I Imagine Santa Claus

I imagine Santa Claus as a

race car driver, dressed in a red and

white slick racing suit.

Checkered Flags whipping in the wind

as he poses on the racetrack on top

of his nitro powered funny-sleigh.

I imagine Santa Claus in a three piece

red business suit, typing away at

the offices of Claus, Nicholas and Nick,

making sure to get that last lawsuit

finished.

I imagine Santa Claus sitting next to

a hospital bed, green mitten hands clasped

around those of a very old man, gasping

at his last few Christmas breaths and

hoping for the endless afterlife cheer that awaits.

I imagine Santa Claus on the set of a

pornographic movie, he’s not involved but

he’s not there to judge anyone either,

he jokes that everyone is naughty,

but they’re usually nice.

I imagine Santa Claus sitting on a beach,

watching the surf roll up the sand, he’s

a little sunburned but he’s got the elves

to spray more lotion on. He’s ready

to hang-10 and get gnarly.

I imagine Santa Claus lost

at the empty mall, there used to be a

good Cinnabon here but it seems to be gone.

It was right next to the arcade and the

Tee-Shirt & Sunglasses shack. 

I imagine Santa Claus in a semi-truck,

rolling like Mad Max through the wastelands,

being chased by the Humongous and his band

of post-apocalyptic Neo-humans who don’t

know who he is.

I Imagine Santa Claus in the Matrix,

because he’s the one, disconnecting us all

from the cyber nightmare reality. And maybe

giving us a candy-cane for all our electro

trouble.

I imagine Santa Claus imagining me,

and the smiles on my face as I open up

each thoughtful gift and thank my family

for their generosity and constant patience

with my shenanigans.

I imagine Santa Claus, all tuckered out

from his Christmas escapades, dozing

off in his big red chair by the fireplace

at the North Pole as Mrs. Claus signs the

divorce papers in the next room.

I imagine Santa Claus a bit too much I think,

it’s probably not healthy imagining Old St. Nick,

in so many places and so many scenes,

I’m confused on what it all means,

although, it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.

It’s all fancy and fun,

no real harm done.

So Merry Christmas Mr. Santa Claus,

Merry Christmas to everyone.

                 

The Consequence of Breath

I once read that life is

merely a series of consequences

from events that started long

before any of us existed.

We only have the illusion of

control over our own life.

Millions of years ago, a fish jumped

up onto a primitive beach and took a

long, deep breath, and life

since then has been as a

consequence of that breath.

Setting in motion a series of machinations and

Rube Goldberg-esque contraptions,

all tipping and bobbling and whizzing

forward until one day it produced

you and your set of problems.

Every happy birthday,

every tragic death,

every paper-cut or trip to

the Moon, has been as a result

of that consequential breath.

We have no control over the stitching

together of these threads of life, woven

in a haphazard, luck of the draw,

sort of way. We abide this situation

and accept it as living.

The trick, I suppose, is to find

meaning within the consequences of

that breath. To treasure the joyful

accidents of friends, family and the

general goodwill we should share.

To learn from the mistakes of those

consequences and try to forget how

angry and unfair they were. How brutal

and fantastically tragic they might have been,

and to accept our inconsequential role in it all.  

It is our duty to take the next breath,

to exhale into the mists of consequence and

face the potentials, the problems, the price

with dignity, responsibility, and a crap ton of

self-deprecating humor.

It's Gross, I'm Sure

The sickness of writing is

how polluted you feel when

you can’t actually put words on the

page.

The words build up like bile in your word duct,

corrupting your moods

and jumbling your thoughts into

incoherent ramblings.   

It’s a serious condition that can’t

always be remedied through conventional

means, nothing makes sense and everything

is so terribly banal.

There’s a steady drip of words leaking

from my brain, yet they don’t always

get as far as the page. They get muddled

in a cocktail of insecurity and anxiety.

It’s perverse that the only true cure

is to vomit up the collection of unused

words in a speckled puddle, swish it around

and see which words are the salve.

It’s also gross.

Like, ick, why would you use the imagery

of vomit to describe that?

Word Duct back up, that’s why.

There are so many levels to the sickness of

writing, it’s difficult to quantify them all.

The condition is dreadful and can’t be easily

soothed with some balm.

It’s only added to by the general frustrations

of living. I haven’t had a passionate kiss in

nearly a year. I haven’t felt the gaze of a lover or

the joy of expressing that intimacy in so long.

And it backs up the word duct something awful,

like you gotta get in there with a plumbing snake and

really root around to shake the words loose and

get something on the page.

Even if it’s nonsense, like most of this,

at least it is something plastering the page.

I vomited it up,

Now kiss me.

Picture from: https://www.hennkim.com/ 

All Around the Table

I stared at the ravaged carcass

of the turkey as I rubbed my full belly

and wiped the cranberry sauce from the

corner of my mouth.

“Poor bird”, I thought, “to be cursed with

deliciousness.”

Bred to be the centerpiece at a table

surrounded by wandering opinions,

self-importance and unchecked egotism,

along with the other holiday fare, like

corn and mashed potatoes.

Maybe some pie later.

In some parts, this table will be jovial

and consumed in the loving laughter of those

surrounding this peculiar fowl.

In other parts; anger, resentments and

choice, long stifled words might overflow

and drown the celebration in regret.

Gravy might be spilled as your Aunt

finally admits to her misgivings about, “those people”,

or your brother finally admits he never liked your

wife, or that money you loaned your nephew for

his “investments” was used to buy strippers

and blow.

The white tablecloth, smeared in mashed

potatoes and yams as your Uncle and Father

finally wrestle and come to terms with their mutual

abandonment of their mother, in that home,

with red-faced rage, protruding veins

of their stiff necks.

Perhaps your funny cousin, will say something

pithy, and brag about their true liberalism in

the face of all the phonies. You’ll call him

Holden and he won’t get the reference.

You’ll hide in the palm of your hand as you cup

your forehead.

Someone will tell you how they really feel,

someone will say something stupid,

someone will brag about something they shouldn’t brag about,

Someone will confess, someone will lie, someone will

suddenly be asleep on the sofa,

perhaps that someone is me.

“Poor bird,” I think again.

Belching quietly into my mouth.

So much to be Thankful for and

so little time to do it all in.

A Turkey’s time is so short.

Eaten to the bone.  

Hot Damn Soup

So then, there’s November.

A curious month steeped in

the roiling juices of history;

churning and bubbling up to

remind us of what we’re to

be Thankful for and tug at

the veil of memory.

November is both cruel and

comforting, like a nice hot

bowl of soup you accidentally

spill on your crotch.

It was so good, now it’s a

scalding mess.

And your good pants are ruined.

And you badly wanted that soup too.

There’s mix of nostalgia for, “the old days”,

and being thankful for the days we have now.

There are remembrances of things long past that

still touch us, and a willful ignorance of

the things we wish to forget.

Clashing together in the crock pot of

life, with stuffing and cranberry sauce on the side.

My November, Novembers, are tinged with

a moment in time I wasn’t even alive for;

The assassination of JFK on November 22, 1963.

I’ve even made a pilgrimage to Dallas in 2013

to honor a President I never lived under, yet,

whose future (had he lived) might have deeply

affected me, us all.

The optimism JFK is portrayed to have, has

always nagged at me and I have often wondered,

“what if…?” How would life in the United States be

different, would we be where we are now,

embroiled in a scandal of such profound lunacy?

I don’t know and the not knowing is so very annoying.

More hot soup on my lap and good slacks.

Then there’s the Pilgrims themselves,

those hearty souls who stepped foot off the Mayflower

at Plymouth Rock, fleeing religious persecution from England,

to build a new life in the New World for themselves and

posterity. Which is the fantasy we’d instructed to believe

as we’re coloring in the hand traced turkeys at our

grammar school desks.

The breaking of bread with Native Americans,

to signify how much the Native Americans

helped the Pilgrims survive their first

few years of colonization,

while secretly plotting to take what land they

could. A weird disingenuous holiday

celebration. (Founded during the Civil War, FYI)

The myths of history told to children

as facts, has also nagged at me for

a very long time. Why the untruths?

“Who made so much hot soup and why do they

keep spilling it on my good pants?!”

Hot, hot, hot, hot, aww, cold.

My childish sensibilities thankfully protected.

November. A month known widely for

Guy Fawkes attempt to blow up the British

Parliament. You know, the 5^th of November.

You know it.

If not from history, then from that movie.

Yes, you know.

Sigh.

What’s with you November?

Why are you so weird?

What’s with your complexities and

strange historical interference?

Where did you get that hat with a buckle on it?

And for real, who made all this

damn hot soup?

Arabesque

The art of dancing around a point,

a point of view,

a view point,

pointedly viewed by dancing.

Shuck and jive,

step, ball, change,

juke and dive,

shimmy and shake.

I see your seeing of what

I saw but that’s not what I

have seen at all.

Tappity-tap, tap.

Leg flip, 1^st position,

arabesque, lithe,

twirl and dip,

shuffle, two hops this time.

Not that it happened when it

happened, or was I aware of

the happening, before it had the

chance to happen, all happenstance.

Limbo right, limbo left,

mashed potato,

shake a tail-feather,

pony. Ride the pony.

I do not recall,

I half-remember,

what was to be remembered

was a matter of opinion.

Shake, shake, shake,

body roll, body roll,

with roller skates now,

smooth.

Eating Your Own Face

They stare at me with astonished

horror in their eyes. The rooms

hush and murmur as I enter,

the jukebox skips,

the building shudders.

“Is he eating his own face,” asked

one of the lookie-loos.

“It’s so gnarled and raw,

missing in the wrong places and

too much in the right ones.”

The truck stop eunuch even

stops to stare as I get my mug

of coffee. I fill it to the brim,

drop in a straw and start the long

walk back to my rig.

“Does it even have eyelids,” says

a whisper.

“How does it sleep,” asks another.

“Why are there teeth growing from

it’s nose,” questions a less subtle voice.  

I grip my coffee mug tighter in my

crab claw hand, rushing a bit now

to escape the judgmental stares and

whispered accusations of my mother

spawning with the Devil.

My bravery and confidence I so boldly

approached the doors with, is fading fast

as I hurry through the long truck stop

oasis hallway.  I just want to get out,

back on the verdict less roads.

I get to the glass doors as tears sting

my eye. I catch my reflection in the glass.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

Nothing at all. I’m not all chewed up.

I don’t have a claw hand.

I look back behind me at the

small morning truck stop oasis

crowd, the truck stop eunuch has

his head down. No one is staring,

no one can see.

There are no hushed whispers or

terrified tones. The murmurs are all

corn and coffee rumors.

The TV hums with news of the day,

traffic reports and snow on the way.

I touch my scruffy chin and my reflection

does the same. No new scars, no holes,

no disfiguring marks, no crocodile skin

or teeth out of place.

I think it was all a dream.

I open the door and step outside,

it is cold and I can see my breath,

I shrug my collar up a little higher and

walk toward my rig.

“What’s with the eunuch,” I wonder aloud.