The Basement Tapes
I’m in the basement with Dylan
creaking out of the stereo
wizened voice
tossing fantastic harsh visions
illusions half mumbled pictures
spin tumble rattle the thin speaker membrane
scratch at the back of the throat
the back of the brain left side right side
pushing to a realization
that if he can
anyone can
the voice so plain
the words so jumbled
is there a meaning
no pretty harmony to hook on to
no lulling chorus to toe-tap
no bridge from one flash to the next
just the tumble rumble of words images
sights sounds to long for
to take me out of this basement
into a fluid flexing world
of Bobby notes croak under missing moons
on angry street corners
refusing to smile for the pretty girls
refusing to bend for the witty men
giving each some quick name
master of whores blaster of boots
so far from the safety of this room
mild haired boys stroking guitars
black cat girls swinging hips
inhaling looking me in the eye
is there something behind
the gates of their smoke screen
not caught in their net stocking
they finding me baited for a different catch
the needle hisses from one cut to the next
track after track a verbal attack
howling about a life I’ll never live
farms motor cycles
ironed hair millionaires
giving chase to to rumors of more
the highway up the stairs
past Ed Sullivan TV
into the summer street
trapped and tickled
with no way of getting from here to there
no hitch hiking get away
only the chance to get these early hints
of Ginsburg Thomas Whitman
filtered by this cranky harmonica player
caught like me
outside the gates of Eden
This month I am looking at some of the pieces I may be reading as part of Born To Be Blown. Bob Dylan is a suitable follow up to my Robert Johnson post last week. Early in his career he made use of those tradition blues forms then when he plugged in his career went crazy. ‘Outside’ was written for a tribute night – this one for, of all people, Bob Dylan.
I can’t say I was big fan but his language certainly inspired me – I later discovered what an influence Walt Whitman, Alan Ginsberg (two queers) & Dylan Thomas had been on Bob – but as a teen I found his lyrics as stunning flow of images and emotions.
He seemed so anti everything – later I find out that he was, thanks partly to Blowin’ In The Wind, a multi-millionaire. The rich rebel. I also remember the single of Like a Rolling Stone – such a long long song with the even longer Gates Of Eden on the flip side.
I’d listen to him in my basement – drinking with friends and soaking up the coffee house vibe & longing for what he represented. So this piece is pretty true my actual memories. No attempt has been made to capture his writing style but more to capture how I felt as a gay teen outside the gates of heterosexual Eden. No one I knew ever thought he was a good singer but man, even if you don’t know what he says, he could write.
June 9-10 – attending – Capturing Fire – Washington DC
now that’s a gate
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red head anyone
