You Could Say

I’m an owl
Day owl—night owl
Hooting howls
Though not a wise owl
Still a proper owl
You could say
The universe has turned
Into a giant firework display
That’s rendered me motionless
Into time
Into time
To watch my life away
You could say
I’m the worlds best dancer
You probably won’t
Doesn’t matter much
You could say
These funny images I paint
Have been blended
Beyond the point of justice
You could say
A woman in silk waits somewhere
Behind curtains unimaginable
On a balcony smoking
Waiting for me to bloom
You could say
Fish don’t have legs
Chicken is a lie
God’s a pineapple
You could say
Dizziness is a virtue
We could all say a lot of things

She’s got be a ghost. First of all, she’s just too beautiful. Her features are gorgeous, but it’s not only that. She’s so perfect I know she can’t be real. She’s like a person who stepped right out of a dream. The purity of her beauty gives me a feeling close to sadness—a very natural feeling, though one that only something extraordinary could produce.
Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami
Moving Box

Empty blue
Prescription lost
Identity lost
Generation lost
Not everything’s lost
Calm down
Step aside
Eat some ocean
Not everything’s lost
Endless scroll
Filled with blank cursors
Filled with stories
Wide open fields
Tangerine lakes
Mountain springs
You once talked about that
Alive and kind of dumb
Happy and sad
So write stupid poems
Grow sunflowers
Or whatever you want to grow
Not everything’s lost
Do what you have to do
Something you’ll
Know and lose again in five years

All kind of things are happening to me. Some I chose, some I didn’t. I don’t know how to tell one from the other anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything’s been decided in advance—that I’m following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn’t matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose sense of who I am. It’s like my identity is an orbit that I’ve strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch.
Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami


i can’t believe young stephen colbert

Don’t Read This

Fish fed
Bottom bread
‘Nough said
Bet blood
On the slug
Blah blah
Eat bugs
No sense
Common tense
Don’t read
Too dense

We’re so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about every day, too many new things we have to learn. New styles, new information, new technology, new terminology…But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone.
Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami
And One Day

I’ll forget the universe and loft under summer breeze. I’ll have paid my taxes and contributed to world peace. I’ll have developed magic powers to conquer skyscrapers. I’ll fish ancient creeks and turn young men into old sports. I’ll clean the allies, magnify small drops worth magnifying, shake my shit, and die somewhere worth the effort.

I spread my hands out in front of me and take a good hard look at them. What am I always so tense about? Why this desperate struggle just to survive? I shake my head, turn from the window, clear my mind of thoughts of a hundred years away. I’ll just think about now. About books waiting to be read in the library, machines in the gym I haven’t worked out on. Thinking about anything else isn’t going to get me anywhere.
Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami

She got the place, the dog, the flies, the geraniums. She even helped me pack. Folding my pants neatly into suitcases. Packing in my shorts and razor. When I was ready to leave she started crying again. I bit her on the ear, the right one, then went down the stairway with my stuff. I got into the car and began cruising up and down the streets looking for a For Rent sign.

It didn’t seem to be an unusual thing to do.

Post Office, Charles Bukowski
2014 Space Odyssey

A million miles away
On a desert beach
With parrots overhead
I squawk, ‘Hello, Hello!’
Then imagine they squawk back
I smile
The empty blue clouds wink secrets
While I promise the sand to never leave it’s side
I whistle one line of a French lullaby
Over and over
Carve simple words into the shoreline
The waves mist
I lay back
Send salutations to the setting sun
Far away from any mirror
That’ll show me myself