There’s the violet spotlights and the course clothe with the spindled ideograms. There’s a man playing harmonica. Just a man. I want to see ghosts of passionate dancers and fragile ideals sworn before my eyes. I want a glimpse of the fading vision crystallized for once in my presence, hoping with my close proximity, I could see poetry shape politics, my absent faith, my ambivalent sense of music and purpose. He says those infamous, foreboding words, like “Times they are a-changin.'” I remember the temptations of yester-year. ALL I think in response is they’ve changed and stilled and his yesterday is not even a memory to a child born after its time. There is disconnection and a faded grey man of 60 some years primed and tested. He sings in slurred syllables and guttural punctuations like a drunken prophet. How Indian country was taken over by the English Americans.

His name is Bob Dylan. Now he is an artist currently sponsored by columbia records, posing as a forgotten legacy we were all too busy idolizing and commodifying to listen to.