Dear Bob Dylan,

Your performance in Tucson was beyond belief.

I’ve seen you nine times in my life and I still haven’t left that show Tuesday night. It’s as if I could say, I’m not here, and I would be right.

I’m still in Tucson. I’m still watching you dance. I’m still searching for a way to throw a rope to you. Your energy that night could invent a new way of looking at timelessness. I was awe-struck, completely devoted. I swallowed every song.

So overcome I even shouted: We love you Bob! inbetween songs. The audience around me laughed then applauded in agreement.

We do love you. Trust me, I was looking at some of the faces. Expressions tumbling like you wouldn’t believe.

Dear Bob Dylan,

This is how I felt hearing and seeing you play in Indianapolis.

Wide awake, totally alert. Completely crushed when you picked up your guitar and began Rainy Day Women. Emaciated by It’s All Right, Ma. There was no getting around the river of love pouring from my heart when you sang Nettie Moore. You see, I had the privelege of seeing it all. Your demeanor appeared calm, without hurry. Your presence was easy on the eyes and I loved your white hat. Your voice which rang clear and strong, as lovely as a clarion. As lovely as your hair being kissed by the Indianapolis sun.

I felt alone amid a crowd of thousands. For years I’ve always felt there was something. Seeing you proves my theory every time.

Often when I attend your shows, there are a few people out in front of the venue hoping to buy a ticket. In Indy there were at least a hundred. People walking around with one finger pointing in the air, asking the words: ticket, ticket, does anybody have a spare ticket. Without one, they were forced to sit in the grass outside and just listen, which most of them did. People spread blankets down and just sat. What they couldn’t see, they could definitely hear. I felt a tug of commonness with them. I would have done the very same thing. I would have sat and listened, getting whatever part of you that I could, listening for soul if I could not see it with my own eyes.

And imagine how many hearts you change, how many minds you open, how many emotional reactions your words and songs evoke in others. It’s an amazing thing to witness.

You were perfect. You were better than perfect.

Usually by this time I would have contemplated the drop, the feelings of loss now that the show is over, but I don’t have that. Tucson is only one week away. Where I will have and know the honor of hearing your dulcet tones once again.

Thank you for seventeen songs.

Dear Bob Dylan,

I wish on a thousand things regarding you, but none of those wishes matter now, because in three days I’ll be at your show, anonymous as every other person there.

Look, I realize we all might seem the same to you, the audience, that crowd of people in town after town and perhaps we are, the thousands upon thousands of us that travel to see you, aching to hear a particular song, thinking of you as a part of our eternity, which we can swallow through our eyes and ears and come away forever changed.

These are things we cannot dream, but can only hold in stark consideration.

I can’t wait to see you playing guitar.

Dear Bob Dylan,

I cannot ever think of me, I desire you…

John Ashbery said. And I think of you.

You who were always in the way. (You)

We hold these truths, John Ashbery said, to be self evident.

And I sing amid despair and isolation.
Of the chance to know you, to sing of me. (Me to you)

John Ashbery said in A Blessing of Disguise.

Clothed in deep blue, John Ashbery describes. On his head sits a white hat. (You)

Days this long of only me and my premonitions, while somewhere else the world is trying to remake itself. I think sometimes how quickly, how often I get left behind. How easily I get caught up in cosmic or imaginary things. Where I suffer from blackouts and blindness you are off creating a path.

You have built a mountain out of something, John Ashbery writes. Thoughtfully pouring all your energy into this single monument. (All you)

The worst is not over…..., John Ashbery says.

This time I think he’s talking to me.