Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges, soon," said I
Proud 'neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~daily dylan~~~~~~~~~
Shadow Ball. They played shadow ball at Forbes Field when the Pirates were out of town. Josh Gibson and Cool Papa Bell played shadow ball -- flipping a ball back and forth in a tight circle of five or six players, hands twisting back and forth, flashing, whirling, dazzling.
Crowds would 'ooh' and 'aah' as the ball would dance from man to man, moving like the hottest potato ever to spring from a skillet through a rhumba line of dexterity that pulsed with more skill than Carnegie Hall on a saturday night.
Only there was no ball.
Just an idea.
Shadowball. I'm playing shadowball with myself. I am passing myself from office to office, from courthouse to courthouse, from client to client, from mother to father, to sister, to grandmother, to friend to whatever she is to back again. Shadowball. I'm not here, not all of me. Sometimes, I flutter into my head, the way that the a mint leaf settles to the bottom of a glass. The way it nestles down towards the red wood of the tiny table perched on the back porch of small, dignified house in Franklin, North Carolina. Like some small essence wafts back and forth before . . .
Kathunk.
I'm in myself. And the breath is sharp and deep. And I am fully here, and man, living all here would be like living with my nerves cut open in a furnace. I'm no Shadrach. At least that's what I taught myself the last few years.
Shadrach. Shadowball.
Disinformation. It's very real. I'm not so sure that I'm unable to gut it out in the furnace anymore. I'm certainly not a withered shell. "Do I dare eat a peach?" Maybe it's just easier to say "I'm not the man you used to know" than to tell someone that just like Pedro, I don't throw 95 every night.
Shadrach, Shadowball, Pedro, T.S. Eliot, Greg Allman and the Roy Tarpely of Women.
Quite a crowd here tonight
Who lives in your head these days?
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges, soon," said I
Proud 'neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~daily dylan~~~~~~~~~
Shadow Ball. They played shadow ball at Forbes Field when the Pirates were out of town. Josh Gibson and Cool Papa Bell played shadow ball -- flipping a ball back and forth in a tight circle of five or six players, hands twisting back and forth, flashing, whirling, dazzling.
Crowds would 'ooh' and 'aah' as the ball would dance from man to man, moving like the hottest potato ever to spring from a skillet through a rhumba line of dexterity that pulsed with more skill than Carnegie Hall on a saturday night.
Only there was no ball.
Just an idea.
Shadowball. I'm playing shadowball with myself. I am passing myself from office to office, from courthouse to courthouse, from client to client, from mother to father, to sister, to grandmother, to friend to whatever she is to back again. Shadowball. I'm not here, not all of me. Sometimes, I flutter into my head, the way that the a mint leaf settles to the bottom of a glass. The way it nestles down towards the red wood of the tiny table perched on the back porch of small, dignified house in Franklin, North Carolina. Like some small essence wafts back and forth before . . .
Kathunk.
I'm in myself. And the breath is sharp and deep. And I am fully here, and man, living all here would be like living with my nerves cut open in a furnace. I'm no Shadrach. At least that's what I taught myself the last few years.
Shadrach. Shadowball.
Disinformation. It's very real. I'm not so sure that I'm unable to gut it out in the furnace anymore. I'm certainly not a withered shell. "Do I dare eat a peach?" Maybe it's just easier to say "I'm not the man you used to know" than to tell someone that just like Pedro, I don't throw 95 every night.
Shadrach, Shadowball, Pedro, T.S. Eliot, Greg Allman and the Roy Tarpely of Women.
Quite a crowd here tonight
Who lives in your head these days?
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
goodlordyshorty:
Ha, I thought your freemason joke was clever....the macon whoopee are a minor leauge HOCKEY team, not baseball!
freyja__:
dylan reminds me of shel silverstein's adult lyrics.