Poem Of The Week: 09/24/2005

	The Long, Dark Night of Your Dating Life

So for months or years at a time; you dated one,
then the next, then the next, then the next;

but they were difficult–which is code for insane–
and, over time, everyone moved on to become friends

or acquaintances, or at least now when you might run 
into one another, nobody yells, "You bitch!"

and you find yourself every now and then
toying with those old memories

the way you toyed with volatile chemicals in Chemistry classes
except

this time there is no teacher, no–let me say it–
adult to make sure you don't blow the hell up

with: "am I fat?" "am I uglier than their new love?"
"are these really my things?" "I'm not the crazy one, am I?"

Yes.
Yes, yes, and yes.  And also no.

Put the cork back in, Romeo; no shish kabob tonight, Juliet;
you're just, what, late twenties, thirties,

and the tide on your dating shores went out early,
earlier than you expected, leaving you

a beach full of jellyfish and driftwood and you
screaming, "How am I gonna build a life out of all this crap!?"

it's like the universe itself is finding new, inventive ways
of making you miserable;

and you are the struggling salmon, you 
are Leonardo DiCaprio shivering in the water while Celine Dion sings, you

are bound by the gods' command 
to suffer.

Well,
let it go, little Sisyphus;

why not play
by these rules you've seen and seen again and seen again in effect all around you,

you want to meet that perfect someone 
in a world whose engines are fueled by your misery?

Then live your life
so that finding them would completely screw it up, live 

your 
life

in a way in which finding love 
would lead to nothing 

but 
misery.

Because you've been listening to friends who only told you the encouraging part,
tossing you vague bon bons like: "Be yourself,

and everything will fall into place,"
and, well, unicorn, didn't you then sit at home thinking, "I 

am being myself," go to the bar meticulously dressed
as yourself, hyper-aware that you are you, comfortable all by yourself

being yourself; hoping that that special other will notice
how much you desperately don't need them and they will come say "Hi,"

though you try not to think this too much as you're 
supposed to be so goddamn happy being yourself that yourself don't need them and their

glances,
soft

shimmering lips, 
puff 

of breath
against your ear.

Maybe
yourself was the problem, maybe you just need to forget it, buy a motorcycle, invest in sweat 
	pants

(and don't fake it, learn to 
love them),

set a goal to become world champion
at Scrabble or some shoot ‘em up computer game, you're not too old to sign up for the Peace 
	Corps, yeah,

get every one of your friends in on a three-month nonrefundable bike tour of Belgium, 
threatening, pleading, manipulating them into signing up

because only then
can the cosmos work

their peculiar machinations, then
can the stars line up like the fruit of your desires

across the slot machine screen 
above

on this dark, dark, beautiful night,
so dark you can finally see

every light there is in this long valley
which is your home.
 

Return to Poetry Index