The Unbearable Lightness Of Unbeing Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

It is breezy at the far end of the wooden plank pier
with no one but my thoughts huddling under
my hoodie against the November wind.

The abundant pelicans glide past as if nothing
is on their minds and seagulls perch on the slanted
downward-leaning railings used as elbows rest.

The fowl dropp their guano as if gods need them
to ponder over the thousand, times a thousand,
times another thousand small fry glittering

twenty straight vertical feet below the boardwalk
just under the surface of the blue-green water
ceaselessly lowering and rising

along the wooden pylons. The recycling drums
painted azure blue line equidistant their narrow
mouth openings sizing the girth of our sins.

The gulls missing at every pass the gaping hole in
fly-by attempts at copycatting Pollock's drippings.
Their splattering more expressive than the painter

could've ever dreamt of his painting become unbeing.
Now here on the recessed side pockets of the pier
there's one being. His name, be careful about the

pronunciation, is Toe-Mass. And the stories told
me are worth every one of my jaunts here. He says
he'll turn 80 just in a few days and by the manner

his arms move about, you know he's a black belt.
And the silver hunk of a ring on his finger
attests to his paratrooper's parachuting prowess.

Now here's a man who's been close to God.
As close as man-made flying machines could get him.
He's also told me he's Indian and the reason his ring

being adorned with an eagle instead of an airplane
whose talons grip the ropes of his chute and his unfear
of becoming unbeing.