Not like a newspaper; I am not topical... Not like Face Book; you don't need to tell me you like me... Not like Twitter; I will usually be more than 160 characters long.
Read this blog as you would an anthology - some of the work appears or has appeared on the web; some has been published in print magazines and journals.
This blog is where I keep it together in one place, my virtual filing cabinet.
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.)