What I Would Do

My, what I would have done
if Portland had loved me back.
I can almost sense her wanting to
but unable to overcome her
basic aversion to me. Everything
I've tried to create out here has
turned to dust. Save for my books
of poetry; lord knows I've got
more of those than I'll be alive
long enough to go through. It's
quite as if every step I take here
is a doomed step. Every overture
of friendship a dissonant overture.
Every endeavor toward building a
community of bright people to
be my people a misguided
endeavor. And now I'm told I
can't look depressed or sorry for
myself--God forbid, how unattractive
is that! Probably the first thing I
would have done if Portland
gave me any love at all would
have been to give myself
permission to be mortally sorry
for all the things I've lost, the love,
the health, the hopeful futures.
Permission to sob relentlessly,
to wail without end, to cry,
"Why me? Why me?" and not
feel like an idiot for screaming at
the moon. Then I would have
thrown one last big party to bring
everyone together, in the name
of togetherness, in the name of
devotion, in the name of
proaction. Sadly, it's simply not
to be. Now I just need to figure
out if it's Portland or if it's me.
And if it's me, what part exactly
is so totally unlovable, so ugly,
so mean that I can't even see it?

(2007)