Written by Guy Biederman
Floating in the shadows of the ferry where a famous master once zenned, lived a sippy monk on a tippy barge called The China Sea. Each morning he walked the planks with a satisfied shrug, then untied koans of kelpy line until noon.
At lunch he played chess with the seagulls on a skiff, and when high tide arrived, he paddled to the No Name for beer and read Li Po until 2.
No books were written about him. No one came to his door. But his elegant wisdom glittered like sea glass on the ocean floor. Lifting a conch shell to his ear, he heard the whisper of the universe. Placing the shell to his lips, he answered its call.