Bob Dylan has two poems in the current New Yorker . . .

. . . uh, what do you think?

Here is one:

'17'

after crashin the sportscar

into the chandelier

i ran out t the phone

booth

made a call t my wife. she wasnt home.

i panicked. i called up my

best friend

but the line was busy

then i went t a party but couldnt find

a chair

somebody wiped their feet on me

so i decided t leave

i felt

awful. my mouth was puckered.

arms were stickin thru my neck

my stomach

was stuffed an bloated

dogs licked my face

people stared at me an said

“what’s wrong with you?”

passin two successful friends of mine

i

stopped t talk.

they knew i was feelin bad

an gave me some pills

i

went home an began writin

a suicide note

it was then that i saw

that

crowd comin down

the street

i really have nothing

against

marlon

brando

Here is the other:

'21'

death silenced her pool

the day she died

hovered

over

her little toy dogs

but left no trace

of itself

at

her

funeral

Here is an explanation. Apparently these are real old poems that will be published in a new book in November. I am not exactly impressed by the poetry, but what do I know.