It’s your birthday. Eighty-two years ago Hibbing’s population grew by one. The one birth when a boy who grew up with a soul and a talent of a Byron, Rimbaud, Shakespeare, hobo, drifter, prankster, patriot, rebel and more, all with the soul of a true poet.

Your songs are sung not for the masses, not for everyone…but only to the one pair of ears that are hearing your words. You wrote for him, for her and for yourself. 

I want to give you a gift, Bob. Shall it be boots of Spanish leather or a jingle jangle moment while dancing on the beach? Shall it be a flat chested junkie whore or a prince who keeps watch along the watchtower?

Did you really see an old man with broken teeth stranded without love? Or was it some image in your 115th dream? 

It really doesn’t matter in the end, because at the break of dawn, you’ll be gone. But death is not the end. And after one too many mornings the paint will fade and the water moccasin dies. And the masterpiece will be painted.

Happy birthday, my close person friend. Keep singing until your voice turns to dust, but don’t lose that long black coat.

I remain, 

your fan and I will remain in awe…

Patrick