I don't understand Bob Dylan. Maybe that's how it should be: something that fascinates is something that does not have to be, or cannot be, understood. I read Dylan's book of poetry, Tarantula, which he wrote in 1966 when he was twenty-five. In it, words move not like letters, not like vessels of meaning, but as sound, in their repetition, consonants, emphasis, and syllable length:
mother say go in…
HASTO Kristiyanto stopped for a moment as he was about to take a sip from his mineral water in Tempo’s editorial meeting room last Friday. The Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P) secretary-general apologized for his petai, or stinky bean, breath. "Last night I was served stinky-bean fried rice by the President.