Three blind-folded people attempt to touch me.
One rubs their hand through my spindly beard.
Much like a fox, a previous pelt, he thinks.
One lays a hand on my bulging belly.
Much like the laughing Buddha, she thinks.
One wraps his massive hand around my wrist.
Must be a petite woman, he thinks.
The mystery cannot be controlled by concepts.
You might be photographing a raven
In a snowstorm, but that photograph is no
Raven, is no snowstorm, is no collision
Of the two (and many other!) natural variables
Taking shape. All truths are relative realities.
I have been trained in specialness.
Oh your precious body, my mother exclaimed.
Oh your bulbous head, my father exclaimed.
Oh your delightful tongue, my lovers exclaimed.
Oh your brilliant mind, my teachers exclaimed.
Surely, I was Christ, in the world, but not
Of the world. Rather, I was an elephant fighting
Its way out of a pair of checked pajamas.
I had ridden many planes, but never saw
The turbulence of simultaneity. The man
On the oatmeal box whispered something
About my still small voice within. The man
In the mirror vomited subjective isness.
Who am I? Every description is a limiting condition.
Even the strongest flashlight can’t shine on
Itself. Even the most illuminated version of me
Cannot extricate myself from definitions
Of myself. The seams are too taut, the corners
Too folded. To rest in what is always what is
Hugs me tight, keeps me from freaking out
When the peripheries flicker and the page turns.
I am this body. I am not this body. Both lies
My primal beginnings, before I donned
My meat suit, the now is a clue to the way.
I use my mind to bring me to what is beyond
My mind. I can’t know the answer, but I can still
Dedicate my life to photographing the raven
In the snowstorm. Please take your hands off me.
Please remove your blindfolds. The people, they kindly
Do. As for you, you are in exactly the right place