A long channel of breath, Ginsberg
called him, the old stroked-out poet
with half-shut eyes and stiff lips
limning an image of the lean
smokestack balanced like a column
of air at the microphone,
momentarily stable,
transpiring his songs. Later,
never the same twice, electrified,
Dylan winking, jolting, twitching
and bouncing at the piano
to taunt the audience—those who
sat quietly enough to listen
among the refrain of boos and jeers
yelling “Traitor!” and “Go home!”
over the snap of energy
that incensed their sense of what was right—
to hear how, the peaceful column of air
now dispelled in the nasal yawps,
the teasing shouts and suitor’s wry
sly grins, the head held back,
the blue eyes fixed high
above the blank void of crowd,
mouth stretched uneasily around
the bony bridge of teeth, the thin man
declared, in the grip of some ecstasy
or vision, amid the vast
winding twisting concentric
rings of sound, that was exactly
the point: not what he said but how,
the tune twisted so far
beyond the decorous mean.
Check out more Donald Levin poetry here at shaking like a mountain: http://shakinglikeamountain.com/shaking/2010/03/04/at-the-red-lobster-in-duluth-mn/
