Hey Bob Dylan … It’s 12:34 AM and I’m Calling You Out.


So … where to start, eh? What about Mark Messier?
He won Lord Stanley’s Cup up in Vancouver.

Well, Him and Richter, who had Lady Liberty
emblazoned on his once white hockey helmet.

That was back in ’94, so I can’t be sure
but I think Jim Carey, Goalie, #30

had a brick wall on his in 1993.
Wrong. So? Try saying that to the new school fans.

They’ll cluck their tongues and act the way Seth MacFarland
knows you want him to act – you know … like Brian.

Or is it Chris? Either one is the wrong set, folks.
Do you even fucking know what that means? Huh?

Because I do. Or rather, I think that I do.
I think therefore I am. You know … I Am? I?

I is an illusion. It’s like Rimbaud once said,
“I is someone else.” Bob Dylan is nodding

somewhere, or at least he would be if he read this.
But he doesn’t. And it’s getting annoying.

For a folk singer of his height … what, like 5-3?
to turn down a painting from me and my blond

lady friend is downright dick-movey. Or I-E.
If you prefer. It all means the same thing Bob.

You’re a wealthy, sharp dressed man. I’m a goddamned slob.
So? There’s dirt under your fingernails too, sir.

I know because I saw it in Montgomery
when she and I offered you some scenery

to hang on your wall. An old Hank Williams painting
that I randomly bought on the way up there.

“Whoah,” said Keanu Reeves … as Ted …and dead Neo…
Wait, what does that even mean? Do you think it’s…

Could it be love? Should I change my name to Jessie
Or would George Harrison suffice? Wait, what? Huh?

You don’t get that part either? Is your gray matter
that broken down and bruised? Whoah … deja vu.

Does she remind you of Sara or Joan? Echo?
I have my version of Beatrice too, Bob.

She lives on the east coast. Haven’t I paid my dues?
Can I be your bus driver? Help me help you.

They’re just words, right? That’s what you said once … DIDN’T YOUUUUU?
Then I hope you know sir that I’m just … KIDDING YOUUUUU!

Hopefully one day we’ll share a laugh, two or ten.
You, sitting there with Meghan. Me with Blue Sue

around a fire, a typewriter, in traffic
on a bus or in a plane, it’s only her.

She’s not real. She’s the idea of being better.
She’s the color in a gray world. She is hope

and I think that is what God is supposed to be.
LOL or OMG? Or a black hole?

Depends on if you have ears to hear. Eyes to see.
But I find her to be quite funny. Yes. Her.

My God is a woman and she is very real.
Ironically, so is her male counterpart.

Because to me, and this is just my opinion
(along with that of many, many writers

most of whom were and are better poets than me
and people like you, Bob.) God is love. It’s true.

Maybe. Or maybe not. Go back to Jim Carey.
I’m talking about the comedian … Jim.

The Canuck, you know? The one who puts on a show?
Not the G. The one who played Kaufman, Andy.

Moon river? Not on the 17th day of May.
But on the 18th day, take her to the beach.

Or don’t, man. Quite frankly Mr. Bob, I don’t mind.
There’s not another one anywhere like mine.

Her eyes shine like crazy diamonds over the sea
And without having known her, there’d be no me.

It’s the same way with you, Bob. I love your music.
Today I met a taxi driver named Woodie.

Wait, there it is again. What’s that, Jodie Foster?
No sir. I mean you no harm … but Meghan here?

She’s the one who introduced me to Tombstone Blues.
She’s in love with the sixties version of you.


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