You Said This Is Not Godot
I, unvanished janitor in the men’s room,
Have scoured my email six days now,
But my email is emptier than five bottles of Guinness
Consumed by a tippler in a pub in Dublin,
And you, fair nymph, are from Dublin, too.
Sam Beckett spits at your grave three times.
Me? I wait in Godot like Lucky with a bitter pipe chomped by my teeth,
Ridiculous, irrelevant, tragic, boring, alone, inebriated then hung over by silly, fleeting passion.
I remember: After I, Frankenstein,
Suggested a walk, or two cherry milkshakes or anything at all,
You paused then said: “Yes, let’s do that. Yes, let’s do that.
When are you free? Give me your card.”
I did nervously like the dresser,
But now after six of God’s ingenious days I ask:
What would Humphrey Bogart do?
I see the bourbon like a Persian temptress on the shelf
And I could blow my brains out to Oz or beyond with three sticks of marijuana;
But today, I—schizophrenic Sioux Indian
Confined to a dark tepee with no stars or moon craters to watch—
Prayed to God like a holy man.
God spoke back,
And I watched little, black birds strain as they flew before the 20-story Hilton across the street.
I shall drink bourbon and smoke hooch tomorrow like Hunter Thompson.
The world can be seen in one grain of sand
(William Blake told me so),
But I prefer the stiff strawberries in my freezer.
There infinity waits next to preserved cubes of ice,
And I think I shall check the mail now.
I am always being told that I owe $95
To a company I have never heard of
Through another company which is an unethical, lying scam.
Then I shall write a poem about a Shakespeare play
Which I do not understand.