This one’s a secret, between you and me. There’s no one else listening, and the hotel’s open. I have an interview with the manager. In my mind she’s tall, though I haven’t met her yet. I’m still carrying the machine with me – though I know it’ll trigger palpitations in passers-by, strong motion in pavements and maybe even innovation in poetry. Powerful machine! Drilling stacks, plasmic karma, ornamental crushes. Through the gates of doom, blindfolded and shining!
This is the secret that you told me. Something about an exploding pink Buddha, replete with hums. Something you found under your bed and sent to Buddha in the mail. Delivered to me by mistake or Buddha’s intervention. Forwarded to me, on a sea of single and return tickets. Trying to understand instructions written in a language neither yours nor mine but something close to both of them. The language of tiny numbers. Lonely sound of Buddha counting down the secret days.