Listening to Bob Dylan & Waiting for the World to End
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By Noah Lekas
We all have our own folklore. Painting ourselves at the pinnacle of human experience is a time-honored tradition. Perhaps now we actually are, perhaps not, but either way, an artist’s way-finding and fortunetelling can be strangely comforting. And somewhere between the proof of devotion and signs of devolution, we get honest. This piece started like a search party; then history began seeping in through the cracks, and looking back became looking forward. That’s what songwriters like Bob Dylan do—they give you a touch point, a reality to grip hold of while space and time shift. This poem is about hanging on.
The cloister is split by a creek
that bottoms out midstream at 2ft deep.
The saints continue to pray
morning & midday
but they know that the time is right at night
’cause that’s when they petition
the Holy Ghost to fire up their love lights.
In from the street they proselytize
with honey in their hips & fear in their eyes.
“I got what you need soaked in kerosene,”
the ol’ man growls,
with a little bit of swing
& a little bit of groove.
“Y’ know Bob Seger
was talkin’ intercession
when he wrote ‘Night Moves,’”
but I’m at the bottom of my stack
& nobody knows just where
anybody else is really at.
I need a melody that’s God sent
’cause I’m light on rent,
this house ain’t got a basement,
& I’m tired of thinking ’bout
the government.
Out on the sidewalks
the hobos laugh and cough.
Hearts only cost a quarter
& Joe Hill is the union boss.
A broke-down engine
whistles in the breeze
& the politicians are writing
their own liturgies.
I heard that prophecy never
reveals one’s own death
but they all knew how to pass the plate
& cash their own checks.
Step right up
& welcome the antichrist.
The kingdom would match
those blue suede shoes real nice.
Don’t get fooled
by the folksinger’s lament—
His voice is as broken
as the branches of government.
Take me where the leaves of grass grow,
where death hath no dominion,
& Chester Burnett howls on the radio,
where Mexico City got the blues,
where we was born t’ win, not born t’ lose,
where Sylvia Plath turns 31
& we still ain’t seen
the biggest thing that man has ever done,
where the church fathers lift their glasses & say
“Na zdravje”—let mercy flow like wine on judgement day.
The busted glass cuts their skin.
“Hell,” they say, “we were already headin’ for Armageddon.”
But this ain’t purgatory
& you won’t last seven days.
I don’t know when they’re coming for me
but I know what all the scriptures say.
I’m sanitizing my body
& gargling with rubbing alcohol,
hanging myself up to dry,
then boarding up all the windows,
brushing my teeth with bleach
& rinsing with a Brillo Pad,
putting on some dark sunglasses
& dreaming about cigarettes.
Open Heaven’s Door
if you really wanna be a friend,
’cause I’m listening to Bob Dylan
and waiting for the world to end.
Noah C. Lekas is a writer, journalist, and the author of Saturday Night Sage (Blind Owl ’19), a collection of poetry about mysticism and menial labor.
Raised in Memphis, Tennessee, Shelby Baldock grew up loving film and music, creating short films and studying jazz percussion from an early age. The two passions, always going hand in hand, led to work for the Grammys and touring with the internationally recognized North Mississippi Allstars, creating music videos, documentaries, and concert films. In 2010 Baldock helped established Piano Man Pictures, a Memphis arts collective, producing and supporting local filmmakers and artists. Film collaborations with Grammy award winner Cody Dickinson include “Rattle the Hocks” and “Take Me to the River.” In 2019 Baldock was the lead virtual reality story editor for the Special Olympics World Games in Abu Dhabi, seen by over 300,000 people worldwide. He continues to produce and direct feature documentaries, films, animation, and virtual reality.
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