Whatever Year It Is

Two Thousand and Eighteen is

coming to an end. Similar to other

ends but so different. As such I feel

as though a little perspective on

the passage of time might be called

for.

Earth is generally believed to be

geologically 4.543 Billion years old,

which makes the passing of 2018 seem

somewhat insignificant. Just another

cosmic trip around the Sun, no biggie.

Another minor tick on the universal clock.

The Hebrew calendar indicates this is the

year 5779 which is clearly ahead of the arbitrarily created

Gregorian calendar, again, meaning very little

regarding the passing of 2018 into the histories.

Again, just another year swept under the

proverbial rug like so much dust.

Buddha, being a little older than Jesus H. Christ,

means Buddhists believe this is the year

2554. Again, making this burgeoning 2019 seem

rather anti-climactic, before it even begins.

I’m actually sort of sad I’ll never see the

Gregorian 2554. Maybe we’ll get those flying cars by then.

Islam believes this is the year 1439, which

is flattering for the Earth I’m sure. Everyone likes

being told that they look 1439 years old when

they’re really 4.543 Billion. Earth might get out

her hot pants and head to the club, get her

booty-quake on.

The Chinese calendar marks this year as 4716.

Which makes for very awkward oversized

New Year’s novelty eye-glasses. The Chinese

have a culture steeped in history, and documentation

of that history, so I’d bet they’re pretty close on

actual human engagement of year counting.

The Japanese calendar is a little tougher to figure

out since they mark the passage of time through

Imperial years, or rather, the

length of the Emperor’s reigns.

So, I’m not really sure what year it

is, but pretty damn old.

And to put it all together means…

Well…, I’m not really sure.

I’m not sure it has to mean anything

other than to remember that we’re

all on this sexy, booty-quaking, planet

together, regardless of what year we believe

it is.

It is in that perspective, I hope the

New Year, this 2019, marks the high

point of our shared blue dot as it makes

it’s yearly rotation around a minor star,

in the vastness of cosmic wonder.  I hope

2019 is a year for peace and prosperity,

acceptance, intelligence and love for all

believers. For whatever year it is.  

Happy New Year!!!

Merry Christmas To All

The tinfoil star appointed

to the top of the garbage

pile tree. Placed there by

dirty fingered hands, below

gnarled knuckles in natty finger-less

gloves.

The star, folded neatly,

with precision, glittering

from the passing headlights

of cars speeding past.

Holding sway over the souls

to pass its way.

An underpass Christmas,

a birthday for Jesus,

amid the squalid refuse

of more affluent Holiday

celebrations.

A can of cranberries for

a Christmas feast.

The underpass residents,

gathering ‘round the steel

garbage barrel, a sight rarely seen,

to warm themselves by the garbage

fueled fire, the crackling of

wrapping paper burning fills the night air.

Here’s Crazy Jerry, the Vietnam Vet,

he’s found some red wine, but he’s

not sharing, and that’s okay, since

he’s off the opioids. It’s a miracle

he’s made it to this Christmas at all.

He’s smiling for once.

Cat Woman Wanda, she’s made it

to, with three of her four little kittens,

she said one didn’t make it, hit by a car,

that didn’t even stop. She scratches at the

claw marks across her cheek. It looks

infected, but she says it’s fine.

The garbage pile tree, anemic and thin,

looks dressed up with its tinfoil star, 

a burrito wrapper made beautiful by Frank

the Beard, who said in a past life he was somebody

with a big house and fine cars, but lost it all

to booze and women. But he could craft.

Christmas Night, silently surrounding this small

band of humanity, as they shuffled

for warmth around the burning barrel,

they each took a mouthful of the cranberries,

and passed it to the next, sharing with each

other this thing called charity.

On Christmas Day, they will be gone,

each to their own paths, lost in memories,

destinies, and the next moment of momentary

warmth. Their story is the story of all

Christmases. Christmas is for them.

And a battered tinfoil burrito wrapper,

made into a star.

Prospecting

Anticipation is greedily

eating at my guts.

I’m excited at some

prospects and terrified

of their possibilities.

On one hand, I can get

what I want; on the other hand,

I have to deal with the hands

of others getting what they

want.

The limbo of being perpetually

in between giving and taking,

of offering and receiving,

of selfishness and generosity,

spinning into a mishmash of

some equivalent nonsense.

It is all in an effort to obtain

balance. Balance teetering on

the edge of a cliff, while hoisting

an elephant on your shoulders,

and having to pee without a

restroom in sight.

It is unclear why we have

to heft this elephant onto our

shoulders, but it seems like the

thing to do to achieve fulfillment

and fulfill the wants of those others

that need to be fulfilled.

Blathering nonsense, wrapped in

profundity, carved into the landscape,

through which we must trek, burdened

like wagon oxen or pack mules, in the

hopes of reward.

My stomach, grumbling like a gold

prospector hoping to hit the mother

lode and then not share it with anyone

or ever reveal its secreted location.

But maybe leave a map, X marking the spot.

Anticipation; will it

live up to expectation,

are expectations unrealistic,

is hoping for the best, planning

for the worst a fair strategy?

We seek surety in an unsure

world, a balance between

what will be, what can be, and

what we can control, adjusted by

variables of all sorts.

It is the stuff of life I suppose,

neither at the helm absently

steering or rigidly focused on

the path ahead.

My guts, eaten by anxious possibilities.  

               

President Santa (Or is this too on the Red Nose?)

Santa flipped the bird at

all the little children standing

in the line to see him. The mall,

crowded with the dead eyed

shoppers baffled that

a mall is still a thing, paused.

The children screamed in confusion,

parents looked up from their phones.

“Shame! Shame on you,” shouted

a Mother. “What the hell man?,”

shouted a Dad. The line didn’t

stop. The Christmas music played on.

“Screw you, you greedy, needy, little

bastards. I’m frigging Santa Claus and I

can do what I want because I’m protecting

the Elves from disorder and chaos,” shouted

Santa. “Your children are all retarded, but

you know, I love the retards.”

“Isn’t Santa just the best. He really tells

it like it is,” said the Elves. “Where would

we be without Santa Claus right now? Knee deep

in Eskimos coming to take your jobs for sure!

Santa is the only one that can keep us safe!”

The parents shrugged and went back

to watching videos of pandas masturbating

or checking if that new toy is in stock and if

it’ll be delivered before Christmas and where

to buy erotic chocolates, not as a present, but

just for a snack.

“That’s right, only Santa Claus can keep you

ignorant assholes safe from the horrors of those

dirty Eskimos with all their seal killing and caribou

slaughtering,” shouted Santa as he casually groped

the rear end of a passing Elf.

“You love it sweetmeat,” snarled Santa.

“Okay, what little boy is next. No girls. Because girls only

ask for girly stuff and I don’t make girly stuff.

I make trucks and trains and buildings and

military grade plutonium for boys.

Not Girly stuff like, lingerie or tampons

or dolls or whatever girls use,” said Santa Claus.

A few parents, flabbergasted, grabbed their

children by the arms and dragged them

out of the long line. A few parents laughed

and told their kids that Santa was right.

A few parents weren’t there so the kids

had no direction at all.

“Oh, man, is it eleven o’clock already,” asked Santa.

“It’s time for my nap. See you dicks later.”

Santa stood from his cardboard throne,

pulled his sagging pants up, scratched at

his testicles and turned toward the door

marked Santa’s Workshop.

The Elves, in their prideful shame followed him.

“Toss sweetmeat a few bucks to keep her quiet,” said

Santa to his loyal first Elf.

Santa farted loudly and went to his suite for his

morning nap.

“Dad,” asked a small boy, “is Santa Claus coming

back?”

“God I hope not,” said his father.

“Good,” said the boy.

Yule Get it One Day

Rows of colored lights

strung across frosty winter

windows, wreaths of pine

hung on doors, stockings

placed over family hearths,

and a family huddled under

a colorful blanket, sipping

hot coco in front of a roaring

yule fire.

In the background of this

scene, Bing Crosby gently

croons about being home for

the holidays and counting blessings

instead of sheep, the fire crackles,

the flames shimmering off the

bright wrapping paper of gifts

under a festive fir tree.

A curious satisfaction rests on each

family member’s face as they sit quietly

enjoying the coziness of the holiday…

And this is where my holiday spirit

breaks down. In each version of this

poem or story, the roof caves in on this

sweet, contented family, crushing them or

the fire gets out of control in the fireplace

and the house explodes, and Christmas time

is ruined for years to come.

The son, a survivor, winds up in a

Chinese prison, the crippled daughter,

spends the rest of her life clutching a

burned dolly as she stares out the

window of some hidden away mental

hospital.

I cannot seem to just write a happy scene

without dropping Stephen King’s foot on it

all. It’s probably my own problems with this

holiday season. A time that should be spent

on family and peace and joy, that seems to

forsake the hardships, troubles and ills of the world.

There’s something quixotic

and diametrically opposing about

Christmas Time. On one hand,

it is a gentle time to embrace loved

ones and share in each other’s life,

on the other hand, it’s a cruel knife

jabbed into Santa’s back as he delivers

presents to refugees in some forgotten

back-water camp.

My confusion is based in the commercialism

of the holidays, Catholic indoctrination and

Hollywood mythology, would be my guess.

I want there to be peace and love and joy all

over the whole world, but I’m practical and

a realist and I know that even on Christmas day

people will die, some violently I’m sure.

My conscience will not be assuaged with

charity work though. It hardly seems like enough,

or is it all that we can do? It seems Sisyphean to

roll up the sleeves one day a year and expect the

hardships and troubles of the downtrodden to be cured

with a little Christmas cheer.

So maybe that’s why I wish the roof would collapse

on that idyllic family scene. Or maybe, by staring into

the roaring flames of a comforting fire while sipping

coco, I can ignore the troubles of the world. Maybe that’s

what Christmas is really about now?

Well, it’s still a few weeks away. I’ve got time

to figure it out I suppose.

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.