Follow Me, The Wise Man Said, But

I Am Running Through A Snowfall Which Is Her Thighs, He Dramatized In Purple. Her Thighs Are Filling Up The Street. Wide As A Snowfall, Heavy As Huge Falling Zeppelins, Her Damp Thighs Are Settling On The Sharp Roofs And Wooden Balconies. Weather-vanes Press The Shape Of Roosters And Sail-boats Into The Skin. The Faces Of Famous Statues Are Preserved Like Intaglios.

In Montreal Spring Is Like An Autopsy. Everyone Wants To See The Inside Of The Frozen Mammoth. Girls Rip Off Their Sleeves And The Flesh Is Sweet And White, Like Wood Under Green Bark. From The Streets A Sexual Manifesto Rises Like An Inflating Tire, “the Winter Has Not Killed Us Again!

Probably All Cultures, Certainly Western Culture, Always Have Been Violent.

I Won't Comment On What Bob Dylan Said, But I Will Comment On His Receiving The Nobel Prize, Which To Me Is Like Pinning A Medal On Mount Everest For Being The Highest Mountain.

His Vision Was Just Outstanding. If You Think Of Him In The Same Way As Pele Then You Would Come Close.