Bob Dylan at Princeton, November 2000

by Paul Muldoon


We cluster at one end, one end of Dillon Gym.
"You know what, honey? We call that a Homonym."


We cluster at one end, one end of Dillon Gym.
"If it's fruit you're after, you go out on a limb."


That last time in Princeton, that ornery degree,
those seventeen-year locusts hanging off the tress.


That last time in Princeton, that ornery degree,
his absolute refusal to bend the knee.


His last time Princeton, he wouldn't wear a hood.
Now he's dressed up as some sort of cowboy dude.


His last time Princeton, he wouldn't wear a hood.
"You know what, honey? We call that disquietude.


It's that self-same impulse that has him rearrange
both 'The Times They Are A-Changin'' and 'Things Have Changed'


so that everything seems to fall within his range
as the locusts lock in on grain silo and grange."

The White Man

The White Man-
The White Man-
Jesus was White,
says the White Man.
livin' in
a colored man's world!
Not now, says the White Man-
now, it's White Man's world!
Oh!
I hope He comes soon!
He'll like it
So!
So much more
than before-
says the White Man.

Some Fertilizer, Please.

"I need some fertilizer, please,
to spray on my world. But I
can't find any anywhere."

"Everyone else just uses
generic worlds," she said.
"Don't you just want to

pick a plan? We have plenty,
and they're practically painless,
at least for now." I walked out,

depressed. She shrugged, and,
slightly confounded, returned to
help a more cognizant customer.

Ellie

my friend Ellie-
you should meet her-
the only soul I've ever known
to wear a dress that looked just like a flower
with shoes she bought from a hurricane
and if you meet her, you'll know what I mean
she could barter with a hurricane.

the key to everything

the key to everything
has long been misplaced, but
we didn't know how


to use it anyway.
the intellectuals insult humanity
on the subject,


but that is just
part of being an intellectual.
everyone knows


they were the ones
who lost it so many years
ago. the amount of


years has always,
curiously enough, been unclear. I
was just reminded


today because it
was so abnormally hot and humid,
and I thought that if


we still had the
key, we could address the issues.
then I remembered


which is why I'm
not an intellectual, that we couldn't
use it anyway.


So I just went on with
my day, absentminded and quite pleased
to simply be able to.

I thought of You

It was Wednesday in the summer
when my mind flew to you
.
The outdoors were like an oven
and they were missing you
.
I worked all day and thought about much
like how the woods, too, were likely missing you
.
I remembered the wise men and women, once we knew
and how, likely, they were still admiring you
.
I remember in the museums, the canvases full of colors
I quietly, abashedly tried to compare to you
.
In attempts for drama we regrettably tell not the truth
for it was not until tonight that truly I thought of you
.
Looking into the mirror, a blemish I squeezed
and unintentionally, thought of you
.
Complimentary, nonetheless, for with the slightest pressure
you would always come through.

River Rhyme II

by W.C. William


Shine miraculous
mottled river
dancing flames
patches black with
doom.  We shall
never see what our
love portends
never its flower
in bloom.

wide awake

I'm wide awake and its morning

but really its night

I can tell by the stars

and the lack of light

and the clouds, milky and glowing

and faintly bright

I would probably rather be sleeping

but there is something...

perhaps the peace of the night

so unlike the day

that makes it always alright.

music

music - I love

all kinds of music

music - especially - that makes you think

and music, makes your hips down sink

and makes your heart sink

music of praise

of this or that

music that lasts hard for days

and then never again

I love it too,

just for those days

I love music with color

I've learned

you've got to be real colorful

to be white and colorful

music with soul, history, sharp sharp teeth

music to bite you,

at your knees

how I love that music

music that lies

just to tell you the truth

music with love too

real love

love like a question?

real music, strange music too

science music, word music, wind music too

cloud, dream, and cold cold cold music

music for money,

now that's not my thing

that's a disgrace to sing

I like music for murder

for mystery

for the mind

for the me

in its meaning

music for slaves

for kings unseen

for love and hate

simultaneously

I love music, real music

mostly any kind

music rare, made for and from

the hungry mind

music beyond time

music for the fine mind

pretty guitar sounds

pretty guitar sounds

holy brothers - restless souls

life as always, on this earth

our only, lonely earth

holy sisters - vibrant souls

sometimes you wake, thinking differently

not like the jar, echoing, on our earth

the mountains, reaching past sometimes

the birds - with the liveliest wings - sometimes too

you wonder, your body and your thoughts

and this earth

and your fellow walkers

there is no blame

our eyes given, so open, early to late

not enough to reach

like inside a portrait, out of reach

like the ocean, never silent

just to die someday

all to die someday

you will die, some day

with your questions best answered wordlessly sometimes

by pretty guitar sounds

holy brothers and sisters, laughter bound?

one mornin

woke up one mornin

an wished I didn't

....................felt like my head

....................was still a spinnin

an I went back to sleep.

woke up again

after nearly a week

....................an my head felt thin

like I didn't even know

....................where to begin

all I knew then

....................I'd drink that licker

....................never again

an I went back to sleep.

presently

a bottomless grave of foolish tears

varying colors of the same enslaving bells

we indulge, eating our very fears

living disillusioned in individual hells

wearing costumes, adorned with the black kiss

dulling, ignoring the servants' thorns

forsaken bliss

while the forgotten ring their warning horns

the sickness is the lure

we watch ourselves bleed

there is no cure

there is no need

darkness' mistress, this doleful theory

we are young and silver, but already weary