Waiting

Everyone hates waiting
 but everyone’s waiting.

Waiting for things to get better.
 Waiting for death.
 Waiting for life.
 Waiting for love.
 Waiting for enlightenment.
 Waiting for the revolution.
 Waiting for the Mueller report.
 Waiting for Q.
 Waiting for the Messiah.
 Waiting for Godot.

Waiting.

Waiting for life to begin
 while their cells replicate,
 while their lungs take in oxygen,
 while their heart beats,
 while life courses through their veins.

Waiting for God
 while pacing on God’s feet
 and glancing with God’s eyes
 at God’s SpongeBob wristwatch.

Waiting at the bus stop
 which is located on the bus
 which is already at the place
 they’re trying to get to.

Dammit motherfucker,
 this is it!
 This is love!
 This is enlightenment!
 This is the revolution!
 This is Mueller!
 This is Q!
 This is the Messiah!
 This is Godot!

What are you waiting for, motherfucker?
 Waiting to find yourself on your deathbed,
 staring at the clock and saying
 “Gosh, I thought the show woulda started by now”?
 Waiting for Buddha to kick down your door,
 grab you by the crotch and scream
 “Honey, I’m home”?

This is as Buddha as it gets, cupcake.
 You will never encounter any more divinity
 than that which is exploding
 in your field of consciousness
 in this very instant.
 Never.

You are banging on the door
 of your own home,
 demanding to be let in,
 and you are banging 
 on the inside of the door.

Vladimir and Estragon
 and Pozzo and Lucky
 and the little boy
 and the tree
 and the set
 and the stage
 and the lighting
 and the curtain
 are all parts in the only play in town,
 and they are all performed by a single actor,
 and that actor’s name
 is Godot.

Take a bow.

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