Dating in L.A.

waiting for my date(?) to come out of the washroom, 1/4 sip of cold coffee waves back and forth across the mug structure
not warming hands or face tilted against for comfort
mind drifts, creates a late night infomercial bleeping out- “have you been surrounded by altered minds? is it the full time altercation? the level of serotonin got up and now it cant come down- like a reverse piñata- candy bursting out of wrappers and rotting inside a big bull? well, have we got just the thing for you….” this hybrid of my first and second love returns to the table
I get to feel waif-ish in a booth this big
and the relief of acknowledged artistry
and thats enough feeling for now.

across good food at a different place with a different man
I’m playing devils advocate
to his hints of what sex would be like with him
instead of revealing ‘how I like it’
“like what?”
I was watching the dance of the wait staff
casting them in better roles

while in line
at the grocery store
a good looking 40ish
mentions that women are from Venus, men Mars
“look mister, I’m from Detroit- back off”

I’m carrying a bull into the courtship china shop
dropping it and leaving
with out so much as a smirk on my face

I’m not a romantic agnostic
today I’m a romantic fascist
thats a romantic writer’s way of saying
bitter
not feelin it
ambiguity has got my revolution by the balls

perhaps I outta disguise myself
sit in on
one of the informal group therapy meetings held at the gym

Another man can’t resist that question
of my questionable ethnicity

whats my name?
what kind of name is that?
the kind you call out while in bed with your bland life
the name you wish would get you in trouble
you can’t even pronounce

and here I am now, cuddled with the man who drove from San Diego to be with me.

Thomai Hatsios, written 2002