Bob Dylan.

A mystic creature.
Punching out holes in norms.
Eating the questions then vomiting them back up.
Leaving them worn.
Poet minded.
Speaking the real.
And creating anything kicking till it’s sore.




Garrett Johnson.

A complete unknown.

There it goes again.
Dripping.
Sticking to the walls.
The halls floating with tranquility flowing down.
Silver us.
Silver them.
No good.
Trying.
To be anything that isn’t.
Holding worn ***** boots.
Still.
Holding smoke.
Fingers woven.
Never mind.
It’s too late.



Garrett Johnson.