Take Care Of All Your Memories. For

Someone Handed Me Mexico City Blues In St. Paul [minnesota] In 1959 And It Blew My Mind. It Was The First Poetry That Spoke My Own Language.

My Guard Stood Hard When Abstract Threats, Too Noble To Neglect, Deceived Me Into Thinking, I Had Something To Protect.

Everybody's Wearing A Disguise, To Hide What They've Got Left Behind Their Eyes.

Bob Dylan Wrote In His Elliptical Memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, He Was Washed Up In The 1980s, No Longer A Commercial Success, And No Longer Putting Out Good Work.

It's Not Easy To Define Poetry.