Auld Lang Syne

A year, like any other, but unlike

so many before.

This one came in, stumbled at

the threshold, spilled its wine on

the white carpet and didn’t

apologize. It was lost from there.

Like a lot of drunks, 2016 didn’t

intend to do it. It was just an accident.

A mistake. It started off with the highest

ideals only to fall into a house of ill repute,

with cocaine crusted around his bloodied nostrils.

It just happened.

So what if 2016 was a serial killer bent

on eliminating the worlds beloved

celebrities, musicians and idealists,

it also took care of a lot of bad people

no one will mourn. Who will remember

2016 did that? “Nobody,” snorts 2016.

2016 wanted to go to the classy bar,

the one downtown, where the tablecloths

are white, the drinks are fancy and the people

are beautiful. But the bouncers wouldn’t let

2016 in. They’d had quite enough of 2015’s

shenanigans and knew better.

2016 didn’t take it well, it went

on a bender of epic proportions. Drinking

and drugging its way from home to home,

heart to heart, and funeral parlor to funeral

parlor.  Shushing people like Dudley Moore

in Arthur and tripping over imagined bumps.

The world just watched as 2016 bumped into

furniture, street lamps, movie stars, gorillas,

politicians, cops, robbers, the guilty, and the

innocent alike. The world just did what enablers

do; they looked the other way and hoped 2016

would just figure it out on its own.  

So here we sit, 2016 and me, at the

end of a dusty bar, dust motes drifting

through the morning sunlight, swirling

around our breakfast beers, the jukebox

is stuck on “American Pie” by Don McLean,

and 2016 doesn’t feel well.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said 2016.

“You probably should,” I said.

“I mean, what happened? Where did it go

so wrong? Was it me? Was it them,” asked 2016.

“I really don’t know. I was too busy watching you

moon astronauts and eliminate critical thinking,” I said.

“Right, right, that was pretty funny,” said 2016.

2016 got up from its leathery stool and stretched.

“Maybe I’ll just go to the crapper,” said 2016.

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I said.

“Tell 2017 not to take my seat,” said 2016 as it stumbled

toward the restroom.

“Sure. I’ll do that,” I mumbled.

I looked down toward the opposite end of the bar,

a young 2017 was playing with a thin drink straw in

a fancy cocktail, with fruit and a little parasol.

2017 was eyeing us with lust.  

“Not yet baby,” I said, “Not yet.”

2017 pouted and turned away.

I heard a flush from the restroom and 2016

walked back into the bar room

with its pants around its ankles.

“One more round barkeep,” 2016 shouted.

The bartender frowned but got the drinks.

“I broke your toilet too, by the way,” said 2016.

The Adventures of Christmas Man

“What’s that? Up in the sky?”

“Is it a man? Is it a giant bird?”

“Is it glowing? Is it all lit up?’

“Is it wearing underwear over

its clothes?”

The crowd mumbled and

shuffled in the cold December

night as they gazed skyward at

the curious red object streaking

through the winter air.

“Is that…? Christmas Man?!”

“It is! It’s Christmas Man!”

“Hooray, here to save us all!”

“He’ll save us, I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, lucky day!”

Christmas Man defender of

cheer and goodwill toward man,

a man of Yule and merry tidings,

a superhero born to bring hope,

and a Union chimney sweeper.

“I hope he can help me carry my

heavy shopping bags to my car!”

“I hope he salts this slippery sidewalk!”

“I hope he keeps my crazy Uncle quiet

during Christmas dinner!”

Christmas Man waved to the crowds

as he zoomed overhead. He had a mission

this night. A mission of mercy for the

needy. A mission to save Christmas from

sadness.

“Hey! Christmas Man! Where are you

going!?”

“Yeah, hey buddy, what the heck!”

“Salt this slippery sidewalk!”

“Where’s he going? What a Jerk!”

Christmas Man flew over the city,

he flew over the country, his red cape

trimmed in white fur, flapping behind

him in his speedy flight. He waved when he

could to the people below.

“Up yours Christmas Man!”

“Get bent Christmas Man!”

“Salt this sidewalk!”

“Get lost Christmas Man!”

“You’re a flash in the pan!”

Christmas Man had no time

for their jibes. Yet he did wipe

a small tear from the corner of

his eye. It might have been from

the cold wind in his face.

“Christmas Man, what a joke.”

“He only comes one time a year.”

“I fell on this slippery sidewalk!”

“I’ve never actually met him.”

“Yeah, he’s never done anything for me.”

The crowds on the city streets dispersed,

the country folks went back inside the

businesses on Main Street. They griped

and grumbled and fixed their collars against

the cold.

Christmas Man arrived at a small

village where a water borne

sickness had ravaged the villagers.

He offered to set up a Christmas tree,

with lights and bells.

“No thank you Christmas Man,” said the Doctor,

“but maybe you can hold that child there and

provide her some comfort in her last minutes.”

Christmas Man looked at the small girl, weak from

sickness, taking slow sluggish breaths.

“How about I sing a little Oh, Little Town

of Bethlehem,” asked Christmas Man.

“Um, sure Christmas Man, just stay out

of the way,” said the exhausted Doctor.

“Great! I’m sure that’ll help,” said Christmas Man.

The Doctor rolled his eyes as Christmas Man

began to sing. The child turned away.

The doctor moved on to the next sick child as

Christmas Man sang with his eyes closed, willing

the Spirit of good tidings to manifest.

“What is that madman doing?”

“I think he’s singing.”

“Why doesn’t he help clean the water?”

“I don’t think that’s what he does.”

“Who does then?”

Christmas Man finished his song.

A few villagers still able to move applauded

politely. Christmas Man gave them a quick

salute and turned to the center of the village,

“Merry Christmas to All,” he said with a wave.

Christmas Man shot up into the sky leaving

a trail of Christmas lights and the smell of

hot Gingerbread in his wake.

“Son of a biscuit,” said the Doctor.

“Is it really Christmas,” asked a sick villager.

“It is. It really is, somewhere” said the Doctor.

Somewhere there were sleigh bells jingling,

and church bells were ringing, and a distant

chorus sang carols on the night breeze.

“It is Christmas,” said the Doctor.  

My Bit of Mourning

The hardest thing to write about

is death.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I can write about death all day.

Until it becomes personal.

Then, I really don’t know what to

say about it at all.

Sure, I can write a story about

the Grim Reaper coming into

someone’s bedroom late in the night,

waking up the soon to be departed,

having a chat about their life,

smoking a cigarette, and whisking the

soul to heaven.

No problem. Story practically writes

itself. But it’s tougher when it’s personal.

It’s not some mythological creature of

legend shrouded in a ragged black hood reaching

out with a bony hand. It’s certainly not as

dramatic as all that. 

There’s no special effects.

When someone dies.

It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sad.

It’s cruel. It’s inevitable.

Albeit, sometimes too soon; enhancing the cruelty.

It’s random, yet so targeted.  And leaves so

many in its melancholy wake to wonder, to mourn,

to grieve, and cry.  And I still don’t know what to say.

I’ve been going to funerals

since before I could walk. Death has been

constant in my life and it is nothing new.

In fact, it’s sort of old hat. Occurring with

such regularity that I’m almost bored with

it, or maybe, tired of it.  Yes, I’m tired of

death. 

I’ll get out the black suit. I’ll say my prayers.

I’ll kneel, sit, eulogize, and wish to God

that I could just go home and get

back to normal. I’m tired of the

bully that death can be.  I’m tired

of the saint death can be.

I’m tired of trying to figure it out.

I’ll pay my respects for the living,

the survivors of death, the family,

the friends. I’ll say that I’m sorry.

I’ll say that it’ll be okay, in time.

And it’ll be true.

Yet tinged with the mechanical motions

of a seasoned professional mourner.

With nothing original to say.

Death not only robs us of a loved one

but it robs us of the right words to say,

to write, to sing, the chance for new memories

before the old ones fade away.

That’s why it’s so hard to write about.

That’s why I’m not sure what this is about.

Hungry

A growling and grumbling

in my gut is telling me

something I think I thought

I already knew.

I’m hungry.

It’s more than simple hunger, starvation

or emaciation. Food in my

1^st world life is fairly simple to obtain.

Go to the store. Go to the restaurant.

Microwave a burrito.

The grumbling and growling

is much more than a need for food.

It’s a hunger for something more

sustaining. Something more filling.

Something…

I’m hungry for being wanted.

I’m starving for being lusted after.

I’m un-sated for love.

I’m craving an unspoken trust between

minds, hearts and smiles.

The buffet seems to be closed though,

my deli ticket number never gets called,

they’re out of the meat I like,

they’re not serving breakfast after 10:00 am,

they put pineapple in the potato salad.

I’m unaware of how to satisfy this hunger,

I’m not sure where to go to get a good meal,

I don’t have the right cooking utensils,

I won’t go to a Farmers’ Market,

I haven’t the slightest where you got yours.

A grumble and a groan,

from deep inside.