You Can Keep Your Nobel Prize
A poem for Bob Dylan
With words he builds a shadow form,
a silhouette imperfect and blindly born
from songs and strings strumming chords,
the poet is your Chupacabra.
He wails and croons his off-key tunes
in rhyme and whine he bends his spoons
around wind chimes breaking moons
he whispers abracadabra.
But the awards you give
are just decoration
for a world full of things,
not asking for recognition.
Is he a genius of chameleon fraud
or enigmatic fake like every god
festooned across such fading facades,
a black hole to put your faith in.
To pull the puzzle apart
you sometimes have to break your heart
and find inside the dying art
of loving the sinner and the sin.
But these awards we give
are bleak manifestations
of substance we wish lived
outside our imagination.
From up high, inside your ivory tower
you judge and shame, the peasants cower,
in light or dark, words have power
to hurt or heal the masses.
What is art, what is poetry?
you ask the free to imprison the free,
while thieves of skin soliloquy
howling wolves in human faces.
Worship this, worship that, the flock says
art is best kept inside these boxes
of what we name and and sell like rocks, sis
to drowning men in love with races.
So the awards are ours
and our celebrations
of how smart and so refined
this art of self-congratulation is.
It’s alright, we’re all just singing.