::11:12:07::

::: Bob Dylan's Children :::

Oh he said that he would meet at six at the Dorset Inn I would wear a black trench coat and a white leather belt and he would carry a purple stack of cards, all aces he claims, he always claims that he's an ace in the hole.  But where is yesterday?  When I mean yesterday I mean the 60's it open and shut with the smugness of square glasses and then a rifle and a bullet and now the bars of ideology blue rimmed eyes ideals having something to say-that used to mean something now we are afraid Al Gore can't be President but he can win the Nobel No-it seems that we are caught in computers-their tangled web of wires and activism is a thing of the past and TV shows are more important.  Our war is an attack our war is for the big DEM and hauling ourselves into cities with grander and then grander corporations and silver cities and black fenders and the lava texture of oil and dancers and dorados and things, you know it wasn't until Mary Hart's voice on E! sent an epileptic into seizure shock that I thought that this country had cracked but that was the warning bell the boo hoo P. Diddy syndrome of I'm too much money, somebody help me, I can't say that I wasn't seduced by the idea of bling-bling falling over backwards over the idea that we are all meant to be in a store with a price tag kind of thing. 

In Minnesota, there lives a young boy whose dream is to die in a great war and whose parents bought him a gun and he will grow up and shoot it-he will shoot it big and far in the Middle East in countries the size of Texas and he will hate anyone who has sent him and he will forget that the sun once felt warm against his back in the Midwestern town's dust and that sometimes his back made a cracking noise when he rode his bike. 

Written by: ~ Brennan Fitzgerald