Monday, December 17, 2012

The Buddha of Lesser Corrections


He is not well known, lived in relative obscurity, one thousand years ago, or two.  He liked women – a little too much.  He liked his beer bold.  He liked contentment, but contentment did not like him.  He savored satisfaction, but he was not to be, satisfied, at first anyway, and sometimes always.  So he sat under a stack of unfinished memos, six feet high if a day.  His was a multipurpose meditation, mindful, if not somewhat maudlin, all those moody mistakes and unwanted change.  Each time he felt his mind erase the longing that sent him seeking solace between fleshy thighs, his thoughts would combust into self-effacing apologies, and he wept pasty tears the color of thick clouds.  All flammable intentions were checked at the door, while he sat nirvana-bound but rooted in the misguided revisions that dictate how we remember and what we invent to white out the blemishes of our feverish past.  He was the Buddha of Lesser Corrections, patron saint of slippery-fingered typists and mendicant misspellers.  He was loved for his quick fixes, but few sought from him any lasting metamorphoses.  Every woman wanted to rewrite her history on his scrap paper and prayed that it would not be rejected or otherwise forgotten; every man, too; everyone longed for his pure white liquid balm.





("The Buddha of Lesser Corrections" appears 
in the winter issue of the print journal Meat for Tea.)