Sunday, February 27, 2011

Are You Drinking? | Charles Bukowski

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.

Harry the Cat

Jules Champfleury

"There is no more intrepid explorer than a kitten."

Roger Waters & Cats

Photographer unknown

Janis Joplin & Cat

Photographer unknown

Bob Dylan with his Son Jesse & Cat, 1968

Photographer unknown

Jim Davis

"Way down deep, we're all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them."

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Zen Master D.T. Suzuki & Kitty

Photo by Mihoko Okamura

Catma Sutra

Zen Kitties

George F. Will

The phrase "domestic cat" is an oxymoron.

Jimmy Smith - The Cat

© Roger Ballen

Bruce Schimmel

"The furry little buggers [cats] are just deep, deep wells you throw your emotions into."

Friday, February 25, 2011

By Marty Neumeier for the New York Art Expo 1983

1983, Neumeier, poster published by Gazelle Editions

Winston Churchill

"I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals."

Dogtooth: The Cat

Love Is A Piece Of Paper Torn To Bits | Charles Bukowski

all the beers was poisoned and the capt. went down
and the mate and the cook
and we had nobody to grab sail
and the N. wester ripped the sheets like toenails
and we pitched like crazy
the hull tearing its sides
and all the time in the corner
some punk had a drunken slut (my wife)
and was pumping away
like nothing was happening
and the cat kept looking at me
and crawling in the pantry
amongst the clanking dishes
with flowers and vines painted on them
untill I couldnt stand it anymore
and took the thing
and heaved it
over
the side.

More Warhol Cats!

Richard George | Sylvia Plath's Cats

Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour
according to her moods:
and when they sensed a coming storm
they crept into corners.
Today she is a remote eminence,
tall and cold as Alaska:
but the cats understood her
as something young and brittle
like bamboo
that cuts you when it breaks.
When she died, apart from them
they felt her passing over
as a seismic change of frequency:
they never quite forgot her
and when something reminded them
they purred, nervously.

No one writes their biography.