Take what you get,
the guru said, but never explained
how to take the swift rills of crazy
that roll though my head’s dark plain
after forty-five minutes
of lying awake
and trying to sleep.

It is what it is,
the guru said, but never demonstrated
how “is” or even “it” could be defined
when neither appears to be solid enough
to hold a shape for more than a second
as I’m trying to be OK with whatever
it is; if I can’t grasp it, is it anything?

Be here now,
the guru said, but never stated
how to get past the perpetual state
of feeling that wherever I am feels less now than replay
of yesterday, gummed up film on a bent reel,
a projection of burning film against a hot light;
I’m more moth on a dive bomb run than centered acolyte.

Sage advice put aside now, I shall take
two pills tonight to ease myself
into the skin of opossum familiar
and hang around upside down for a few moments
before playing dead.  Watch me, sensei,
master, as I find my own way.  This is how
I kill you on the path.  This is how I sit zazen.