Member Poem

Don't ever die, Bob Dylan-
while your hoarse voice travels
the highway, my ears
eat roadside gravel
and spit out the pieces
I no longer understand.

One day, your prophecies will
fail to transmit a signal,
no matter how frantically
I twist the dial.

Already we see less of you:

your iconic hat, and Sara,
Mr Jones, and the rest of the party
of vagabonds, travelers from nowhere

headed towards an important place.
I listen for the stories, but
you have long since
grown weary of telling them.

If anything, the world
has grown worse, but no one sings
the way you do, like a staple gun
gone amok, pinning everything
to the wall. I watch
the corners for signs of transformation.
Perhaps it will come
next year, or a decade from now.

Is there anything left
for you to say, or someone
with the same message, who
can take over when you
finally disappear?

The volunteer hangman
steps onto the platform
vows to detonate the entire bundle
and start from the beginning
as if nothing happened.
There isn't much you
or anyone can do.

Meanwhile, I sing to forget
death, and the fear of love
in the face of it. Your voice
spits rain in my ears, hard
and gentle. I fall asleep
with my brain full of words,
and the darkness comes down
like an avenging god.