As I wander through this valley of disaster and ennui,
I keep looking for a teacher with a clue on how to be.
Sometimes a fellow seeker sends the message, “This is it!”
But I haven’t met a swami yet who wasn’t full of shit.
Some are into ice cream sundaes. Some are into Cadillacs.
Some are into all the groupies they can charm onto their backs.
Some can monologue for hours on their detailed talks with God,
Some can doodle on a zither with their eyes rolled up like cod.
They’re exotic and mysterious, and they know just how to please
the petitioner for glory who approaches on his knees.
But they rarely stop to listen, and they never pause to doubt,
and they can’t agree among themselves what life is all about.
They won’t sleep in someone’s hovel if the palace has a room.
They expect surroundings tidy, but they won’t pick up a broom.
So if I find a teacher with the word on how to be,
I will pour us both a whiskey and go sit upon his knee.
But until the day I find the way and all my wandering ends,
I’ll put my faith in kindness, and seek wisdom from my friends.