Date: Wed, 15 Nov 1995 14:48:00 EST From: Patricia Jungwirth Subject: Poetry Reading a new Robert Adamson poem with a Dylan reference, reminded me of some others I'd read. Here they are: "I light the fire and wait for my life's details To dry out - buckled paperbacks, The sleeve of an early Dylan record (Young jew-angel's face, cowboy mystery, Holding his guitar's neck like a flowering tree) A man could die waiting between these hills. One day, too late for insects, bleak with peace, After a month of my turning stones by the moon, The hills will hear the brash harmonica And send a patly scored reply in gusts. And in that instant as the axis tilts Someone will cross the sags, his clothes blown dry." --from "High Country - The Hut" by Tim Thorne "Just the Two of Us" Octopus in hot sauce, games of canasta, camembert and bread, Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid, three bottles of cider, rain and wind outside, a hot bath, an uncertain fuck, then we sleep and I dream I am in a mental hospital with Bob Dylan, and everybody, except me, is forced to sleep four to a bed. --Kate Jennings "After Brett Whiteley" We're on this looping road, it's narrow and the car's fast and expensive, too fast considering we've downed a few. There's a woman singing Bob Dylan very well, too well as the line about what you want cuts through the climate control mixing the smell of jonquils with hot bodies. Things are looking dangerous. Then suddenly the waters are before us, the surface a black raw silk all ironed out and drifting through a fishy light. We are still in the car and quibbling, as a wild duck makes an evanescent wake across a phosphorous tide. The woman turns to Brett and says 'Is this decadence?' No man, he mutters, just reflected glory up shit-creek. -- Robert Adamson