But then there was your genius
song after song of poetry
and harmony
and lyricism
and beauty
but somewhere you sold your soul
to the devil for plenty of greenbacks
though your great songs kept coming
No more young and goggled
cigarette dangling from the very edge of your lips
jacketed and girlish
the rebel loved by older women
riding your Harley Davidson
you sought refuge in religions
but something seemed gone from your muse

Looking back, what remains
are your words
your Testament
and a pose
I learned from you
to let no one know who
you really are
Remain an enigma
a mystery
and private
and let others say
whatever they want about you
let them make you larger than life
or vilify you
and as your shadow grew
consequently you grew smaller
with only your songs and words
to keep you alive forever
and your dylan.com ‘industry.’

Jokerman, I wonder
who you served, anyway?
It wasn’t God or the Devil
but just your own graven image & Mammon
but your words betrayed you
and spoke of something deeper
carried the light bulb you had kept down

Despite everything I can’t stop reading
or listening to your songs
You were a medium chosen
for greatness
and what can one do about it
except to acknowledge that
and marvel at your ability
to channel some kind of immortal poetic soul
to the lesser mortals around you
in such a way that no one
can contest your supremacy;
can only rival you, if at all.