Winnipeg Bus Station Revelation

Flat-busted in the Winnipeg Bus Station,
my one-way ticket tucked into
my left shirt pocket
to keep it safe
next to my still-beating,
stainless steel heart.
Greyhound bus departing in an hour,
destination: dark realm of Hades
via dead Saskatoon town
and Edmonton.

“Nice three-headed doggy,” I say
scratching Cerberus behind one set of ears
to keep him hushed.
I’ve entrusted Charon
to carry on my baggage:
a guitar,
some books,
a bag of dirty laundry.

I sip acidic coffee reeking of the polluted Styx
from a styrofoam cup,
feel it gnaw
into the side of my empty gut,
and goddamn!
I scratch my stomach and sides in vain.

Oh... now I remember.
It was some days ago.
I accepted from Eve’s uglier sister, an apple,
which, like some dumb-assed Adam,
I consumed and
found wormy to the core.

Dismounting, she showed me her heels
and I paid for my meal
with my 180 pounds of flesh
now crawling with crabs.

Damn!

I don’t blame her though.
Every serpent must gag
on his own tail sometime,
I suppose.
It’s my fault my ass hits asphalt.
Some of us never read the hieroglyphics,
never heed the writing on the wall.

But I know I’m not alone.
Look around.

See that woman there
with the two boys
in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tennis shoes
and Mickey Mouse sweatshirts
tied to her wrists
with telephone cords?
She’s so bored and defeated.

And the bum in the Sally-Ann suit
picking the longer butts
from the ashtray
for a shred of tobacco
to help cut the hunger.

And the recession-battered businessman
searching for solace in the Globe and Mail,
smokin’ and chokin’ on his cigar.
(The both of them,
bum and businessman,
have the same traffic accident faces,
cracks spreading from
the shattered windshields
of their eyes,
are only distinguishable by
the cut of their suits,
the cut of their tobacco.)

And the long-haired son of a biker
pushing a mop and pail,
pack of smokes tucked
into the sleeve
of his black
Iron Maiden t-shirt
above his Harley-Davidson-forever-fuck-the-world tattoo.
(Now does that cat judge his progress through life
by how many slippery-when-wet signs
he leaves behind?)

By the can
an Indian pushes shoepolish hash
at 20 bucks a cheat gram
on an out of work carny
on the way to her dad’s funeral.
The Indian’s love/hate knuckles are bruised,
his left eye black and blue,
“but you should see the other guy,”
he says and laughs
throwing his head back
to display his lack of front teeth.

And the security guard just watches
but he’s given up
on filling the demands
of his uniform.
He lights a cigarette,
scratches his balls,
yawns,
and dreams
of going back to daddy’s farm.

Yup,
just the no-win situation
in the Winnipeg Bus Station,
that’s all.
Some of us never read the hieroglyphics,
never heed the writing
on the wall.

Suddenly, a thin beam of revelatory light
pierces the grimy skylight,
focuses on my forehead,
pries open my bloodshot
inner eye.

I feel the heat and the weight of it,
my mind impaled by light.

The interlocking varicose veins
that lace through the very flesh
of this universe
are laid bare to me.
I have been touched by the hands of God!
(Though I can see
he forgot to clean his nails.)

Suddenly,
I see the 7 billion hallucinations
of grandeur that motivate us,
the 7 billion pathways to the grave
like a labyrinth
of randomly chosen lost dreams
and false beliefs,
the 7 billion faces of God laughing
as we beat ourselves yet again
to our billions of knees.

And suddenly,
I know that it’s not your fault,
my fault,
their fault
that we act out the same history
over and over and over again,
changing only the names
and dates
to protect the insane,
not our fault that we re-write,
romanticize and glorify
to give meaning
to our small grim lives,
not our fault that experience becomes
idea becomes
symbol becomes
empty of meaning,
that spirit becomes religion,
mythology,
fairy tale,
is forgotten,
that value becomes
money becomes
debt and enslavement
becomes
death
at the hands of thieves,
not our fault that lost Atlantis becomes
Ancient Rome becomes
New York,
Paris,
Moscow,
London,
becomes the no-win situation
in the Winnipeg Bus Station.

Then, in a rush,
the vision is hushed,
the light shut off,
and again I am as empty as my styrofoam cup,
itchy as hell,
hungry,
hungover.

I start to sift through pocket change,
move in increments of nickels and dimes
toward a fresh pack of smokes
and I think of how alone we all are,
how alone I am,
alone with
mother,
brats,
bum,
businessman,
janitor,
carny,
pusher,
farmerboy security guard
and a couple hundred crabs,
alone,
with my bus ticket
next to my stainless steel heart,
wearing my barbed wire crown,
with my corroded soul,
my punctured guts
and my pretty,
pretty face,
alone,
and strangely
satisfied
with it all.