I am the best
zen monk who ever lived
I live on a mountain
in a secret country
I sit and levitate over the ground
for twelve hours a day
I talk to the birds
and to the mountain goats
that pass me
in the afternoon
I live on sunshine
and wind
in my imagination
I can see the beginning and the end
I have transformed my whole being
into
a cosmical eye
but my time is running out
and I have to
brush my teeth
and smoke
a cigarette
on the balcony
of my small apartment
by Nacka centrum
and then
flush
another poem
down
the toilet

**

I tell myself that running
will make me stop aging
that it will stop time
that I wont be
an old disgusting man
with a crumbling body
and a cane
at a park bench
feeding some doves
living in his own
empty bubble
no
I run
and I don’t think about it
it kinda works
as long
as you don’t
look too close
in the mirror


**

feeling bored
with the books
like they
are empty wind tunnels
and nobody is really there
is any author ever really there
in the long run?