Bob Dylan Delayed: Part 1


My hard drive ate shit, so the next part of the Dylan thing is going to be late. Believe me, it was 100,000 words of brilliance before it was cruelly erased from the face of the earth.

My apologies, to anyone who was waiting for it.


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Bob Dylan Revisited Part 1: Self Titled

An introduction to this can be found here:


1. (1962 – 1964)

– Bob Dylan
– The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
– The Times They Are A Changing
– Another Side of Bob Dylan

New York Troubadour/Folk activist/Baby Faced Mouthpiece of Strife/Woody Guthrie Disciple/”The Voice of a Generation”/Freewheelin’ and Datin’ Suze/Playing on the tailgates of pickup trucks with Joan Baez/Pre-electric/Civil rights activist/a harmonica holder and a chambray shirt/a cold winter/playing in the village/home recordings and demos/the boy from Minnesota in the big city/a typewriter with a broken “B” key/The folk scene/Newport/Stealing folk records from record collecting friends/and the newspaper, a pack of cigarettes, and a typewriter.

The early Dylan albums have a nice balance between being both a portrait of the artist as a young man, and a portrait of a country in total upheaval. For some reason, singing about things that happened fifty years ago seemed to tie into things that were happening right then and there in America. At the same time, the early Dylan albums manage a personal touch that he seemed to never find in such surplus for the rest of his career. That touch might come from the fact that the early records are very stark, and lack any instrumentation besides Dylan and his guitar. Even the lyric sheets from this time period seem to look like poems and thoughts from a young man trying to comprehend everything in his life up to that point, and everything happening around him at the point explicitly.

My personal images of Dylan at this time period is him sitting at a typewriter in a sparse apartment, or in a studio with his guitar and his harmonica; perched among the ashtrays and microphones, or with a cigarette in his hand as he strolls around New York City in one of the coldest winters on record, or looking all of 12 years old on stage at The Gaslight.

There is nowhere to go from here but up.

The balance between young poet/singer-songwriter/spokesperson of a generation is all over these early records. The only exception would be Bob Dylan’s first album, the self-titled one. This early album is a rough sketch of covers and a few originals by someone who has yet to find their voice. It wasn’t a massive hit, and sold something like 2500 copies, probably because Dylan and folk music weren’t yet synonymous with mountains of sales and popularity. There was also his voice, which was a raspy, reedy, nasally whine that sounded like something you’d hear in the living room of an apartment party, and not on a Columbia Records release.

However, in hindsight, the quality of the singing and the sparseness of the recording come off as a strength. When one looks back on this section of Dylan’s career, there’s a kind of lo-fi majesty to it: you can almost picture and feel the cold empty rooms where these songs are being recorded. There’s nothing drowning out the message or the tunes, and some of them even sound like they’re being played fifteen minutes after they’ve been written, after a drag on a cigarette and a quick wash of the harmonica.


Bob Dylan (1962)

Original Track Listing:

1. You’re No Good
2. Talkin’ New York
3. In My Time Of Dying
4. Man of Constant Sorrow
5. Fixin’ To Die
6. Pretty Peggy-O
7. Highway 51 Blues
8. Gospel Plow
9. Baby, Let Me Follow You Down
10. House of the Risin’ Sun
11. Freight Train Blues
12. Song to Woody
13. See That My Grave is Kept Clean

Excerpts From Original Liner Notes:
(pulled from

“Columbia records is proud to introduce a major new figure in American folk music — Bob Dylan.”

“Excitement has been running high since the young man with a guitar ambled into a Columbia recording studio for two sessions in November, 1961. For at only 20, Dylan is the most unusual new talent in American folk music.”

“Bob Dylan first came East in February, 1961. His destination: the Greystone Hospital in New Jersey. His purpose: to visit the long-ailing Woody Guthrie, singer, ballad-maker and poet. It was the beginning of a deep friendship between the two. Although they were separated by thirty years and two generations, they were united by a love of music, a kindred sense of humor and a common view toward the world.”

“The young man from the provinces began to make friends very quickly in New York, all the while continuing, as he has since he was ten, to assimilate musical ideas from everyone he met, every record he heard. He fell in with Dave Van Ronk and Jack Elliott, two of the most dedicated musicians then playing in Greenwich Village, and swapped songs, ideas and stylistic conceptions with them. He played at the Gaslight Coffeehouse, and in April, 1961, appeared opposite John Lee Hooker, the blues singer, at Gerde’s Folk City.”



The first Dylan record is a mishmash of covers and two originals. It’s hard to listen to it and see at all what would come after. Dylan is still leaning on all of his influences very hard, and the distinctive song writing isn’t there yet. The most interesting songs from this period seem to be home recordings and demos that show an artist just barely beginning to dip his toe in the water. They combine into something you would almost expect to find on a cassette tape someone made. In fact, some of the tunes from this era were recorded on cheap home tape players.

The lack of polish on these home recordings is redeeming, and gives them a certain life and urgency that seemed stripped away with the studio. Bob Dylan gives a hell of a vocal performance on that first record; screaming and belting out folk songs in a way that he never seemed to do again. However, the cleanliness of the recordings when compared to something recorded in a hotel room in Minnesota, do something to remove the intimacy you want from a record with one man and his guitar.

While listening to the first studio album, it’s hard to know how one would feel upon hearing it back in 1962. Would you think to yourself, “oh, the new voice of a generation has arrived and we all will hear about him 50 years from now, and one day bored nerds will write thousands of words about how they can reorder the track listings on his albums?”


More likely, this first Dylan album was released in a sea of similar sounding folk albums, and it was only on his second record that he managed to distance himself from any other jackass with an acoustic guitar and rumpled clothing.

These feelings fit into how I have re-imagined the first Bob Dylan album: Feelings of a sparse talent just starting, barely there in both sound and scope, and feelings of something starting; the shadows of a world class talent emerging from handfuls of tapes and a couple of studio sessions: Presenting a ragged glory from the opening shots, and not yet heralding anything immense, but calmly showing you the building blocks of something of forever.

Bob Dylan New/Revised Track Listing:

1. When I Got Troubles (Home Recording)
2. Rambler, Gambler (Home Recording)
3. I Was Young When I Left Home (Home Recording)
4. Walkin’ Down The Line (Demo)
5. Standing on the Highway (Demo)
6. Hard Times in New York Town (Hotel Room Recording)
7. Motherless Children (Live at the Gaslight Café)
8. Man on the Street (Fragment)
9. Man on the Street (Demo)
10. House of the Risin’ Sun
11. He Was a Friend of Mine (Outtake)
12. Suze (The Cough Song) (Outtake)
13. Talkin’ New York
14. Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie (Spoken Word)
15. Song to Woody

Breakdown of Selection:

“Wait, where the fuck are all of the hits?”

There isn’t any. Most of the songs on both the original track listing, and the one that I have created above, are folk covers, because the song writing side of Dylan had yet to emerge. All of these things would be changed and remedied on the second record. For now though, at the time, all that the Bob Dylan self titled record was, was a collection of folk covers by a young 20 year old talent, with one or two originals that leaned heavily on the influences that he was covering.

It is in this spirit that I have drawn from the rawest Dylan outtakes and originals from this period of time, in an effort to show more of the building blocks of the first few albums, but with more of a personal touch, and with the additional benefit of hindsight.

This reordering is basically an entirely new first album, as it contains only three tracks from the original album. I pulled heavily from The Bootleg Series Volume 7: No Direction Home, Bootleg Series Volume 1, and Bootleg Series Volume 9: The Whitmark Demos. These collections were the best way to find all of the superior scraps of early Dylan.

The best place to start is the very beginning, and the opening two songs are the two first pieces of recorded music Bob Dylan ever set to tape. A childhood friend of his had bought a home tape recorded, and Bob wanted to try it out. It is this friend that you hear say, “okay, start,” on “When I Got Troubles.”

From here we move through more demos, showing off the stripped bare basics of folk Bob Dylan: his cadence, his singing voice, the harmonica passages, the way he elongates the words at the ends of his singing lines, and the haphazard guitar strumming. Almost nothing of these early elements will change over the course of the first few albums. Refined maybe, but not changed.

Tracks 5, 6, and 7 have been chosen to tell a bit of story: 20-year-old Dylan hitting the road from Minnesota and hitchhiking to New York City. Hence the choice of “Standing on the Highway.” The track following this, “Hard Times in New York Town” was recorded in a Minnesota hotel room, but no other song in the Dylan catalogue seems to capture the feeling of someone coming to the great city, with nothing in their pockets, and nothing to their name but a battered guitar case and a couple of harmonicas. Track 7 is a live recording from The Gaslight Café, a joint in the village where Dylan managed to become an on-stage regular, and where he gained the first exposure of his career.

From there, we move into the studio, where Dylan, in possession of a massive repertoire of songs, seemed to lay everything down onto tape and hoped to see what stuck. I stacked an unfinished take of “Man on the Street” onto the front of a completed version from Volume 1 of the Bootleg Series, because I thought it seemed to make the finished version more personal, as if you were sitting right beside a young artist who’s playing his first couple songs, as he fucks up the verses and tries to feel his way through the material.

It is on the next few songs where I felt that he managed to nail what it was he was attempting. These are the songs where I feel that he is in the most command of the material, even when he manages to ruin a take of a song about his girlfriend Suze by coughing. “Talkin’ New York” finishes this section off; an original from the first album, it seems to summarize the Dylan adventure up to this point. It is biographical in the same way that “Hard Times in New York Town,” was biographical, only to that song has been added experience and miles walked on frozen streets.

The last two songs on the album are a pair; one is a spoken word piece about Woody Guthrie that Dylan read at a concert in 1963. It is not from this exact period, as the venue it was recorded in, The New York Town Hall, was a bit bigger in stature than a hole in the wall folk bar, but I think it’s inclusion to this remake was necessary, as nothing else manages to display a mainline into Dylan’s thoughts on his biggest hero as this piece does. It’s poetry without the guitar, and it shows that the writing side of Dylan was powerful, more powerful than the music; he just hadn’t found a way to meld the two together yet.

“Song For Woody” closes this reworked first album; a melding of the words and thoughts from the track before it, but to music. It was proof that it could be done, and Dylan would demonstrate how well he could do it on his next record.


Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

By Bob Dylan

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin’ behind an’ losin’ yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life’s busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin’ up
If the wine don’t come to the top of yer cup
If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood’s easy findin’ but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin’ and the street gets too long
And you start walkin’ backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow’s mornin’ seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin’
And yer rope is a-slidin’ ’cause yer hands are a-drippin’
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe’s a-pourin’
And the lightnin’s a-flashing and the thunder’s a-crashin’
And the windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops a-shakin’
And yer whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
“I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born”
And you start gettin’ chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you’re lookin’ for somethin’ you ain’t quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world’s a-watchin’ with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she’s long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they’re fryin’
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell’s bangin’ loudly but you can’t hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes’ve turned filthy from the sight-blindin’ dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an’ fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin’ three queens
And it’s makin you mad, it’s makin’ you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin’ around a pinball machine
And there’s something on yer mind you want to be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin’
But it’s trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin’ in bed
And no matter how you try you just can’t say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion’s mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you’d never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin’
On this road I’m walkin’, on this trail I’m turnin’
On this curve I’m hanging
On this pathway I’m strolling, in the space I’m taking
In this air I’m inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I’m playing, on this banjo I’m frailin’
On this mandolin I’m strummin’, in the song I’m singin’
In the tune I’m hummin’, in the words I’m writin’
In the words that I’m thinkin’
In this ocean of hours I’m all the time drinkin’
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they’re around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
“Cause sometimes you hear’em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin’
And you can’t remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it’s something special you’re needin’
And you know that there’s no drug that’ll do for the healin’
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin’ train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That’s been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don’t bar no race
That won’t laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin’ long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it’s you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you’re sitting
That the world ain’t got you beat
That it ain’t got you licked
It can’t get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope’s just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner ’round a wide-angled curve
But that’s what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
“Cause you look an’ you start getting the chills
“Cause you can’t find it on a dollar bill
And it ain’t on Macy’s window sill
And it ain’t on no rich kid’s road map
And it ain’t in no fat kid’s fraternity house
And it ain’t made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain’t on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it’s funny
No you can’t find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain’t in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you’re bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain’t a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain’t in the rumors people’re tellin’ you
And it ain’t in the pimple-lotion people are sellin’ you
And it ain’t in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star’s blouse
And you can’t find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can’t tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain’t in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain’t in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain’t in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin’ and tappin’ in Christmas wrappin’
Sayin’ ain’t I pretty and ain’t I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can’t even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you’ll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain’t in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who’d turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can’t find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain’t in the ones that ain’t got any talent but think they do
And think they’re foolin’ you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while ’cause they know it’s in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin’, “Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain’t there no one here that knows where I’m at
Ain’t there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
No but that ain’t yer game, it ain’t even yer race
You can’t hear yer name, you can’t see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin’
Where do you look for this lamp that’s a-burnin’
Where do you look for this oil well gushin’
Where do you look for this candle that’s glowin’
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You’ll find God in the church of your choice
You’ll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it’s only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You’ll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown


A tape recorder clicks on:

Someone says to start, and then comes a gentle strumming. Fidelity is bad. Sounds almost like it’s underwater. Like you’re listening from another room with your ear pressed to the wall/a youthful feeling of being too timid/the strumming and the singing held back/a feeling of not wanting to be too loud/to let too much of yourself out/to let go too much/just sing low and slow and hope you don’t fuck up the words.

“When I got troubles
troubles on my mind.”

Before New York City/Before playing in smoke filled rooms/young with wild hair/a cigarette clenched between hands with untrimmed nails/sleeping and dozing in the backseat of the coupe that picked you up on the side of the road.

Like a sponge/trying to absorb everything/trying to find your own voice in a endless history of sound/trying to digest and reorganize/remastered and rethink the things that you’ve taken in/your influences pinned to your chest/obvious to all/and you keep a fire burning for all of them.

An America both new and old/from the downtown skyscrapers to the backwoods whorehouses/travelling hobos and railroad tracks/businessmen on the street corner/small basement rooms slick with sweat and smoke/snowdrifts higher than your head/frozen fingers tucked into your jacket as you make your way arm in arm with your sweetheart/tales of hardship/tales of glory/tales of motherless children and starving farmers/tales passed down through song that land right here at fingertips strumming a beaten guitar.

Walkin’ a path you knew you had to walk/compelled/driven/chosen/and always knowing where you needed to go to make it happen/from the grooves of records endlessly consumed in small rooms with the windows shut/to your voice to the microphone.

A cigarette left burning in a standing studio astray as songs are crossed off a set list/knocking them out one by one and making up the score as you look down a long windswept highway and try in vain to see the future.

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Bob Dylan Revisited


The aim of this project is to go through the discography of Bob Dylan, and remake his albums in a way that I prefer. Over the years, as I consumed more and more Dylan alternate takes, bootlegs, home recordings and live records, I came to realize that the studio albums, while occasionally masterpieces, would also benefit from a reimagining. An album made in 1983 might have sounded passable at the time, but now, that same album might have enough extra material available to be remade into something far superior. Even the albums in Dylan’s discography that could be seen as complete masterworks still have a few songs on them with left off versions that I prefer.

The best thing about doing this project with an artist like Bob Dylan as the subject is that hindsight and history can be brought into the equation. We can now look on a 50-year career of an extremely well documented artist, and know everything there is to know about the state in which he made the records, the political and world climate surrounding them, and the long-term impact that these albums had. In addition, Bob Dylan seemed to move in cycles, where a series of albums would follow a certain trend before being abandoned: here he is as a drifting poet with a ratty acoustic guitar, here he is as an amphetamine headline prophet, here he is divorced and in a shattered exile, here he is with God at his side as he preaches to the heathens he sees everywhere, here he lost in a wilderness of studios and studio musicians while trying to find the new sound, here he is returned to form, and there he goes to make Christmas albums and crooner records as the light fades from a musical life well lived. All of these periods can be broken down and discussed, in addition to having all of the music from them moved around to suit the listener. It is a great thing that we have so many piles and piles of documented music from each phase of Dylan’s many stylistic careers to choose from. The fact that all of this cursory detail provides enough background information for it to be easily slotted into where an “album” should be, only makes this task of mine all the easier. I don’t need to do much digging to find this stuff, or where it was recorded or when.

So, using this material, and the original records, I will remake the albums as I see fit, and they hopefully will become more interesting records. This is of course not to say that I don’t love the originals (in most cases), because to do something like this requires a love of the source; one doesn’t listen to Empire Burlesque willingly unless they are truly committed to the artist that made it.

Another way that I will be changing the records is by not adhering to the exact length and structure that they are current presented in. When going through a musical career that spans 30+ albums, it can sometimes be difficult for someone to know where to start or what to listen to. Therefore, it will be almost a secondary aim of this project to cut and reorganize the Dylan discography into better and easier to consume chunks, presenting both a personalized portrait of the artist, as well as easier to digest versions of the music and records he made at a particular time. Therefore, in my version, it might not be necessary for an album like Highway 61 Revisited to have 9 songs; instead it could have 7 or 22. In the end, it might not even be necessary to consider what I make of that particular set of songs “Highway 61 Revisited.”

I’m leaving myself a lot of freedom, because it’s more fun that way.



1. Only studio records. No live albums. No greatest hits records.

2. I’m not touching the fucking Christmas album

3. Dylan’s current album cycle of Shadows in the Night, Fallen Angels, and Triplicate won’t be covered. For one thing, there’s no extra material for any of them, and I think that albums of covers shouldn’t count.

4. Speaking on that same point, the covers albums in the 80’s and 90’s don’t count. If Bob Dylan was too lazy to write songs, then I’m too lazy to cover the albums he made entirely out of other peoples songs.

5. I won’t be including the movie soundtrack Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid either.


A Note on the Rules:

While I will be going through all of the studio albums that Dylan has released, the sheer number of them and the material that they represent means that at some point in the project, I might fold multiple albums into one. However, this can only be done if the albums come from the same stylistic period. For example, it would be impossible to combine The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan with John Wesley Harding, Oh Mercy, or even Highway 61 Revisited. For one thing, all of these albums can stand on their own, and for a second thing, none of these records have Dylan in the same place and the same frame of mind when he was making them.

A Caveat on Live Albums:

While I will not be doing a reordering and recycling of the live records, I have given myself permission to pull from them to help make the studio albums better. However, I’ll probably only use live songs that aren’t from the albums with walls of crowd noise. Something like “Before the Flood” doesn’t lend itself to the task.

A Note on Availability:

The other thing that I’m taking into account when doing this list is the availability of material. Yes, there may be an astounding bootleg version of Slow Train Coming/Chimes of Freedom/Tangled Up in Blue/Positively 4th Street recorded by some burnout jackass with a cassette player at some show on some tour stop in the flyover states, but that recording isn’t available to really anybody, and if I did find it in a record store, it would probably be too much goddamn money. I’m going to be working off of material that can actually be found with only a decent modicum of digging.

Another Note on Something I Don’t Care About:

Stereo VS Mono recordings: I know some people might care, but I don’t. It all sounds the same to anyone who doesn’t cram their head into the speaker looking to see if the fourth trombone on track six shows up in all of the clarity that the song needs. It will be assumed from here on out that all of the choices I’ve made are from whatever recording comes on the CD, vinyl, or digital download that I possess.

A Note on The Basement Tapes:

I won’t be including the Basement Tapes and the subsequent Bootleg Series album that covers that particular session. For one thing, it seems as if the Basement Tapes were done in the spirit of experimentation and fun, and should not be considered a full studio album. The musicality and relevance of The Basement Tapes is of course, massive, but to me it seems to exist in an almost separate area than the main discography; as something that contains it’s own series of albums and outtakes made out of a massive selection of music. To go through all of it and try and find one perfect twelve song record would be almost impossible, and pointless, as that is not the point of The Basement Tapes. So, fuck it, I’m not doing the Basement Tapes.

Also, I have a strong fear that if I had to listen to a stoned and drunk Bob Dylan and The Band stumble elegantly through endless bullshit about Oranges and Picnics and Civil War beards while camped out in a goddamn basement, that I might lose my mind somewhere around disc 9 or 12 or whatever.

A Note on Self Portrait:

While I said above that I wouldn’t be spending any time with albums comprised entirely of covers, I am making an exception for Self Portrait. I think that the album has enough artistic merit to be included, and it also conveys a messy, miserable time in Dylan’s life flawlessly. Also, there’s a whole Bootleg Series (Vol.10) devoted too it with plenty of music to work with to try and build something out of the train wreck that is Self Portrait and the time surrounding it. You think the 60’s ended with the Manson murders? Wrong, it ended when Bob Dylan made Self Portrait and shit all over everybody who had the balls to care about what him and his misguided exile facial hair were doing out there in Woodstock.

The Discography:
* As seen through the lens/criteria I mentioned above

1. Bob Dylan (1962)
2. The Freewheelin Bob Dylan (1963)
3. The Times They Are A Changin’ (1964)
4. Another Side of Bob Dylan (1964)
5. Bringing it All Back Home (1965)
6. Highway 61 Revisited (1965)
7. Blonde on Blonde (1966)
8. John Wesley Harding (1967)
9. Nashville Skyline (1969)
10. Self Portrait (1970)
11. New Morning (1970)
12. Planet Waves (1974)
13. Blood on the Tracks (1975)
14. Desire (1976)
15. Street Legal (1978)
16. Slow Train Coming (1979)
17. Saved (1980)
18. Shot of Love (1981)
19. Infidels (1983)
20. Empire Burlesque (1985)
21. Knocked Out Loaded (1986)
22. Oh Mercy (1989)
23. Under the Red Sky (1990)
24. Time Out of Mind (1997)
25. Love and Theft (2001)
26. Modern Times (2006)
27. Together Through Life (2009)
28. Tempest (2012)

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Night Watch Print


Followed around by a painting that hung
in the living room of my Grandparent’s house
above the sofa
facing a large window
that looked out over a well-tended garden
and a small pond.

I see this painting
in magazines
and books in the library
and in offices where other prints of it hang.

For many years,
I thought my Grandmother owned the original
and now it is known to me that works of art
can have copies.

Hers is special though
her print of this painting
holds more memories
more thoughts
and more magic than the original ever could
in all of its brush strokes
and swirls of oil.

I remember cups of tea
and staying up late on a New Year’s Eve
when I was six
and counting to 100 for the first time
and classical music coming from a stereo
above the television set.

In my mind
and in my thoughts
she will always own the original
she will always own the first time I saw the painting
her house a gallery of my mind
and that painting always hanging in a place
of honour
of safety
and remembrance.

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Ode To Overkill

I wrote this poem for an open mic night I attended yesterday. I was saddened to learn this morning that the last surviving member of the original Motörhead lineup, Fast Eddie Clarke, had passed away.

This poem is therefore dedicated to him.

In addition, portions of this poem are lyrics from the song Overkill. 

Ode To Overkill

A drum beat
like a thousand coked up jackhammers
stutterstepping their way
through the sistene chapel
while a bass guitar
unleashes tidal waves that rend cities from land
and leave nothing but hordes of the deaf.

Cuz the only way to feel the noise
is when it’s good and loud
so good I can’t believe it
screaming with the crowd

So don’t sweat it
get it back to you
and don’t worry about a thing
because nobody can find a way to hit the snooze button
on this doomsday clock
that now ticks to midnight
at 119 BPM.


This is scorched earth
this is a free fire orgy of volume
and you can’t help but want to shimmy
because you know your body is made to move
you feel it in your guts
and rock and roll aint worth the name
if it don’t make you strut.

But don’t try to tap dance to this tune
because you’ll end up breaking both
your fucking legs.

A guitar note slides past so hard
it causes fault lines to open up across the earth
like the whole planet was a tangerine
crushed under a truck tire.

And there’s no stopping the inevitable now
as everything turns to dust and dissolves
in a napalm spasm
and the ocean boils down to not but beer spit and dead ash
as Motörhead puts in its resume for the job of
a global warming style doom messiah
and mops up the whole job
with the last two minutes of the song.

Cymbals crash out
and we begin the last round
of sweet, sweet

The sun careens into what’s left of this
former globe of ours
and goes into a supernova that clips other stars nearby
and sets them off like champagne bottles
till every species in the known Universe looks up into the sky
to see the dreaded snaggletooth wrote large on the cosmos
as a new wave of British Heavy Metal rolls over
everything known and unknown
like a merciless leather jacket clad brush
through the zen garden of existence.

Leaving nothing
but a blank space
where two amobeas meet one another
in the vast darkness of zero
and start to fuck
to the drum beat
of Overkill.

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Books I Read in 2017

I didn’t read nearly as many books this year as I have in previous years. My excuse is that I wanted to slow down and enjoy what I read instead of just plowing through books with the intentions of having an impressive number finished as the year wound down. This idea also let me read longer books, because when you want to crush 72 novels in a year, you end up pushing aside almost anything longer than 400 pages. So the final total may not be as impressive, but the page count and quality of what I read increased in 2017. The only problem I found with the longer books, is that I would get bogged down, and find myself lost within some tome, especially if the book wasn’t blowing my hair back. At one point, I even abandoned reading something around page 300 simply because the prose was encouraging me to throw the book into the fucking sea.

(Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts, don’t buy it, unless you’re a masochist.)

Since I didn’t read as much, I felt I should expand on each entry on the list. This expansion could be something of a mini-review, or a thought about the novel as a whole, or when I read it and why, or just something to pad the word count and my fragile ego!


1. Life and Fate by Vassily Grossman

Started the year off with a book that was described to me as, “War and Peace, but set in Stalingrad.” This book was a Herculean reading task that covered almost every facet of the eastern front. Yes, I’m bragging about having finished it.

2. Last Stories and Other Stories by William T. Vollman

I hadn’t read any Vollman before this book, but bought it because the cover was cool and the pages felt really good when you turned through all of them. A collection of ghost stories and epics about death and destruction, taking place across all eras and epochs. Basically a giant buffet of a book.

3. Wolf in White Van by John Darnielle

The Mountain Goats lead singer wrote a book! It’s kind of like a Mountain Goats song! Only more depressing! I read this one when I did because I wanted to read something short after the combined 1600 pages of the last two books.

4. A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James

The best book I read all year. A complete masterwork in every shape and form, which is what every review of it says about it, so it shouldn’t be news to anyone at this point that this is a good book. Also worth mentioning is that the pages sound really good when you flip through all of them at once.

5. Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner

Sure. Why not?

6. A People’s History of the United States of America by Howard Zinn

It took me forever to finish this one, and I think I actually read the book above it on the list while I was in the middle of it. The history of the United States is a story of a chimera of oppression, violence, and corruption that seemed to alter itself to fit the times, and reading about those three things being inflicted on everyone below the 1% got to be kind of a drag. Still, it was one of those books that everyone should read, if only to know the score and how it was tallied up.

7. The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen

This felt like the 1984 of the modern age, told through the lens of events that actually happened, instead of ones that could possibly happen. It can also boast one of the most harrowing endings I have ever read.

8. The House of Ulloa by Emilia Pardo Bazan

I read this book accidentally. I really wanted to buy the first book in the Pocket Penguins Classics series, so I ordered this one online. Except, this book is not #01, but #10. So I’m stupid. Anyway, it wasn’t half bad.

9. Some Birds Walk For the Hell of It by CR Avery

Phenomenal poetry, and much thanks to the person who lent it to me.

10. The Air Conditioned Nightmare by Henry Miller

I picked this up because I liked the title, and was hoping that it was a typical Miller madness obscenity read. Instead it was more like a boring tour guide of the states.

11. Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You by Alice Munro

Relatively unknown author Alice Munro probably has a good future as a short story writer.

12. Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante

I didn’t want to dive into Ferrante’s massive trilogy just yet, but if this book is any indication of her talents, then it won’t be time at all wasted when I get around to it.

13. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemmingway

I read it because I’d had a copy of it kicking around forever, and I liked the joke it was part of in Silver Linings Playbook.

14. Born on the Fourth of July by Ron Kovic

I watched the movie on Netflix, found the book soon after, and read it at the beach. A sobering portrait of youth cut down.

15. Filth by Irvine Welsh

No year is complete without a book by Irvine Welsh. Except last year, when I didn’t read a book by Irvine Welsh. This, and the last two novels on the list were apparently decided by what I was watching on Netflix, so never let anyone tell you sitting in front of the TV doesn’t motivate you to do things.

16. The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima by Henry Scott Stokes

Yukio Mushima’s actual life is more interesting than the plots of most books. If you don’t want to read a whole book about it, check out his Wikipedia page, and discover that you can use writing royalty cheques to fund a revolution/well-staged beheading by your second in command.

17. Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine

Always wanted to get around to it.

18. King Rat by James Clavell

Palette cleanser. Palette was well cleansed.

19. Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

This might be the first book I’ve read by Ellis that I’ve actually enjoyed as a novel, and less as a will-power test for horrific violence and opulence. Also, he wrote this one when he was an adult, and not as a 20-year-old rookie literary sensation, so I could read it without thinking, “this fucker is way better at writing novels at age 20 than I will be at like, 30.”

20. The Time of The Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa

Latin American literature seems to be an endless trove of epic novels, and this one was no exception. My only wish is that they all had discovered the fucking tab key.

21. Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer

I devoured this book, and it was everything the best non-fiction should and blah blah blah, other previous buzzwords, and rehashed praise.

Seriously though, it’s a masterpiece.

22. Perfidia by James Ellroy

I’ve loved James Ellroy since I was a teenager, and his latest is the beginning of a new cycle of historical fiction that I’ll happily buy and consume, while lamenting that his publisher refuses to make all the books in his new L.A. Quartet look good together on a shelf by insisting on making all the books a different size.

23. Let the Great World Spin by Column McCann

Meh. I felt like this book was an excessively long Hallmark movie.

24. Hitch 22 by Christopher Hitchens

The best part of this memoir was the feeling that Christopher Hitchens was telling me what to read. The worst part was looking up the books he told me to read, and realizing they all looked boring as shit.

25. Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell

Is it possible that every young male writer of the 1940’s wrote a book about being poor?

26. Another Country by James Baldwin

Reading this book was like listening to the best Miles Davis records one after the other.

27. Slouching Towards Nirvana by Charles Bukowski

Bukowski really stretched out on this one and wrote poems about fucking, writing and drinking. I loved it.

28. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Dr. Gabor Mate

A sobering read, and all the more timely in this wonderful modern age of opioid epidemics and facebook debates about safe injection sites. You could recommend it to those on your wall who strongly appose such things, as a way of enlightening them, but then you’d probably also need to teach them to read.

29. Submission by Michel Houellebecq

Bought it because when I picked it up, someone rang the bell at the front desk of the bookstore I was in. I enjoyed it, but I feel that breaking it down into something other than an essay length dissertation, is almost impossible.

30. The True Story of The Replacements by Bob Mehr

31. Bringing Out the Dead by Joe Connely

I read it because I couldn’t decide what I wanted to read, and it was at the top of the pile. It wasn’t bad, but you feel like you’re reading a workshop submission by someone who wants to talk about how hard and intense their job is for 300 pages.

32. The Lesser Bohemians by Eimear McBride

When someone takes prose and does something interesting with it, I’m totally onboard. This book was glorious.

33. No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

Read it to kill time on Christmas Eve. I finished it in a day, and all I could think was that the movie was basically a perfect adaptation that left nothing out whatsoever. McCarthy has better novels than this one.

34. Nausea by John Paul Sartre

I don’t know how existentialists finish novels at all. If you truly believe in what you’re writing about, wouldn’t you spend the whole time doubting yourself and feeling that every word you wrote was meaningless?

A wonderful, cheery holiday read about how nothing means anything, and we’re all non-important. Perked me up like a hot cup of cocoa.


Happy Holidays!

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Editing (A Rant in 70 Words)

Fuck editing.

If there is any part of the writing process that I absolutely detest, it is editing. If the act of writing is like driving a Porsche down a beachside highway on a perfect summer day, then editing is like changing out the brake lights.

Sure, if you don’t do it, you’ll wrap yourself around a tree in the middle of the night, but is it really any fun?

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Staring Contest

I’ve been having
a staring contest
with an empty pack
of Pall Mall Reds
for months now.

It’s been bounced around
in the wind
from the gutter
to the grass.

It greets me
in the morning
and I say good evening to it
at night.

Since we’re now
such close friends
I don’t have the heart
to pick it up
and throw it out.

it’s a very personable
pack of cigarettes
as it seems
nobody else has had the heart
to do it

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Dancing Ghosts

A border town jazz band
playing old favourites
for lovers dancing
with the ghosts
of their dead spouses.

A slow lament
for slow moving feet
and outside someone tosses
a ripped up photograph
into the dirt
because he caught
his ghost
dancing with another.

Heartache still hurts
50 years after the last

Someone asks,
“How come we never danced
when we were alive?”

and a reply:
“because now we have all the time
in the world
to learn the steps.”

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The Student Light in a Car is the Low Gas Light.

A whole day in a seat.
Without a cigarette.
Sober/a warm bar downtown and me outside in the rain/so alone/feeling nothing except the rain/aftermath of sleep/concrete digging into the weak spots of my neck/ sleeping off too much.
Ferry ride/a Beautiful November day/lots of thoughts/lots of things on my mind/ aimless and apathetic sometimes/just plain tired of others/but it was good to see friends/stayed sober too/Hey! Let’s travel/only 13 hours to go/looking gaunt/feeling trashed.
How to go broke: Drink foreign and domestic.
Thank god someone wanted to go for a cup of coffee, because there’s been no human interaction for a while. As always, I have been very inside my own thoughts. Old thoughts though? Or new?
I’ll have to ask my coffee date.


10,000 years from now, will our tweets be seen in the same light as meditations? As goals to strive for? Strange that he speaks of man being ash, and nothing standing the test of time, when I read his book in 2016, and he wrote it in 180 BC.
There is a severe lack of knowing the day/ I’m lost in time/lost in thought/lost in the days/lost in the lists/lost in the waiting/lost at night/lost.
Radio connection:
Listening to Elvis at 2 am. The sound cuts out. I tune into a radio station in Reykjavik. Elvis. Worlds away and yet still right here.
The Buddha of dissonance waiting at the door/cold in Victoria/razors for guts/eind bites lips like a wronged lover’s last kiss/lip chap/scarf/extra gloves/feeling comes back to the fingers/a meet and greet of worries: forgotten names, forgotten moves.
1 cigarette/ 2 cigarettes
Social anxiety front lines/a worry of fucking everything up/dust off those customer service skills.

A God Kneels For Once.

All of the beeps in this store sound like the heart rate monitor of a coma patient.
Nicotine head rush.
Bus ride/all full/ No lights/More leg room than on flights/transit.
Limping home/fresh slate/new goals/and my tail between my legs for Christmas Eve. A house as childproof as Dachau.
Burning servers of personal information/list of executions/a detailed list.
If the state is collapsing, then it wouldn’t be the state police doing it/military police/ ration cards/political lingo/a breeze/forceful/envelopes your body like a hug from a wolverine/pain/cold bites with jaws forged by Mother Nature’s viciousness/Mother Nature bites me/hard/cold and ethereal/her jaws of ice/her teeth javelins of hard packed snow.
Piano key notes on the high end.
An artist’s gathering discussing the new regime.
A cocktail party, people with fancy titles and degrees and trades that they don’t build factories for.
Marble steps warmed in the sun.
Allow me to sleep/a great day/barbershop eyes/floor sex diversions/a target of 20 poems/ historic week/a circle jerk with too many hands.
It seems everywhere I go these days, Desire by Dylan follows me around. One of those records that really chews its way into your timeline.
At a philosophers café in hell, those around the table laugh and laugh/the two black straws of a double gin cocktail/looking like barrels of a shotgun you stuff in your own mouth/the unfurling of banners upon the buildings of the old state/a list of the dead/a fresh group of corpses/creepy and weird, like brother and sister engagement photos.

Overheard: The soft-core algorithm.

Snow on the Palms

I thought I had left this all behind me provinces ago/that bite on my cheeks/that scalding on my fingers/my frail ankles/those of an octogenarian forced to lindy hop/ every cigarette an endurance test/every trip to the grocery store a miserable forced march.
Yet among the problems and the miseries there is a joy returned that I thought I packed up along with my prairie memories: that of snowflakes in my hair.
A cup of tea by the window/as I watch snow fall on palm trees and blanket downtown/a visual out of a 50’s movie where lovers cling tight while waiting for the bus.

Eating Light Bulbs For The Illumination

Interesting conversations with a French Canadian cab driver:
Public Radio
The Nostalgia of Quebec City
I’m trying to write positive poems. But something about air travel really fucks all that up.

Bought a fresh start for $7.09/ if only it was always that easy or that cheap to wipe the slate clean and get going all over again/an airport smoothie renewal/the kind that does nothing for your soul/nothing for the inner being/just fattens you up and gives you claims to a healthy minded falsehood/I should have stuck with a burger/full blown fatigue/cycling thoughts:
Up late. Too late. Panic and anger for breakfast. No way out discovered.


Journeys upriver/new directions/new values/yet, too much cold, dead, new wave music on the radio/Love vigilantes and Zen lunatics crowding the streets/banners of the new faith/the day after the revolution/words like a pilgrimage/travel/exploration/a decadent indulgence of the soul and the self.
The death inside flickers and glows again/like coming out of post-break-up misery/like seeing the end of your 20’s/putting the book on the shelf/and then making a cup of coffee and waiting for the sun to come up.
Please wait behind the blue line.
Observations of escape/follow the seasons/inhale/exhale/rebirth/life/rebirth/slow down/repeat/spring/summer/fall/winter/flip the record to Side 2/it is here that the difference emerges/different grooves/different songs/same format/same subjects/ within the same realm.
Yet different.

Left to Mentally Rot Among the Hissing of Espresso Machines

The baggage carousel/listening to New Order/perfect music for finally being off anti-depressants/cold and clean/sub-levels of emotion restored/yet, isolation is still present/isolated in the sound/within the headphones a drum machine for a heartbeat/ feelings muted and electronic/not lifeless though/as if everything has been turned back on and rebooted/a fresh slate to things/the murk and the fog pushed aside/drowning sound and a haze of noise replaced by a cold clear beat.
Finding exiles.
Among Anarchists
Changing of the Guards
Savage Detectives
Conflict Zones
Rock N’ Roll
Love Vigilantes and a Guest
A Journey Upriver
A poem on antiquated love
Strike your name from lips that no longer speak couplets or sonnets.
Reading helps/touching pages/letting the music someone else chooses soothe me/for I can’t seem to choose the music myself/cloudy days/cloudy thoughts/grey/deadened/ with a slight chill/Where is spring? Where is spring? Where is warmth? Bloom?


To cigarettes
To nobody
To dead poets
To misery
To my 3 AM existential crisis.
People. Look, people/try not to freak out, or rage out/or whatever it is you do when there’s people around/you’re already teetering/all it took was one racist cab driver who after 30 years of driving had no fucking ability to talk to passengers.
Fucking hell.
Empire Burlesque/troops in an overrun sector/pissed off that they were stuck in a sector with such a shit record/in combat.

I’m not able to write here/staring down a host of blank word documents like I’m in a Mexican standoff/but I’ve spent all my bullets in gunfights back in Victoria/hands hovering over the keys/but dipped in stone/the piano player trying to hammer out a sonata with broken fingers/for my safety I go outside and close my eyes and listen to the birds and the cars and all the other things that are just sound and image and not material/I’m not sure yet if I like this/If this is safety or stagnation/if I’m out of the woods or lost within them and sitting on a comfortable patch of grass/I like the sound of the birds though.
Ocean/Dried up Sewage run-off ditch.

Being a Writer is Like Being Punched in the Cock By God:
Painfully Enlightening.

Phantom limb/airport longue/whole body and soul rumpled and in need of a good ironing/feeling my phone twitch/a text from you/someone reaching out to this drowning man who flails in a sea of boarding announcements and baggage checks/but the phone screen is blank/a phantom text/a felt sensation from something removed.
I put my head in my hands/ Stevie Nicks comes around like she always does/all howling scarves and robes and puts her hands on my shoulder and says what she always says: “Did she makes you cry? Make you break down? Shatter your illusions of love?”
And I have to answer in the affirmative/as I toss out the waters of my heart like someone emptying out those black plastic flowerpots at the drug store.
She listens.
Sparrows drink from a water bowl for dogs/at the airport arrivals exterior smoke pit/ making of the best of being in the wrong place/I know how they feel/but I cannot fly without going back through security.
Landing in this hangnail of a province/one I keep picking at/causing pink blood to dot my cuticles/like hangnails, I can’t seem to ignore this province/like hangnails, it seems like a necessary evil/part of being human/part of the condition/part of the scheme/I haven’t found a way to band aid them, or it, or this yet.


Sonic Youth Washing machine/red carpet rain outside/a pack of crushed Lucky Strikes/courage to brave the outside/“He’s so vintage!” says someone at a Noodle Bar downtown/and I have no idea what that means.
Fuck this/I want something better/a hotel room with the girl three rows back and better destinations than the asshole of the world/there’s that word.


I seem to exclude me from any kind of action/exonerations from progress/never working on things until it’s too fucking late and you’re locked onto a path that you didn’t want.
To reiterate: fuck this.
Get me gone/get me off of this treadmill.
There I go: excusing myself from action all over again.
“Get me!”
He calls out his demands/even though he could reach/there’s a Dylan lyric about that.
This is me/extend your fucking grip/reach out/grab something for yourself/stop wanting/Stop hollering, “Get me!”
And start fucking getting.

“You Just Sit Around and Ask for Ashtrays, Why Can’t You Reach?”

To write a symphony on an airsickness bag.
This romance was doomed from the start/the crows circled before the carcass even hit the desert floor/I am in the ashes in the garden you keep on your balcony/snarling/my teeth gnash/both speakers blown/letters to still write/but no words/stalled on the mental turnpike with horns honking from behind/so I gnash my teeth to stubs/because my fingers won’t move/as my words die off in a traffic jam.
How? How do you write letters to someone you don’t know how to explain something to? Tough thoughts/all so very self serving/all admitting to faults that have a direct effect on their life/coming through like a tornado/wrecking things/and now I’m trying to write a check to pay for the damages/easier to write these thoughts to myself than to write that particular dispatch.
Ordering pizza again.
I have lost control again/lost/very lost/well, not really, but it feels that way/and if it feels that way, then it is that way.

Surviving Halifax/When Jesus Comes Back He Saves Everybody But You/
A Statement in Blood

The whole city twitching/like an overheated dog in the sun/panting oil slicks/drooling radiator steam/I’ve turned away from the typewriter/too concrete in its vision/too final for this discarded series of thoughts/soggy and discarded/like a cigarette butt in the urinal/the fire knocked out/the use over, and dropped into the wrong place no less/ Sunday/the streets rolled up early/everything and everyone taking the night off and leaving the roadways as deserted as my mind/sure, I am writing this, but it’s like trying to get a full glass of water out of a leaky faucet with a broken tap.

Foreplay With a Blank Ream of Paper

Once more/back at it/back to it/into the fray/plunging back into the darkness/a new voice/yes, that should be easy/weaponized middle class/weaponized thought/thinking/ a weaponized utterance/intent to destroy/a preferred target locked in/watching a 1- 0 baseball game for nine hours/checking supplies/seeking ways forward/again/this personal best hitting another roadblock/another setback/that I try desperately to meld into victory/victory/a poisonous word dangled in front of me/a poison/a prison of the unfinished/the path not taken/the path of the chosen covered in thorns that claw and bite/lost in this wilderness/familiar, yes, but still lost/like a back alley/an offset avenue filled with prowling junkies and dead ends/doors boarded up and stores tossed open/a vacancy of thought/this empty lot of feeling with the exit not obvious.
So I wander/I wonder/reflect/feel the walls and stand on the tops of the overflowing dumpster looking for cell service.
Somebody score a goddamn run.

Absolute Bottom and Despair in the Boarding Area of Flight 213

Ativan 1.
Ativan 2.
Ativan 3.
Nobody here is fuckable/but the coffee isn’t bad dad jokes overhead in euro accents and nasal spray clouds dusting the sitting area/white pants/everyone in fucking white/this goddamn city/this goddamn existence/this fucking red-light parade of misery/
Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
I am clenched with a rage. A location based rage.
Trapped in.
Bored in.
Fucked among the un-fuckable/but, “try to relax” or some such bullshit/I am trying to not end it all/and right now that’s a full time fucking job/Fuck, it’s hot/Fuck, it’s a loser prospect being here/Like a cell dead zone of a town.
Christ I want a cigarette.
Oh look/a proximity sexist, on top of everything/I now want to put this pen through my fucking eye/then bleed out all over him/while calmly explaining the negative connotations of his position.
Wrap your head around this.
I want to wrap my head around nothing.
Love by proxy
Sex by proxy
Food by proxy
Music by proxy
Sensation by proxy
What’s the point in living for yourself?

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