copyright Mikhail Horowitz 1996, used with permission
A bunch of the monks were whoopin' it up in the Mantra Mute Saloon,
And Jimmy Wong who whacks the gong was boomin' an OM-time tune;
Back of the bar in a lotus squat sat Dangerous Dan's Guru,
And diggin' his light was Wilma White, who used to be a Jew.
When out of the night an anchorite schlepped up to the temple door,
Out of the drain of the Bardo Plane, the dregs of a psychic war;
I've ne'er seen a seeker more moldy or weaker, a real metaphysical mouse,
But his loincloth was droppy with oddles of rupee, and he cried out for RICE ON THE HOUSE!
Now us monks couldn't place the yogi's face, though we searched our past lives for a clue;
but we blessed his treat, and the first to eat was Dangerous Dan's Guru
Now there's men what somehow grip your mind & hold it like a rock,
And such was he - - he looked to me like an old zen cuckoo clock;
Kabuki hair & the crimsom glare of an aura what's out of control,
And was it sweat, or tears of jet, that he dropped in his begging bowl?
Then it suddenly hit me who he was, & why he was out of sorts;
And watchin' him sup, just over her cup, was Wilm White, nee Schwartz.
His eyes went rubberin' round the room, he seemed to be Feldenkraised,
Until they fell on the temple bell, & he muttered, "Saints be praised!"
Now Jimmy Wong had left the gong, there was nobody else on the stone,
So the old monk picks up the kid's boom-stick & man, did that gong groan!
Were you ever alone in the Astral Zone, where apparitions wail,
And all space bleeds, 'til your whole life reads like the Book of the Dead, in braille?
And Time itself is the cutting-shelf, & aeons flash like knives,
And you manifest as a garden pest for your next 900 lives?
While high above, the cosmic love that crowns your Guru's head
Rides right through, and dazzles you, & leaves you there for dead;
And yes -- your Guru cuts you loose, though you chant for your very life,
Says, "See you later, meditator," & walks off with your wife!
Then of a sudden the booms resumed, so loud you scarce could hear,
And all of the monks crept under their bunks & froze with a holy fear,
As incense fumes obscured the room's severe & dreary view;
"The man's gong sounds like Vishnu's schlong," said Dangerous Dan's Guru.
The OM-ing stopped, the gonstick dropped & clattered to the floor;
We trembled then like naked men in the brothels of Bangalore;
The devotees he faced with ease, his eyes now clear & calm,
but he tilted up a miso cup & raised a toast to Ram,
And "Boys," said he, "ya'all do tai chi & don't pay me no mind;
She broke my heart, my karma won't start, my third eye's goin' blind;
Now I'd like to stay & humbly pray to Krishna's flute with you,
But one of you here is a mother-fakir, & that's one's DAN'S GURU!"
The room went black, & crack! crack! crack! two ghats burned in the dark;
The lights come on, their souls were gone, & both lay stiff & stark;
Pitched on his side -- pumped full of bad vibes -- Dangerous Dan's Guru,
And the anchorite lay where a double dorje had chopped all his chakras in two.
Well, that's the sutra, sutra self -- I've told ya what I've seen;
They say that the yogi who shot Sri Sri was Dangerous Dan Levine;
Seems Dan was the wag left holding the bag by that self-same Guru,
And Wilma spoke, through the sandalwood smoke, but all that she said was, "So, nu?"
Mikhail Horowitz, the Swingin' Sadhu, can be reached at: Ulster Publishing Co., PO Box 3329, Kingston, NY 12402