Tavern of Awakening


I must confess, I'm getting bored with spiritual practices.
Inhale counting 4, exhale counting 6.
Didn't I do this in first grade arithmetic?
On the inbreath say, "breathing in."
On the outbreath, "breathing out."
But why not say, "My grandmother rides her tricycle
through golden atoms of intergalactic chicken broth?"
I can't spend half a minute in Corpse Asana
without getting anxious about tomorrow.
I need a Coyote posture, or a Wounded Raven pose.
That bronze-breasted yogini's been sitting
in Full Lotus over an hour, and she's still smiling.
Maybe she got a better mantra.
Here’s the koan l could never solve:
“Replace the thought of her body with No Mind.”
Really? So I took my complaints to the Master,
who just laughed and said, “When did you see me
actually doing any of that crap?”
Then he threw his arm around my shoulder
and lead me to the Tavern of Awakening,
where everyone gets instantly drunk
by practicing absolutely nothing.
Nobody knows who's giving the party, or why.
Lovers just show up with big empty cups
and dance in a mambo line all night,
swigging from a jug of stars whose light
won't arrive for a thousand years.
Just before dawn, he whispers in my ear,
"Don't call me Master anymore, call me Friend."
Then he gives me all the advice I'll ever need, for free:
Honor your body, it is the garden
where the Anointed meets the Bride.
Christ kisses Magdalene here, in your missing rib.
Be the flute at Govinda’s lips: let him breathe through you.
Before you bow to anyone, bow to your own heart:
its pulse is the hum within all names of God.
Now take off your shoes, walk softly over the earth
and pulverize diamonds with your whirling.

Listen to this poem on Sound Cloud: LINK
Persian miniature by Mahmoud Farshchian