Dylan 1973

The Sun burnt an orange hole in a sepia sky.

The dust storm was blowing in.

Garrett shot The Kid dead.


Zimmerman tried to reinvent himself,

a tall indian hat, Alias?…Durango Mexico.

More often then not he was misunderstood, disappointed,

and turning to gospel music.


He was a goddamned legend,

yet these fucks never heard of him.


The jew from NY, turned outlaw.

photo by hungrybison

He found himself,

lamed by a motorcycle, cut up and

his work scattered.


Where the fuck was the money?

It was all bullshit.


When you’re in Durango,

There’s fucking nothing,

but the desire to get away,

from Durango.


He knew Morrison was right,

the West is the best.


So he dreamed of California.


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Filed under American West, art, creative writing, lonliness, micro stories, non fiction, original photography, original writing, photography, poem, short stories, Short stories and essays, writing

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