This piece was written around 1968. I'd been turned on to Dylan when a friend heard some of my guitar playing. Mostly country, and without much of a voice, I guess he thought Dylan would be a good match for me! I copied the 3 or 4 albums he had onto a reel-to-reel tape, and proceeded to listen to them endlessly. Everyso often a line or phrase would jump out - and I was blown away. And hooked for life.

Conceived in sin or so they say, like all the rest I wandered, on in helplessness believing everything and questioning absolutely nothing. Walking down their railroad track, I never once dared look back, and upon meeting incongruity face to face I asked someone to clear the way and was told, it was only my imagination and should just keep walking. Growing like a backyard weed which never knew its parent seed was dropped there by a passing bird they preached their word and I believed that I was something special. I tried so hard to do my best and made myself like all the rest but somehow even that great effort was not enough sacrifice, and so I paid the price of being labeled failure. Definitions to me were God and I believed in every one that was handed to me on a super-alloy plate, disguised commercially by TV’s testimonies and advertising heroes, to hide the mind-destroying poison it was really made of. They said that I should go to school and study hard to learn their rules and learn to never be a fool, and more to never do that which would cause the ever-present deity society to cast a frown upon my deeds and give it reason not to grant me its favor.

A faithful slave I paid my offering of individuality upon the alter erected with great stones which were really fake and hid the bones of all those who had fallen long before me, upon which was placed a plaque with instructions inscribed thereon to be humble and bow low before the magnitude of all those fallen heroes. Perceptions howling hurricane was blowing wild outside my perfect shell so complete and impenetrable I thought the noises heard were coming from a summer breeze, predicting something pleasant and which led me to work harder with instructions written backwards on the scorecard of a game which had no winners. As happy as junk-yard rat I climbed and clambered over rusted bits of this and that, pieces of the evidence of the lies and phony reasoning, covered with pretty labels not yet faded by the weather, and having been too well schooled my blindness was too complete to see this. But more terrifyingly I never stopped to realize that there was a reason for which I'd been given eyes.

And then one day there came the awful sound of Reality grinding to the ground the fleshy lies and phony fronts the screeching sound of delicate structures falling down, ripped and torn apart, all carried on your voice and in your words which spouted from your mind, a fountain of gargoyle-creatures running out across the ground upon which the fools so long had stood and thought was so very well defined and defended. At first the bomb-like sun which lit the skies was not sufficient to penetrate my eyes so carefully wrapped up in a shroud, and I could only scream mommy mommy what is happening? And she poor fool like all the rest could only speak in terms of uselessness, and told me not to worry but to go and get a job and not to waste my time upon thinking about things which have already been thought out for me. But every night I went to bed prepossessed by what you'd said and upon awakening went out to try and find someone to talk about the painful visions sneaking through my head, but no one else would understand exactly what it was I was speaking of or else they mumbled something about not liking your sound and I was left to wonder just how much truth they'd really found without the pain of knowing. Inside my head a private war was waged your ragged words were smashing at the cage created by my teachers golden rule, the prefab thoughts were dying at the sword of questions like Why and How while I was left to try and live amongst the wreckage.

Plus and Minus stood on trial for crimes committed to the race by means of their existence, defended by the abstract scenes composed of themes which had their roots inside the words you sang standing absolutely naked before a million unseeing eyes, your secret safer there than locked within your head to drive you mad. And looking up at you they saw something which they'd never seen before and wanting desperately to understand, desperately for your hand to lead them safely through the blackness just because they want it so, just because you know the way, just for free, just for nothing. Your words went out across the night like little birds on secret flights, flying hard across the dangerous desert, flying long and looking worriedly about, searching for a place to land but finding none they flew on and on towards the inevitable end where only useless death awaited.

The eagle soars in freedoms dreams unrestricted by human means and there can be no motive for his imprisonment but that we were not born with wings. And when he escapes our bonds we shoot him dead saying if you won't accept what we give you shall have nothing when in the end, it is we who end up with less than nothing.

The people stood around and stared and marveled at how you dared to step out and up and paint the pictures that you did. They bowed in awe and paid the price to watch you stand in self-sacrifice then ran home to tell how brave you were, never guessing that you were no braver than anyone, never guessing at the fight you fought with Wrong and Right, of having placed a price on something which while on one hand has none, equally on the other has none high enough. They paid the price it's true then just like always switched the rules and said that it was you they'd bought instead and stuck you in a hole so neatly carved and form-fitted. Then rather than admit they'd made a hole that didn't fit upon seeing you walk away without giving them a single part to say, to simply save their face they slapped their blame upon your name and called you traitor.

Much like a lover who upon opening a door and finding his woman gone screams the bitch was no good anyway the zero-minds attempted to use you to elevate themselves by saying you said nothing and in the end I guess that they were right for as always they were speaking in terms of themselves and to talk to them of that which stared them in the face by nature of their blindness would be to speak of nothing. Contradiction standing everywhere I almost died from disbelief at what was falling on my eyes still tender from the safety of the darkened skies of unawareness. Time went, by my eyes grew tough and gazed out across the phoniness with hatred, desperation, and sorrow, always wondering about tomorrow and should it come I searched around to find the strength to stand unarmed and watch it used for nothing but to generate more nothing. I saw others stand before a pit about to step of off into it and wanted only a chance to whisper simply turn around and maybe give a glance the other way but they would not hear me because their solid belief that I was wrong was just as strong as mine that I was right, the only excuse they needed to go ahead and step off and be swallowed.

I've rode your bus I've flown your plane there's little left that's still the same but now I wonder if I should thank you or I should hate you. A sad fact of life is learned again, that when one desires to learn firsthand about the rain and whether it is falling down one must by necessity get his head wet. Plus and Minus stand innocent of shame, the me that used to be and all those alike must bear the blame of having rearranged reality to fit the hand for which we chose to use it for a glove. You shout aloud you've said nothing and you've done nothing but I fear you've only stated half the story. By your standards you may be right but of those who live outside your skull the path you've laid extends way out beyond my life. Perhaps compared to the fantastic thoughts which remain, raging in your tortured brain you've hardly spoke a word but this is not my fault and I can only speak of it as one would speak of time. The afterbirth still not completly washed from me I strangely feel the need to shake your hand, to tip my hat and say thanks my friend at least one bird has found his end, but confusion fills my bloated mind for by your very words I'm not sure if you exist. But since one must hold onto something tangible I'm sure you're more than just a shell and so should I choose to say thanks for the scenes I've seen don't you dare jump up screaming from your chair and shout that it was not your hand which threw out the beans from which I grew my private bean-stalk! Jack the Gentle Giant killer stalked the land alone and brave and never knew from where it came, the blow that placed him in his grave but at least you've heard the first swings' swish you've heard the noisy first near-miss, and often times the teacher turns into a student. While pausing for a second thought there comes a tapping at my door and I tip it open to find you standing there speaking with the future clothed in rags and pointing to himself unrolled out to the horizon before us. How long can this continue, you ask, and what will it accomplish and exactly why must it be done in the first place? Why must I be a willing slave, you cry, to that which I despise, begging alms and giving diamonds in return? The answer never comes because the door then slams shut and you are left there standing, strumming on your guitar softly humming the same old tune that brought you where you are.