Sometimes it is so cold
there is no Heming-way you can be saved.
A cup of tea and make-believe
come to the rescue please.
Oh, may the magic in realism
Contest your realities; spell for you that, that couldn’t be so cold-
If only you did not feel so old.
Then into a dream, you are cajoled.
Did the wind-up bird wind the spring of the world, yet, Murakami?
Because I may die to several shuddering thoughts in a bit.
Dear Mr. Okada, let us sit-
and talk of so many births and so many deaths.
Along the road, the “obstruction of the flow.”
It sure doesn’t feel right,
The never stopping ceiling fan, perhaps, misunderstands your plight.
Try as you might.
(“Even I know that much, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. How come you don’t get it?”)
The summer found you finding yourself in a pit-y.
This winter, you will again miss the light.
Such simple rhymes.
Who am I trying to be?
Someone far from a poet, you’d hiss.
Maybe your warmth is what I need.
Ah, some tea, a hug or even your piss
Warm and so showering…
No, don’t walk away.
This isn’t meant for the walking away kind.
This isn’t meant for any other kind.
It is made because it’s cold.
And in a dream I want to be cajoled…
Sing this part like it were a melody
A shiny, polished version of some noise- a sound
Or think away this little something like a spring of a bird, unwound…
And fly along.