Tarantula

by Bob Dylan

  sorry for not writing sooner. had

  to have some teeth pulled. finally

  read the great glaspy. helluva book

  just a helluva one. that cat sure

  tells it like it is. not much happening

  around here. Chucky tried to get the

  donkey to jump a fence. you can guess

  what happened there. sis got married

  to a real dog. i punched him out

  right away. that’s all for now

  see yuh on thanxgiving

  Corky

  Hopeless & Maria Nowhere

  raggity ann daughter of brazos & teeth in the necklace—ornery in the flesh & the border with the big laugh of bull-fight ghost & LIBERACION & she, with the leather mother thief & peeking DOS PASOS MAS ee & crazy ALLA LUEGO UN RAYO & insane DE SOL & taking the brothers to bed & to boredom—heat in every corner like the silent parrot by SALA UN DIA & mad like a hatter & the pig barker—maria ESTAS DESNUDA she digs holes on my eyes the size of the moon while her father, he keeps the hill warm & uncritical from deacons & the youngster missionaries—maria sleep lightly PERO TE QUITARAS cursing blond dynamite & TUS ROPAS … there is a hatchet in maria’s makeup & the spike driver moans, they sound on her sink like the fornicating rattlesnake—friendly on her nature & MARIA PORQUE LLORAS? & i give you my twelve midnights & kick you with leapyear & protect you from the crooked words & loyalty to the power works & these little frogs with notebooks … maria PORQUE TU RIES? freedom! she’s the yardbird, the constant & the old lady is made of marias & dogs yelping & RECUERDOS oh how the furious yesterday, pyria SON HECHOS laying bang DE ARCAICOS with simple simon NADAS is still right now the poison nothing & maria, me & you, we make up three TE QUIERO do not churchize my nakedness—i am naked for you “ maria, she says i’m a foreigner. she picks on me. she pours salt on my love

  ok. so i shoot dope once in a

  while. big deal. what’s it got

  to do with you? i’m telling you

  mervin, if you dont lay off me,

  i’m gonna rip you off some more

  where that scar is, y’hear? like

  i’m getting mad. next time you

  call me that name in a public

  cafeteria, i’m just gonna haul

  off & kick you so you’ll feel

  it. like i aint even gonna get

  angry. i’m just gonna let one

  fly. fix you good

  better watch it

  The Law

  A Confederate Poke into

  King Arthur’s Oakie

  —fyodor dostoevsky

  “… later i left the Casino with one hundred & seventy gulden in my pocket. it’s the absolute truth!”

  son of the vampire with his arm around betsy ross—he & his society friends: Rain Man. Burt the Medicine. President Plump. the Flower Lady & Baboon Boy … they all said “happy new year, elmer & how’s your wife, cecile?” & that got them into the party free … once into the party, Burt just stood around with a toothpick in the back of his neck watching for the doctor & tho the card game was something else in itself, Flower Lady lost her shirt & went to the bushes—who should come by but the little old wine maker trying to be helpful—“get out of the picture” said Flower Lady “you werent at the party!” … the little old wine maker immediately took off his head & his belt & who do you think it turned out to be but fabian—“i dont care how many tricks you can do, just get outa here!” … just then, this cable car on its way to washington came rumbling down the hill carrying crossword puzzles for everybody—Rain Man yelled “watch out Flower Lady, there’s an elephant coming!” but by this time she was singing auld lang syne with Baboon Boy, who’d snuck up, stuck a lead weight life jacket around fabian & threw him in the swimming pool—the Plump himself tried to give a warning but he was so drunk that he fell in a barrel & a tractor being driven by some dogs ran him over & dumped him into a garage … the world didnt stop for a second—it just blew up/ alfred hitchcock made the whole thing into a mystery & huntley & brinkley never slept for a week … the american flag turned green & andy clyde kept pestering about a back paycheck—every gymnasium in the world was picketed … son of the vampire, who got a divorce from betsy ross & now is with little red riding hood made it into january first carrying some empty stomachs—he & red, they got a job hiding door knobs & got paid good wages & like all people who decide not to go to any more parties, they put their money where their mouth is … & begin to eat it

  translate this fact for me, dr.

  blorgus: the fact is this: we

  must be willing to die for

  freedom (end of fact) now what

  i wanna know about the fact is this: could

  hitler have said it? de gaulle? pinocchio?

  lincoln? agnes moorehead? goldwater? bluebeard?

  the pirate? robert e. lee? eisenhower?

  groucho smith? teddy kennedy? general franco?

  custer? is it possible that jose melis

  could have said it? perhaps donald o’connor?

  i happen to be a library janitor, so could

  you please clarify things a little for

  me. thank you … by the way, if you do not

  have a reply to me by this coming tuesday,

  i will take it for granted that all these

  forementioned people are all really the

  same person … see you later. have to take

  down a picture of lady godiva as the

  mental students are touring here in an

  hour …

  considerately yours,

  Popeye Squirm

  Guitars Kissing & the Contemporary Fix

  along black winds & white fridays, they wash out water & shriek of jungle & lenny immune to the mathematics, he, the greasy quack—the vagabond god … he plants flowers in their saddle bags & speaks of Jesus brave & graduating—tragedy, the broken pride, shallow & no deeper than comedy—bites his path, his noise, his shadow … resign from mind the heart of light & approve the doom, the bending & the farce of happy ending … those that would gas the memory & shut out the might of right, the sight of those defending & offending the blossom girls of the dark, pregnant, permanent & pale outlaw … fair gloria the bowlegged singer, the sign painter’s bastard—joanne, raped by the town historian & silver dolly, devirginated at 12, by her father, a miner—maybelle with a chopped up arm from an uncle—doublejointed barbara, who grinds a compact into the face of a druggist & maureen, the jealous lover … none of them raking leaves—ratting on friends who are telephone operators or paying for the like of an e.e. cummings … none of them falling for the “purr lost soul” talk of the hill-billy brawny gospel singer & lenny as the pilgrim angel—the crime but that he reigns in highway christ clothes, boots & a swagger . . the lone shark wolf in a world where piemen castrate the dogs & cities for Du Pont, cat magazines & hiding in machines they chew gum, their seeds, their portraits … lenny leaves the woodchuck, the veteran of foreign war to his plymouth 6, his murder page—the Arms Bros chair & to his kidnapper & the radio siren/ the communists would call him lazy & the veteran calls him a bum & yo ho ho & a bottle of rum but he’s nice to priests & dont tangle with the mayor’s daughter ’n law … he wears silk & bows to yoyos, barbells & the strangers—he steals bow ties & heading for the north & waves to soldiers with amputated hands who picked up broken ashtray pieces & staying clear of muffled & exploding roosters, he pets ornaments & twin pipes/ there is a rhapsody to his toughness & he sure is warm & worthlessly wild

  the deer thru the woods quite out of it

  all shall never be the slave but the target

  for military & freedom’s legs having no substitute for death when sunday professor & the children come out, say “watch it, you bound to

  stumble now!” & the lady in waiting just collapsing

  & asked if that’s a threat or perhaps a friendly

  warming & the innocent coon being scraped on the

  table—liberty, an orph
an sonnet, unwritten &

  having no eyes & needs, no defense & getting

  some glass in the veins—the conspiracy to kill

  the free & romantic to custom operating regularly

  on schedule & attacking now the once that run

  with no sidecar … go ahead, shoot! all you need

  is a license & a weak heart

  thru the braided hair & loafing beer can beach of wood—brains of the roadhouse & panel trucks filled with cucumber funk, jim beam sweating & lords & ladies in the rear view mirror—humanity in the gang bang mood & yodeling swimmers—the kinks from strike town & itty bitty pretty one lapping up the crankcase rotgut & lenny laughing in a fake sombrero & the jugglers trying to smother the queers & the girls from big city & panoramic way, you found lenny, the dog catcher killer & motorcycle saint—you either love him or hate him—attracting the filthy mamas, Tom the Wretched, Mike the Bull & Hazel, the pornographic back slapper …lenny can take the bad out of you & leave you all good & he can take the good out of you & leave you all bad/ if you think youre smart & know things, lenny plays with your head & he contradicts everything youve been taught about people/ he is not in the history books & he either makes you glad to be you or he makes you hate to be you … you know he’s some kind of robber yet you trust him & you cannot ignore him

  … the lion’s den then, & anchors away & you remember the table—the hopped up table of worldly wiggies & unpatriotics & the slut madonna with her squatter’s rights & everybody sexy & picking on the car thieves & some bumbling sacred cow telling how he marched right in & trimmed this chicken just like that but when peter pan of the throttle bums gets up to go someplace, it’s growling & wondering & sentimental because you know he never does—while gloria talks of the fish in her finger with her hair dyed pink & speaking of tomorrow, calling it sunday & the engine slams & really slams into first gear—& it sounds like john lee hooker coming & oh Lordy louder like a train … the punchdrunk sailor with a scar below his nose suddenly slaps & kicks little sally & makes her let go of the bottoms of his dungarees & you Know he knows something’s happening & it aint the ordinary kind of sound that you can see so clearly & carrrrrashhhhh & a technicolor passion of berserk & napoleonic & suicide & lenny vanishes in the daytime & a bridge girder all lonesome & gone & the trumpets play what theyve always been taught to play in time of emergency—Babylon’s sweetheart & the redblooded boy oozing all over & shock, the defunct rockabilly in a blindfold—dissolve into the motherland for touch & kneeling to instinct, gypsies & into the most northernmost forest he can find

  … a roaring free for all is witnessed later between as follows: rabbit seller, who, because he lives in a room where the rain continues to fall thru the chimney, always has a chronic cough & is constantly in an al capone type mood—call him White Man/ the ex faggot g.i., who now transports dummies from macy’s to yankee stadium & whose ears always bleed in heavy weather—call him Black Man/ the hatcheck girl with a glass eye, whose father taught her how to walk exactly like P.T. Barnum & now she discovers it means nothing—call her Audience/ the candle stick maker, with a mouthful of plastic & his pockets full of used matches—call him Reward/ the bathing beauty who wears a turban full of meatballs—call her Success/ the tug of war rope & a holy bell—boom & the pumphouse guardian stepping out of his coocoo & saying “words are objects! sight is ego! did any of you freaks ever know a lenny? i can remember his last name …” & then some vigilante, he say “get back in your clock! you ever heard of lions one, christians nothing?” & after sending hitler out to murder the poor guardian, he jumps back into the christians & clocks & all types of mink, milk & vitamin C—grannies in titepants & barechested undertakers goosing preachers wearing egg cartons & U.N. generals in bathrobes & their feet stuck in bongo drums & three million jealous teachers in used roy acuff strings all flunking little de gaulles & prison choruses bursting & singing hallaluyah … everybody even Good St. Doc & the bird scientist sucking scruples & nipples & trying to hide their shit … everybody saying “disaster!” & pointing & examining hanging clowns & making reports & going “gah gah” at dead pontiacs Š babies in Lorca graves ‥ the tax collector stealing everybody’s useless sacrifice & H.G. Wells unheeded … Lulu the Smith having a heart attack at the birth of a black angel & john brown, Luke the snob & Achilles all reaching for the Flying Saucer … one day, the day of the Tambourines, the astronaut, Micky McMicky, will remove a thumb from his mouth—say “go to hell” while lenny i’m sure is already in a resentful heaven

  dear dropout magazine,

  gentlemen:

  i understand that you are currently

  putting a book together about

  blacklisted or blackheaded artists or something.

  if it is the former, then i shall have to

  recommend that you place jerry lee lewis first

  an foremost. if it is the latter, then i shall

  have to recommend that you contact the american

  medical society to discover the exact worth of

  such an undertaking

  in all respects, i remain

  a rabble rouser from the mountains

  Zeke the Cork

  Advice to Hobo’s Model

  paint your shoes delilah—ye walk on white snow where a nosebleed would disturb the universe … down these narrow alleys of owls an flamenco guitar players, jack paar an other sex symbols are your prizes—check into the bathrooms where bird lives for when he comes flying out with a saber in his wing—a country music singer by his side—digesting a carrier pigeon … ye just might change your style of fornicating, sword swallowing—ye just might change your way of sleeping on nails—paint your shoes the color of the ghost mule—the paper tiger’s teeth are made of aluminum—youve a long time to Babylon—paint your shoes delilah—paint them with a sponge

  look! like i told you before, it doesnt

  natter where it’s at! there’s no such

  thing. it’s where it’s not at that you

  gotta know. so what if tony married his

  mother! what’s it got to do with your life?

  i really have no idea why youre so unhappy.

  perhaps you ought to change your line of

  work. you know. like how long can someone

  of your caliber continue to paint pencil

  sharpeners … see you next summer, good to

  know youre off the wagon.

  prematurely yours,

  Funka

  A Blast of Loser Take Nothing

  jack of spades—vivaldi of the coin laundry—wearing a hipster’s dictionary—we see him brownnosing around the blackbelts & horny racing car drivers—dashing to & fro like a frightened uncle remus … on days that he gets no mail he rises early, sticks paper up the pay phones & cons the bubble gum machines … “the world owes me a living” he says to his half-hawaiian cousin, the half-wit, joe the head who is also planning to marry a folksinger next month—“round & round, old joe clark” is being recited from the steps of the water & light building as jack ambles by with a case full of plastic bubbles—things look well for him: he can imitate cary grant pretty good. he knows all the facts why mabel from utah walked out on horace, the lightingman from Theatre Altitude. he has even stumbled onto a few hairy secrets of mrs. Cunk, who sells fake blisters at the world’s fair—plus being able to play a few foreign legion songs on the yoyo & always managing to look like a grapefruit in case of emergency … he brags about his collection of bruises & corks & the fact that he pays no attention to the business world. he would rather show his fear of the bomb & say what have you done for freedom than to praise an escaped mental patient who pisses on the floor of junior’s delicatessen—jack of spades, with his axe, the record player. with his companion, the menu. & his destination, a piece of kleenex—never touches the cracks on the sidewalk—“jack” says his other cousin, Bode-guard, half danish & half surfer, “how come you always act like Crazy, jackie gleason’s friend? i mean wow! aint there enough sadness in
the world?” jack walks by in a flash—he wears ear plugs—from the steps of the water & light building, the band, after knocking all the juice out of their horns, begin to play on my papa … jack, shocked, takes a second look, raises his hand in a nazi salute. a woodsman, walking by with an axe, drops it. a D.A.R. woman flies off the handle. looks at jack. says “in some places, you’d be arrested for obscenity” she doesnt even hear the band … she falls down a sidewalk crack/ the band leader, paying no attention, does a slight curtsy, sneezes. points his wand at the classical guitar … a street cleaner bumps into jack & says & i quote “o.k. so i bumped into you. i dont even care. i got me a little woman at home. i know a good radiator down the block. man, i aint never gonna starve. would you like to buy a pail?” jack, amazed, rearranges his collar & heads off to the bell telephone hour. which is located beyond the next cop car … he passes a hot dog stand. a sauerkraut hits him in the face … the band is playing malaguena salerosa—the D.A.R. woman pops out of the sidewalk, hears the band, screams, starts doing the jerk. the street cleaner steps on her … jack hasnt eaten all day. his mouth tastes funny—he has his unpublished novel in his hand—he wants to be a star—but he gets arrested anyway

  hi y’all. not much new happening.