ode to bobby dylan

the words the words the words are only a part, a small part, an infinitesimal part, transfixed by the slow smile, the blue, blue, bluest of eyes and the warm chords and sad sounds emitted from the guitar that wants to be a man and the man that wants to be a guitar, how does it feel to be selfish and in love? how does it feel to be at the top of your game to know that it is all a steady rolling stone down the hill to the end, ending waking, walking burning with fire inside? you were my first love, my first world, my first peek at myself.
how does it feel to be out, hung loose for the world to see, needing no one, but the fire within and the feelings that turned themselves into a universe inside you? from you i learned how to be a woman, alone, in the water, tangled up in you, in the darkness, and organ falling in cascades of oceans of rivers of faucets that drip in lonely one-bedroom apartments in greenwich village and the people that took you for a ride, did you feel it, did it take you where you wanted it to go?
the words fall away in aharmonic soliliquies of pain and solace wrapped up in one. it is always the music, the music, the music whirling around inside of you, inside of me, inside our collective head, a century, condensed down into one pure moment. i have a dream and it is the same dream of the masses of the millions of every single one that breathes with you in their head, a word, a word, it closes slowly, the type-writer clacks away, the pain in your back slackens, for a moment, with a motorcycle between your thighs, my eyes, will see you forever, since the first awakening, of my mind, which is just a part, infinitesimally small, eternally slipping insignificant, like yourself, in a dream, before you.