Shots and Chasers

That shot of salvation,
served up at wisdom bars everywhere,
says there is no self, no me, and no you,
and I, a dharmic drunkard,
suck down those babies by the dozen.

Blitzed on emptiness,
wobbling in the present moment,
blotto for eternity,
soon comes the chaser:

If it's true Jack, Dalai, Siddhartha, or whoever,
then just who is this fool
with his crazy, tattered dreams?

Copyright 2012 by S. M. Abeles