10 minutes

i put a 4" wood buddha on my desk to ignore. every once in awhile i look his way - there he is, seated still in meditation. is that me? its not a feeling i carry often.

this saturday, sarah celebrated her 30th birthday with a raucous and intimate fiesta. i've known sarah for almost 14 years now, and our unlucky 13th is just what the I Ching predicted - chaotic, fiery, and therefore choice.

at the fiesta, we watched poet after poet don the pink blindfold, down a tequila shot, get swirled in both directions, and, holding on to an old stick (which Jack Bessey managed to shatter) take dead aim and swat the hell out of a festive and innocuous little sea-mine shaped pink and green pinata. for variety, non-poets were also invited and allowed to play.

i'll be damned if that little wood buddha has ever swatted the hell out of anything. fucker hasn't had to.

my life would be simpler if i'd chosen to play nortenos instead of jamaican ska during the pinata-ing. it would have made sense - maybe i wouldnt have had a headache then, with direct, graspable choices like that.

the wood buddha is determinedly not looking at me. that sculptor knew what he was about.

watching my friends swat the hell out of that bright little cardboard star was empowering. they had it in them. and the swoops of delight when it hit - SMACK gives way to a rain of sour candies, cum wipes, plastic 2" Absoluts and Jim Beams, other cheap little sparkly things.

if there is no point, there's nothing to cut yourself on, or get poked with. you can walk around without worry, or avoidance. you can take in the sights. then you can go somewhere else.