THE DANCING DAYS

Julie and I used to do a lot of dancing together. I even wrote a poem about it. I don’t usually write poetry, except when I need to get into someone’s pants, but this time it was different. This time it was genuine.

Rites of Spring, the harvest moon,
Sacred dance of Brigadoon.
Beat goes on and on and on,
I am only dancing, John.

Dance away your broken heart.
Dance away your heating bill.
Life is not meant to be hard.
Not unless you’re sick or ill.

Next time you quit, make sure you lock the door.
Last time you didn’t – I woke up to find
Four strange chicks in my bed, and six more on the floor.
Saying: “Good morning, milord, we hope you don’t mind.”

I told them I did, and I showed them the door.
They all left in tears, without brushing their teeth.
This type of distraction is hard to ignore.
My true love has left me, so leave me in peath.

This dancing thing, it was the idea of our marriage councillor. I know we are not married, but we sought his advice anyway. Dancing was supposed to release the tension in our relationship, to pour fresh energy in it. But just like sex before it, it didn’t do us any good. We might just as well have taken up water skiing.




What we needed was something meaningful, yet absurd, something eye opening, yet ear shuddering, something divine, yet profane, something square, yet somewhat round. Some call it Prostokvosha, some call it Omakoath, some call it doodoowahdoodah. We call it Ding-a-Madonga. But nobody, and I mean nobody, knows what the hell it is.