It’s St. Patty’s day, apparently
Someone hands me a Guinness
I drink it and
mold to the Bono soaked wilderness
that is this mess of Americans
looking for any reason to get wasted
but Guinness is like
4 percent
I order a whiskey
pronounce it incorrectly and
I’m thinking you know everyone should be
just like me and
get drunk on a Tuesday instead of a Friday because
Tuesday’s
they got feeling
The truth is, I don’t actually drink on Tuesdays but
I’ve decided, sitting over this half flat Guinness
in this Bono soaked wilderness that
Tuesdays are my new drinking days
Nobody likes Tuesdays
They’re melancholic
They’re too much reality in one day
You’re close enough to the end of the weekend to
be depressed about it being over
recovering from lack of sleep and some form of
debauchery that entered the body
Yet just far enough from next weekend
counting the days like a cliche
You’re floating in an abyss of Tuesday
Mid-week socially constructed nothingness,
you’ve likely lost your identity
You’re free
Allowed to be, thanks to Tuesday
the color of the sky midday February in
Portland, Oregon
which I’ve heard that here
nobody likes that, either
The taste of Guinness when
you just want to get drunk
the blandness of an American getting marketed holidays
that aren’t really celebrated in the countries they come from
or at least that’s what Alan told me
Everyone is laughing at us
I wonder what the man who sits alone at the end of the bar does on Tuesdays
Probably makes ravioli
Hopefully not out of a can
Tuesday mornings are usually the first day of the week that
I feel normal again
After putting myself through a ringer of sorts
all my swollen parts pushed through a telephone cord
I’d rather be a white napkin
or maybe a leviathan or
a bottle of lemon verbena lotion
to weather the cracks on my dry skin
But I’m none of those things
Much to my own distaste,
I’m sitting in a bar alone
On St. Patrick’s Day
drinking a fucking Guinness