"Another Date"
2 poems and a rant, by Michael Sherrillo

Another name, another number...
All days seem to pass the same.
One face blends into another,
No one lingers,
No one remains.
Drifting with the currents of life,
I see all, but cannot stop.
I only wish that I could find her,
Someone to float through time with me.

Another name, another number...
One less stone to hide under.
One less rock to search below.
Every leaf I turn, every number I call...
Maybe under the next I'll find that girl.

Another name, another number...
Dating... the final frontier. I'm afraid of dating, which isn't to say that I don’t date... I do, but I just don't like it.
Dating is too much like life... it represents a possible beginning, a possible end, and a present separate from the two...
It may be the beginning of something really fun, the end of something that never was, or the experience of and by itself.
I fear dating because so much depends on so little... they say love is like success, luck in both is all good timing.
I believe I may have the worst timing in the world. So many dates and people have seemed so promising, so interesting... even if they were destined not to last, even to explode in a short flight of Hindenburg proportions, what an amazing ride those few flaming falling moments would have been.
But every emotional bridge which I attempt to cross is constantly burned in the firestorm of bad timing which blazes up torching my poor heart and
sending it cascading into the crevice of loneliness again and again. Why? I used to blame myself, then women, god, karma, destiny, fate... I've raised my fist in protest of each, cursing with a pitch and fervor, with tone and words a sailor would blush to hear. But then I realized it's all luck. There is a reason luck is often referred to as a lady, the way it comes and goes, bringing you up higher than you ever though then sending you down lower than you'd ever go. Vegas is filled with tales of her fickle attention, of her moody nature. And I don't blame her for her swings, after all, women mirror the ocean, in its tidal comings and goings... life in its constant cycles of growth and death... I just get frustrated that whenever luck is a lady with me, she acts like a PMSing crack whore who just got stiffed 5 bucks. Maybe one day I'll meet someone... I figure that even if in the crap shoot of romance the house always wins, if you play enough times then eventually you'll get a lucky roll. So I sit, like a slot jockey being held up by the one-armed bandit, pumping in quarters while combinations of numbers, like so many cherries, lemons, and bar's spin by in front of me. Enough quarters... enough rolls, eventually, statistically, I have to win once... I just hope I'm not emotionally bankrupt before that one lucky pull comes. So I sit, thousands around me stuck in the same casino of loneliness, our eyes glazed from numbers and smoke, all the while, the distant din of money tinkling, or an occasional voice erupting in surprise, keep us shaking hands with the thief of hearts hoping the next waterfall of quartes will be ours. The plink of money disappearing into the void, the humming spin so much like the dry humorous laugh of lady luck, the pause as each number crashes into place, ring ring, "Hi, this is Michael, we met earlier, I was wondering if...". The sounds of empty hope... plink, hum, crash, ring... the sounds of someone who doesn’t know the house already won... plink, hum, crash, ring... for a moment lady luck stands their next to you, an invisible presence, plink hum, crash, ring... with a smile more elusive than the Mona Lisa, plink, hum, crash, ring... before she turns away and walks on, leaving you there. Plink, hum, crash, ring... plink, hum, crash, ring... another name, another number... plink, hum, crash, ring...


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