Guru Song

The Master is Immortal.
The Teacher never dies.
Not confined to
A single body,
Not restricted to a single life,
Elusive, vulgar, obvious,
She speaks through birdsong,
Drunken blather from filthy bums,
Silken, sad, love sighs,
Racist rantings, desperate pleas
For mercy,
Pensive, perverse questions
Vomited up by dazed, drunken
College freshmen, wondering
How the hell they got here.
 
He is the one smiling, writing
Obscene graffiti in the Men's Room,
Jacking off in one of the stalls.
She is the one calling you up late at night,
Breathing heavy, then hanging up.
 
The Guru is the executioner you must
Kiss on the mouth.
The Swami is the lover you must spurn
With utter disdain.

Sometimes the Avatar dries the tears,
Soothes the brow, pointing to the exit sign,
while the flames lick the drapes of Heaven.
 
Sometimes She is the bitch who trips.
And you look up from the mud,
Groggy, with only praise plastered
On your lying, hungry tongue.