Of war and peace the truth just twists Its curfew gull just glides Upon four-legged forest clouds The cowboy angel rides With his candle lit into the sun Though its glow is waxed in black All except when 'neath the trees of Eden The lamppost stands with folded arms Its iron claws attached To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail Though it shadows metal badge All and all can only fall With a crashing but meaningless blow No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden The savage soldier sticks his head in sand And then complains Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf But still remains Upon the beach where hound dogs bay At ships with tattooed sails Heading for the Gates of Eden With a time-rusted compass blade Aladdin and his lamp Sits with Utopian hermit monks Side saddle on the Golden Calf And on their promises of paradise You will not hear a laugh All except inside the Gates of Eden Relationships of ownership They whisper in the wings To those condemned to act accordingly And wait for succeeding kings And I try to harmonize with songs The lonesome sparrow sings There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden The motorcycle black madonna Two-wheeled gypsy queen And her silver-studded phantom cause The gray flannel dwarf to scream As he weeps to wicked birds of prey Who pick up on his bread crumb sins And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden The kingdoms of Experience In the precious wind they rot While paupers change possessions Each one wishing for what the other has got And the princess and the prince Discuss what's real and what is not It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden The foreign sun, it squints upon A bed that is never mine As friends and other strangers From their fates try to resign Leaving men wholly, totally free To do anything they wish to do but die And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden At dawn my lover comes to me And tells me of her dreams With no attempts to shovel the glimpse Into the ditch of what each one means At times I think there are no words But these to tell what's true And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden

Produced by Tom Wilson Photography by Daniel Kramer i'm standing there watching the parade/ feeling combination of sleepy john estes. jayne mansfield. humphry bogart/morti- mer snerd. murph the surf and so forth/ erotic hitchhiker wearing japanese blanket. gets my attention by asking didn't he see me at this hootenanny down in puerto vallarta, mexico/i say no you must be mistaken. i happen to be one of the Supremes/then he rips off his blanket an' suddenly becomes a middle-aged druggist. up for district attorney. he starts scream- ing at me you're the one. you're the one that's been causing all them riots over in vietnam. immediately turns t' a bunch of people an' says if elected, he'll have me electrocuted publicly on the next fourth of july. i look around an' all these people he's talking to are carrying blowtorches/ needless t' say, i split fast go back t' the nice quiet country. am standing there writing WHAAT? on my favorite wall when who should pass by in a jet plane but my recording engineer "i'm here t' pick up you and your lastest works of art. do you need any help with anything?'' (pause) my songs're written with the kettledrum in mind/a touch of any anxious color. un- mentionable. obvious. an' people perhaps like a soft brazilian singer . . . i have given up at making any attempt at perfection/ the fact that the white house is filled with leaders that've never been t' the apollo theater amazes me. why allen ginsberg was not chosen t' read poetry at the inauguration boggles my mind/if someone thinks norman mailer is more important than hank williams that's fine. i have no arguments an' i never drink milk. i would rather model har- monica holders than discuss aztec anthropology/ english literature. or history of the united nations. i accept chaos. I am not sure whether it accepts me. i know there're some people terrified of the bomb. but there are other people terrified t' be seen carrying a modern screen magazine. experience teaches that silence terrifies people the most . . . i am convinced that all souls have some superior t' deal with/like the school system, an invisible circle of which no one can think without consulting someone/in the face of this, responsibility/security, success mean absolutely nothing. . . i would not want t' be bach. mozart. tolstoy. joe hill. gertrude stein or james dean/they are all dead. the Great books've been written. the Great sayings have all been said/I am about t' sketch You a picture of what goes on around here some- times. though I don't understand too well myself what's really happening. i do know that we're all gonna die someday an' that no death has ever stopped the world. my poems are written in a rhythm of unpoetic distortion/ divided by pierced ears. false eyelashes/sub- tracted by people constantly torturing each other. with a melodic purring line of descriptive hollowness -- seen at times through dark sunglasses an' other forms of psychic explosion. a song is anything that can walk by itself/i am called a songwriter. a poem is a naked person . . . some people say that i am a poet (end of pause) an' so i answer my recording engineer "yes. well i could use some help in getting this wall in the plane" -- By Bob Dylan