Hey Bob Dylan
That I may with all do discretion, make my own slight confession
It was Tennessee in mid-July just because Johnny Cash said so
Whiskey, Johnson City and the right direction to Cumberland Gap
Not to stray, but by-the-way, let me be the first to officially fix that
That is to say, the trucker got high and was going the wrong way
Blunder on the mountain, no peace in the valley, no love tomorrow
Milk white headlights highway grey, a penny whistle costs a dollar
Today, reflections, the replacements and everything that can last
Bleeding tears, moonlight, angels and fools, rusty Silvertoned note
Years stripped blue tangled contemplations of broken tambourines
Like slowly yellowing surplus Sears mannequins, forgetting today
Trading tomorrow to make a deal, wanting to feel, smile and steal
Forever and back, song of the poet, lamplight gutter glow, so slow
Seeming, but actually fleeting, trying to stay out of that coming rain
Stoned with the vandals, clowns in the alley, sunshine, sidewalks
Darkside shadow, in the shade seeking shelter, the coming storms
A pot of Earl Grey, a lemon and a lump, because I like it that way
Somehow it's always been forever all along from the start to stay
Only coffee or tea wondering when I leave where to bury my heart
Nashville skyline, under the hill, New Orleans, neon sublime hue
It's always the same waitress, a love affair, just to see her hair fall
Free, the changes, the waitress, the librarian, the painter, the muse
The D.A., public domain, the universal mind, never really different
That same picture of the same photograph, what we find in others
Your Tempest, my ghost, that lost laughing lady, long ago, her love
Getting away from ourselves, locked away easily hurt, burnt fingers
I just can't make myself care that you don't care anymore, no fault
It just ain't me either babe, I think thinking twice is real nice, sure
But it's still alright, lights out, traveling on, my wasted time, toy guns
Precious like Van Gogh's tripping on all the yellow, safe and warm
I still have dreams too, she smiles through a fence at me, revisited
Every time that whistle blows though man, yeah you got that right
William S. Tribell is a interdisciplinary artist, or something like that. A musician, sometimes an actor, a Pulitzer nominated poet and so many other distractions. He has contributed to journals and magazines around the world and written some books. A cautionary tale, an overstimulated ne’er-do-well starving artist type with erratic sleep patterns, a penchant for travel and selfish over-indulgence, William blames most of his character flaws on not receiving enough hugs as a child. He thinks sushi is great, his favorite color is green and Koala bears freak him out. He lives in Nashville.
"These days I write about causality, situation, love, loss and life adrift."
@WSTribell
