I am not interested in your pretty memes, your impressive
litany of borrowed quotes, your imitation of enlightenment.
If you want to talk to me, discard all of the fancy trappings
and speak honestly, from your passion, from your heart.
Our precious time together here is brief, let’s not waste it
with pretense, charades, or endless futile mind games.
I’ve read all the claims of oneness achieved, non-existence
realized, and psuedo-bliss showering down like spring rain.
I’d rather hear what it’s like for you when your private pain
and sorrow can no longer be blithely by-passed or ignored.
I want to know how you deal with loss, when your lover leaves,
when your best friend dies, when you’re beset by nagging doubt.
When you pause to take a good long look in the mirror,
I want to know whom or what it is you actually see.
You can piously invoke all of the dead masters who ever lived.
It won’t pay one month’s electric bill, or settle your secret fear.
Come on, come clean, or be silent — death is watching us
as we speak with every post, and carefully taking notes.