the stars,
but now she's forced
to write cheap horoscopes
to pay for rent.

But still,
in the midst of this
kaleidoscopic mayhem,
on the eve of destruction,
you're telling me
that existence
doesn't precede essence?

Allow me then,
for once,
between two colleagues,
to skip the pleasantries
and go straight for
the right hook.

If your god is so real,
why then do you keep
all those pyramid papers
to yourself,
while working families
are living paycheck
to paycheck?
Aren't you supposed to be
the samaritan of old?

You're telling me
that you're fulfilling
your part of a deal,
but you should know
that it's a dealbreaker
to be a dealmaker
with God.

Looking up in the sky
and thinking that you can
make a deal
with providence?
Only an outcast
would be dumb enough
to do such a thing.

But after all,
maybe that's what we are,
beneath all these rhymes
and fancy tricks.
We're outcasts,
looking desperately
into the nothingness
for any kind of
somethingness.

Of course,
I can only speak for me,
because I don't think you can
understand a poet
through their writing.
I don't even know
what I'm writing myself,
most of the time.

I recently read through
my own stuff
from years ago,
and I thought,
“Who the hell is this guy?
He's trying too hard!”

At best, the text can help you
carve out a two-dimensional shadow
of the real person.
That's as close as you get.

Because the text is bound
to be physical,
but the mind is always
floating in transcendence.
They don't see who we are,
they see what we see.

I was told to never
idealise my heroes,
that I would just be disappointed.
But damn it,
if this isn't
the sweetest disappointment
I've ever experienced,
while walking this earth.

I don't think there's anything
beyond this earth,
but when I hear that harmonica
singing in the wind,
I can't help but wondering.

He keeps talking
about some other place,
and I wonder if that's the venue
that he peeks into
and catches a glimpse.

I had it described to me
in a dream once,
and I'm still trying
to put the pieces together.

“It's a place
where Karen Dalton
is playing the guitar
and Joe Hill
is serving the drinks.”
Bob Dylan said that.

“If the place upstairs
is anything like you say,
then I'll gladly accept
that all the roads
lead to the same place.”
I said that.