The Wisdom of Alan Twatts

The bullshit that can be named
Is not the eternal bullshit,
Pathless is the path,
Thoughtless is the thought,
Vague and profound
Is its practitioner.

A journey of a thousand thoughts
Begins with one shot of whiskey -
Formless is the mother
Of all the tiny funkers under
Your feet.

Look at it - it is invisible,
Touch it - it is intangible,
Smell it - it is odorless,
Taste it - it is tasteless,
Feel it - it is one big pain
In your ass.

Thought without miracle,
Confused like the clearest mud,
Just think - it is I that thinks
Or is not I at all?

Shine without luster,
Talk perpetual gibberish,
Do without doing,
Burp like a little child.

Hear one hand clapping,
Choke on the misty bone,
Laugh the laughter
Of emptiness.

It goes by a thousand names,
Some have called it
Bullshit, some have called it
Nothing at all -
It smiles like a fat Buddha,
If you see it on the road,
Kill it.

September 4,2009

poem by Alexander Shaumyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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