Distance throws points pointing to the Subject [of Yellow Feathers].
Lost in the sun—a rogue magician feeds finches from a torn sleeve.
This is where the owl lives at night with baby bats after the crickets and tree frogs’ duet plummets.
In the woods, there are no hands to flutter moonbeams.
In summer sunlight, trees arching under cyan blue are liquid stained-glass.
During late-afternoon brutal heat, the weeping willows drink the pond’s moss surface.
Just out of school for summer, impatient children try to catch tadpoles in butterfly nets.
Camouflaged in the oak’s wishbone trunk, the egret waits for the fish that are thirsty for air to catch the exterior like words.
Scientists claim that without a human cerebral cortex, fish can’t cry, but poets knows that their tears fill the oceans.
Yellow snapdragons are wilting in the garden because we’ve forgotten.
Buddha’s terracotta bowed chin and left ear are eternally injured by winter because we can’t find the proper glue.
The Knight’s Suitcase of Watches drowns his Doppelganger backwards.
Many times the dying want to let go.
If the debacle had been planned properly, we could still do lunch.
There should be a word for someone who blows up consecutive bridges with one damp match.
Fire can be satisfying like a fact.
When you’re looking in the wrong places, it’s time to stop looking.
Compulsive white lying can alleviate boredom [not to mention major hassles], preempt further questioning, and hone the art of fabrication.
The recently-widowed old man counts his money in the freezer.
Someone who might be me watches him through binoculars.
This time, it’s best for all subjected parties to become fluent in silence.
No one else needs to review your emotional scorecard.
No one fathoms the song I bleed when I relinquish windows.
Really nice as usual!
thank you so much, Gordon! I’m particularly fond of this one but maybe it’s just like having a new dress! I do think this will stay a favorite one, but time will tell. Thanks for reading me.
Ain’t it just like the night
To play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet?
We’re sit here stranded
Though we’re all doing our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain
Tempting you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room, the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover, so entwined
And these visions of Johanna
That conquer my mind
In the empty lot where the ladies play
Blind man’s bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls
They whisper of escapades out on the D Train
We can hear the night-watch man click his flashlight
Ask himself if it’s him or them that’s insane
Louise, she’s alright, she’s just near
She’s delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all to concise and too clear
That Johanna’s not here
The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna
Have now taken my place
Now, little boy lost
He takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery
He likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He’s sure got a lot of gall
To be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall
While I’m in the hall
Oh, how can I explain it’s so hard to get on?
And these visions of Johanna
They’ve kept me up past the dawn
Inside the museums
Infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo, “This is what
Salvation must be like after a while”
But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say
“Jeez, I can’t find my knees”
Both jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna
They make it all seem so cruel
The peddler now speaks
To the countess who’s pretending to care for him
Saying, “Name me someone that’s not a parasite
And I’ll go out and say a prayer for him”
But like Louise always says
“You can’t look at much, can you man?”
As she herself prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes, “Everything’s been returned which was owed”
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna
Are now all that remain
Songwriters: Bob Dylan, Dylan Bob
For non-commercial use only.