by Sol Ta Triane
Fifteen flags flew
Up the bodhi ladder
Into the simple true
Fifteen kites blew
To commemorate the matter
Of a new you
It's largely held that
If it's not one thing it's another,
But that only holds until the very last one
With nothing left to grab
You cut off your own blather
And mixed in the cadre of the dharma bums
Problems and love and goals and pride
Throw them in the machine together
Coming clean, pure as death,
They'll certainly help you up the ladder
Past the things you have known
You can change it all now, 'long with the weather
The No-God claimed cannot be found,
So he dropped the anal anti-mysticism.
To explain is nonsense—not profound,
Think I'll stop here and end the schism
Again, it's not both, and it sure ain't neither,
For the things you hate, feel neutral or hold dear,
Nor is it some combination of them either,
This time, for good, you can lose that fear.
The silent prayer now sung as a herald,
Fifty Hail Marys and one-o-eight Om Ah Hungs,
Ignites the spark of return to the original Non-Plan,
Abraham, Moses, Melkizedek and Carol, celebrate,
With Pepsi, ambrosia salad, beans, canned ham.