Don't ever die, Bob Dylan- while your hoarse voice travels the highway, my ears eat roadside gravel and spit out the pieces I no longer understand. One day, your prophecies will fail to transmit a signal, no matter how frantically I twist the dial. Already we see less of you: your iconic hat, and Sara, Mr Jones, and the rest of the party of vagabonds, travelers from nowhere headed towards an important place. I listen for the stories, but you have long since grown weary of telling them. If anything, the world has grown worse, but no one sings the way you do, like a staple gun gone amok, pinning everything to the wall. I watch the corners for signs of transformation. Perhaps it will come next year, or a decade from now. Is there anything left for you to say, or someone with the same message, who can take over when you finally disappear? The volunteer hangman steps onto the platform vows to detonate the entire bundle and start from the beginning as if nothing happened. There isn't much you or anyone can do. Meanwhile, I sing to forget death, and the fear of love in the face of it. Your voice spits rain in my ears, hard and gentle. I fall asleep with my brain full of words, and the darkness comes down like an avenging god.