Listen Life Coach

Listen Life Coach,
listen Spiritual Teacher,
and all you
Ascended Masters up there:
I want you to know
I'm not as perfect
as I was yesterday,
and I love it.
I want you to know
I have a right to feel more
like an animal than a god,
a right to get my darshan
from an owl.
I have a right to feel
endangered, hurt, sad
and put my own arms around it,
not yours.
I have a right not to name
the big empty circle of my hug
"enlightenment."
And where are all the
DE-scended masters?
They're the ones I need to talk to.
Because I have a right to
sweep up my pain and darkness
in one mighty inhalation,
then shout, "Fuck it Ho!"
I don't need your guided
meditation to tell me what it
feels like to be a gnat
sizzling in a flame.
I don't need your $5000
week end yoga retreat in Bali
to tell me to let my belly out.
I got a right to shape-shift
into lust and crazy,
ferment my sweetness,
hunt stars at midnight
plucking them out of their
swirling nests and juicing
their beauty in the fangs of my
perpetual dissatisfaction.
When I'm pissed off,
I got a right not to call myself
"a spiritual being
having a physical experience,"
but just to be
the physical experience
dissolving into scarlet
atoms of erotic rapture
because at last I'm not striving
to be somebody.
Right now I just need to
become a lump of delectable mud
washed away by a brown stream
of melting slush into
asphalt caverns of groundlessness.
That's where seeds go
for happy hour.
Then golden daffodils
break through cement cracks -
sidewalk kintsugi.
No gap, no gold.
Sometimes I just need
to smoke a Cuban cigar
with Buddha,
have a belly laugh for no reason,
get the salty red taste
of a mouse in my beak.