Another defenseless spruce has been axed,
my poor credit cards, magnetically maxed,
very long nights, cold. Yet something’s amiss.
Signs unclear. Though sad, it must be Christmas.
And how shall I celebrate Yule tide? Um.
Rum balls, eggnog, check. Or maybe just rum?
Tempting. No. Must entrench, reconsider.
Schedule my three (s)elves in, this December.
First my intellect: neurons all cobwebbed,
short term thought-ideas all logically sparked.
My physic, past pride, weighs in heavily.
Aged but strong, perhaps appetitively.
Late to come, my immortal spirit, shy
and moody. Ignore those who overlie!
Let’s la la la it with angels above
so that selves can integrate in one love.
But. The spirit speaks.
Do I delve too deep? All these western tropes
giving voice to accumulated hopes
of centuries, considered, giving birth
killed by our modernity stillbirth.
Yet now ayahuasca merry-go-rounds,
crystal, hot yoga, and other abounds
over my comatose self. A pity.
Searching for already extant beauty.
But what possible help has that all been
December 25, 2015?
In simplicity, perhaps, we can rest
for how else can we attest it best? Blest?
A pocket full of posies;
We all fall down.