Bangkok

March 19, 2010

BANGKOK

An orchid wafts over two oceans and drops onto

an asphalt floor.

Spores disseminate and are carried in a peristaltic

motion of omnibuses radially over Siam.

A repressed spore seeks fertilisation, discovers a location

that advertises in neon, thirst and lust quenchers.

The lights are dim, the music disco and synthetic.

Mirrors form walls. You see double.

Young gentle bodies gyrate. The music pulses.

Bikinis have plastic identities.

The faces have masks under which must lie flesh and blood

hopes and aspirations. The real world at fourteen.

Inebriated gringos enter followed by a harlot.

A ripple of artificial giggles.

One more swig and a stagger.

The mirrors reveal the truth, a reflection of oneself.

My Buddha!

A Lovely creature sidles up. She is warm. She is sweet.

Hesitancy multiplies her charm. Introductions are made.

The madam approves.

A rose vendor telepathetically senses the instant romance.

Shows a bloom. Sells a couple.

A photographer appears from nowhere.

Polaroids are squeegeed through whining rollers.

The temperature is not 68°C. The instants turn magenta.

Bahts turn to Buddhas.

Lager initiates a tentative engagement.

Paper is transacted.

Terms are simple, professional, efficient.

A wooden effigy goes through the ritual.

Around the doorpost, from under astride legs the tiny Buddha is hurled.

It touches every inhabitant.

Looks are exchanged. A brief display of fatalistic fear.

Just as quick normalcy is restored.

The gentle woman leads the man by the hand.

Outside is a feeling of embarrassment.

Everyone is watching even though they look the other way.

Tracks are made quickly.

The music fades into oblivion.

Everyone knows the relationship.

Tradition and the Buddha smile, wryly.

Dinner is served, the girl is nonchalant.

The Hong Kong made Samurai on TV is her Quixote.

Somewhere in the personage is a mind seeking freedom.

Unhappily preoccupied with the present.

The proceedings are tedious and unnatural.

Eventually lights are turned out.

Amorous introductions take over.

The woman is unconcerned. ‘So what’s new’

What has life not shown her yet!

Few excitements. Only a brooding prospect of supporting

a mama and a family in an impoverished village in Loei.

Love is made. Repression is removed.

Little Zen aphorisms singe the ear.

The reclining Buddha awakes.

The whore goes back to the magnet.

The spore begins a process of degeneration

A feeling of nothingness.

It’s strength has become its weakness.

It lies in utter helplessness buffeted by a raging storm.

Flashes of thunder and lightening are addressed

to it’s very miserable soul.

The turmoil walks into the crowded, pungent streets.

The waterways are contaminated. The air is polluted.

Poverty is everywhere.

The Grand Hall of Budhhas seem speechless.

The Standing Buddha opens his mouth to say something.

Only a tired yawn emanates.

The tall figure crumples, reclines, attempts to sleep.

The spore rolls over to the giant ear lobe to whisper into it.

A huge tear rolls down the cheek

Of the Reclining Buddha. It swamps the spore.

The salt rubs into its wound and causes great agony.

Gradually the moisture induces germination.

A Zen process unfolds.

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