I told myself sixty stories before breakfast and maybe
you did, too.
about how I wanted toast with coconut oil, tomato and egg like my friend
created earlier this week.
But, no, brown rice rose from the refrigerator and spooned into this belly-furnace
with currants and bananas and slivered almonds instead and I told another
story about how healthy it is to chew, chew, chew brown rice and then swatted a mosquito with
yet another story about how the “I” doesn’t like mosquitoes and SLAP the skeeter quivered and died.
What storytellers we are!
“I” think “I” want a cup of coffee, or think coffee brews evil, or maybe it will allow you to live until 100,
someone said on the news last summer.
Coffee = good, bad, sweet, wonderful, terrible, disgusting, disease-infested, savior!
Who says you aren’t creative every waking moment? Who says you don’t keep the plot going?
Who says you aren’t the heroine who decides what to do next?
When, in truth, if you strip away the story–what’s left?
When, in truth, if you never wrote a single poem about, say,
what you need to do next–what’s before that? What’s before you think you decide?
When you look, say, outside the window, without juicy details about how Aunty Delores is really
just plain nuts, and how your mother is dying, and why it’s raining again today,
when you just look plainly, cleanly, innocently,
can you find the creator or created?
Can you separate them nicely into categories of self and not-self?
Isn’t it just this arising, and this arising, and this next arising
all swallowing itself completely here and gone in this eternal space
that never wavers, never even shimmers, never features a beginning chapter and an
Oh, but you want something more, you say, some meaning, some excitement.
Here comes the next mosquito, I’m sure he’s going to bite and my finger will swell and–
Next story, please.