When police broke into his room
at the famous Oregon ashram
after reports of guns, abuse, political threats,
he sighed: At last, I don’t have to pretend to be enlightened.
Put down the hashish, turned off the video player,
surrendered. Movies and drugs
his constant companion for years
when not lauded as God by his devotees,
waving from one of his many Rolls-Royces
during afternoon drives along the ashram roads,
or moving silky among women
in ecstatic Kundalini dances,
reaching beneath their purple robes
to caress the nipples on their breasts,
raise them to heaven. I had all his books,
was seduced by his message that life was easy
if you let it be. When my Berkeley girlfriend turned up
in a purple robe with the guru’s little face
dangling from the wooden beads around her neck,
I surrendered too because I wanted to still sleep with her.
And believe him, about life’s mysterious ease.
But it didn’t last,
the girlfriend nor the guru. Years later,
grappling with lost bliss, I wondered what went wrong.
He was a good guru, she was a good lover.
At what point, when you’re somebody’s god,
do you begin poisoning the town well, bring in machine guns,
just beg the police to end it all.