Today was strange.

The sweet, quiet, solemn, solitary

monk

who lives in the cork-lined antechamber

inside me

was dancing.

This is not something I have ever seen him do.

I went to visit him,

expecting the usual: him

hunched over his mahogany desk,

pen in hand, eyes narrowed

hawklike tracking the words that

bled black onto his parchment,

but this time I was shocked

when I entered to what could

only be described as monk-funk,

a check-a-chow-check-a-chow-wow-wow

blaxploitation guitar riff, backed by a sledgehammer

bass drum husbanded to cavetemple chants,

and there was my monk, engaged in self-contained

spells of spastic bop, which soon flowered in range

and elasticity, his arms freewheeling Baptist-revival-style,

his sandaled feet doing the hot coal jitterbug,

and if all that wasn’t strange enough,

my monk was wearing a purple three-piece suit,

the kind that stylistically crossed Prince with Dean Martin.

I was astonished.

This was unprecedented.

My monk

had lived inside

the cork-lined antechamber

inside me

since forever,

and not once

had I seen him

wear anything but his brown robes,

nor had I ever seen him

bust a move of any sort.

He was not a move-busting monk,

he was a still and solitary one

who split most of his time

between scribbling on parchment

or meditatively pacing

around the room

staring at

or into

the cork-lined walls

or at

or into

the bare floor,

but really those

were just impressionistic

reference points

for his staring

and dwelling deeper within

himself.

Once when I asked him

if he got lonely,

after all I was his only visitor,

and my visits were few and far between,

he smiled and said—Happylonely

and his crescent smile,

so sweet, so gentle,

made me want to cry.

My monk,

the happylonely, quiet, sweet, solitary

dude,

who, at this very moment, is standing on a chair,

rhythmically pangliding his index

right to left, his other hand slapping

thunder against his thigh as he shimmypops

from knees to chest.

I close the door

and leave my monk

to his impromptu getdown.

Dance motherfucker dance,

I hear him shout

to no one in particular.

I have never heard my monk curse,

nor speak three words in succession.

His radical behavior concerns me.

And excites my sense of wonder.

Does this mean

that the others

living inside me,

the ones whose behaviors and patterns

were regulated and predictable,

their methods of operation

habituated and specific,

does this mean

that they might start

transgressing expectations

and defying conventions

and acting differently?

In what ways

would they act different?

And what will that mean

for me

as their singular, host entity?

I return to the door

of the antechamber

peer through the peephole

and see my monk

dancing freely

and wildly

amidst the parchment

that is now whirling

confetti-like around the room,

and I begin to understand

the true nature of revolution

just a tiny bit more

as I walk away from the door,

smiling,

happy to know

there’s a dancing monk

who lives inside me.