sitting meditation created pain <br />my legs being wooden <br />so I loved walking mediation <br />especially one night <br />when the Head Monk <br />led the way into the darkness <br />with a flashlight <br />and all I could see was <br />the blizzard whizzing past <br />a guy in front of me <br />as the howling wind <br />overwhelmed the heartbeats of humans <br />flipping me into a blip of euphoria <br />my laughter <br />free to fall everywhere <br />without obstruction <br />then <br />serene <br />the wind windless <br />snow soft as an ancient opiate pillow <br />enticing sleep <br />so I stepped off the line <br />lay down <br />unperturbed unemotional <br />in the tranquilizing drifts <br />narcotized by cool dreams <br />of high white stars <br />burning <br />and me burning <br />one utter conflagration <br />and placing palms together <br />babbled, “Bernstein’s coffin is a billion <br />snowflakes— <br />fine with him.” <br />Suddenly the glare of the Head Monk’s <br />flashlight seared my eyes <br />and a second later <br />felt his grip <br />as he whispered, “Cut <br />this amateur crap.” <br />The fellow meant well <br />but the word “amateur” <br />hurt.<br /><br />Charles Chaim Wax<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-monastery/
