​Original phony,
with a fake Swami’s turban,
espousing pseudo-spiritualisms
that you wash down, nightly,
with unfiltered cigarettes
and bourbon.
Self-appointed Mystagogue
talking about Chakras and Auras.
Using words like, kundalini
because you like the way
they feel on your tongue,
questioning the Quran and Torah.
You’re just an Eastern Philosophy
Evangelist with a 
Western Philosophy Buddha belly.
While you sleep with nightmares
and scream when you awake,
reaching for that bottle
hoping the Hair of the Dog
will stop that DT shake.
You slick back your hair,
slip on yesterday’s socks,
mesmerized by the koan,
one hand clapping,
staring at the melted rocks.
Blurred introspections,
hacking-cough punctuated
periods of reflection.
Hoping your Svengali mumbo-jumbo
will bamboozle your self.
Reconsidering the lotus position,
a life ascetic, eschewing wealth.
When the gong sounds
and the universe echoes
you wonder if you’ll be alone,
eyes fixed and dilated,
and all you can say is,

M. Zane McClellan

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The Daily Post Prompt: Original