My Satori

The fog rolled in
like Borkum Riff from a cheap straw pipe,
unfiltered and raw in my face,
disdain showing,
maybe contempt for us all.

The moon sang a song of loneliness
where it played peek-a-boo
with the earth-bound clouds.
I sat in damp oneness,
chilled less by the night,
and more by the emptiness that swam
in the hollow of my soul.

She had taken an earlier flight,
both of body and mood,
which left me alone to save
myself.

The torments I chose to inflict,
those of doubt and wish,
lashed by futile hope,
became the virus
which poisoned my thoughts,
and cursed my tomorrows.

Left-over luggage,
dancing round the carousel
knew something more of permanence
than this prose.

The roar and whoosh of fattened flying tubes,
further engorged with daily diet of juicy
tourists and erstwhile travelers, blanketed the Muzak,
pumped like a filtering gauze
to block out the million voiced monster
of banal conversation and deathly silence .

Streaming, squirming , cologne infused masses
of  the business classless fumbled with
their many things of great importance,
pushed and pushing to grab the next
crust of bread,
or seat near the bar.

Breeding stock and their offspring
dashed blindly toward their date
with some far off joy or reattachment,
panicked in the rush to place meaning to
the thankless job they procreated into.

Caged pets and un-crated owners
drifted by , undaunted by the crowds,
their eyes fixed and staring
from the daily dose of tranquilizers
and self-talked lies
about happiness and meaning.

Those that found employment in this thankless
hell of avionics had long ago
forgotten their humanity,
checked at the door each day,
and sometimes never retrieved.

And the rulers sat far away,
beyond the edge of the oblivion,
watching the money-tenders herd
their own branded flock,
and smiling softly at the song
of our life-blood dripping ever
so very slowly,
saying “clink-clink”
to the penny pots of those we serve.

Taxi's lined, hyena proud,
to break the swirling herd of disembarked,
disgorging and masticating Gucci, Pravda and Samsonite,
caring not for taste or taste,
only feeding on the river of gold
which surges in and out
from the gated portals of the gods of transportation.

From the rumbling depths
smells of dead cattle , poultry and hog
waft in unsettling wave
to excite the palate
of those conscripted to launch skyward,
completing some joyless, sexless, mindless tryst
at the expense of the brokered kings.

Dancing into this swillage,
I am suddenly attached to a visual hook,
like the sweet riff from the soul of an alto sax.

A flash of an periwinkle eye, a chestnut curl
framing a seemingly pale oval,
perhaps a blossom in this
unlikely garden of rust and ill intended dreams.

She flits across my vantage point,
woolen wrapped gossamer wings,
in the form of a tan overcoat,
what she needs stuffed in two rolling bags,
neither one containing any part of me or us,
that left to rot inside my broken desire.

Steam carries with it
the fading kiss that left me here,
alone in a displaced frame,
clipped and edited,
saved for some later gag reel
ripped from heart and wallet with scissored snips  .

Banners of indoctrination and subservience
flagged on electronic standards
emboldened in eye catching hues,
the clear intention to distract rational thought
in a parade of fantasy.

Swept away in this flood,
I am dying at each step
that brings distance
from her heartbeat and mine,
the blood red leavings of my torn heart
still staining lips and fang.

A vapor trail of scent
and sentiment flows ,
the rivers current strong,
only these feet can't feel the pull,
to what the future left behind.

Gone to the sky,
missing in a flash of flames red, smoke black,
scented with the redolent farts of petrol
and scorched rubber,
I hop a cab to whatever remains of tomorrow
in this distant corner of the sunset of eternity.