From my wander knees—which yet still believe in God,
A billboard floating next to the Hilton across the street—
I waited, pipe in mouth, like three characters in Godot.
Once a priest in my 14th-floor tower of bells
Like Quasimodo, I (bilingual, unmedicated, lunatic)
Am now a sultry James Dean desired by 48 women.
I wished on Saturn moons—me, my expiring coil lonesome—
But I cannot dance the Tchaikovsky waltzes
Or listen to two drunks talking.
In the black I shall steal the stairs like Zorro,
And I shall drive home,
Praising the four wheels of my car,
Writing sick lines, drawing apples as if Matisse.
Then, among the neon, I shall drink vodka
Like a white astronaut.