By Bob Dylan

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"

para partilhar um pouco de poesia (se assim poderá ser chamada), rigorosamente transcrita do álbum que marcou o início de uma época e o fim de outra, para o autor e para o mundo, "Bringing It All Back Home". Através dos pequenos textos presentes tanto neste álbum como no que se lhe seguiria e que registaria o culminar artístico de Dylan, "Highway 61 Revisited", ou do seu livro "Tarântula", obra de elevado nível de interesse que explora campos como o da abstracção, da simples musicalidade das palavras, ou da poesia profunda (ou demasiado superficial?), é nos mostrado um pouco do que era o seu mundo (ou o que aparentava ser), e do que era, e ainda continua a ser, o Mundo, observações passageiras, histórias mais verídicas do que aparentam, divagações surrealistas e de intrincada complexidade resultantes numa ou várias perturbações mentais, tanto no autor como no leitor e, sempre presente, o toque magistral de Dylan.