Rain shapes the strangest faces. Finding the outline of it is like throwing a typewriter into a swimming pool expecting it to spout cries for help in the form of novels. I curve baseball bats towards its frantic energy but find only polished stanzas rebuking my advances. Diamond-dense sonatas declare me a failed safecracker. I listen and I listen and I listen some more but all I hear is the wind.
‘So make poetry about the wind,’ one of my shoulders says. My family crest has an exclamation point, a heart, a watch, and a feather. It’s guarded on either side by mythical animals because our only defense is imagination. In my garden, dogs wear dog tags and humans wear stories. My mantra through all the emotional garbage that forces me to do situps in this polluted atmosphere is ‘Backstage pass. Backstage pass. Backstage pass.’
The Buddhists have a name for it.* It’s called namrenko-heyaka.** It means ‘feathers aren’t ticklish’. It’s a way of saying that the true masters are one with what causes happiness, with what causes mirth. They no longer experience it because they have become it. They have become the cause, not the effect. A black hole of peace, sucking all into oneness. These are the people that haunt me.
If I am an eraser, the let all words steer clear of me. If I am a black box snuggled into airplane wreckage, do not play me back to hear the last words. If I am a computer, throw me into the swimming pool with the typewriter and let the rain shape my face again.
* - no they don’t
** - no it isn’t
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